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Through three wide storefront windows the Belmont Gallery gave the impression of a brilliantly lit triptych depicting dark-clad figures regarding framed swathes of color suspended in space around them. Occasionally one of the figures moved from one colorful image to another, light glistening on the glass in his hand or catching on jewels in her hair or at her throat.
And while the other figures moved, looking at each displayed piece of art in turn, John Steed stood still. He was engaged in an activity that he had mastered so long ago it was second nature: discrete surveillance.
Another figure, attired in a deep mauve velvet suit with a wide-collared, ruffled, striped shirt and no necktie, appeared to move without really covering any distance. Mike Gambit was also observing, but his role was intentionally more visible.
Further back in the gallery a seating area was occupied by two women: Nancy Belmont, the gallery owner; and Emma Knight Steed. Nancy was sitting because Emma was, and to stand while speaking with her would be both awkward and rude, even for a life-long friend. Emma was sitting because she was four months pregnant. Even so, she was tempted to stand, because the starkly modern black leather and chrome sofa was decidedly uncomfortable. She did not have the heart to say this to her friend, though, so she stayed seated rather than have to explain or be made a fuss of.
Not that she was unaccustomed to being the center of attention. And she was not going to escape it this evening, whether seated or standing. But she was by nature a discrete person, and a kind one. Nancy had sunk every penny she had into the gallery, and criticizing her choice of seating – which was an inexpensive knock-off of a very fine German design – would only hurt her feelings.
“The bids on your piece are up to six-hundred pounds,” Nancy said.
Emma’s brows rose appreciatively. “I’m astonished,” she said. But despite her expression and words, she didn’t seem surprised at all. Nancy sensed this and was puzzled. Emma had said several times that she did not really care for the work that she’d selected for the silent charity auction. The amount of the current high bid should surprise her. Nancy decided to chalk her friend’s blasé tone up to the discomfort of pregnancy.
Emma was not surprised at the active bidding on her painting – which she really did regard as below her usual standards -- for reasons that Nancy could not be privy to. And for the same reason she could not explain why her husband had posted himself near the front of the gallery where he could watch the bidders as they studied the work. Fortunately, Nancy had not commented on his behavior. She’s too busy being nervous about her auction to notice, Emma thought. And for the dozenth time that evening she felt a wave of guilt for allowing her husband to use her friend’s gallery in a very elaborate, highly secret, security service sting operation. Not, she reflected, that I could have stopped him.
***
A new arrival – tall and attired in a dark grey suit and nearly matching fedora -- pushed through the gallery’s glass front door and paused to look around as he removed his hat. Steed glanced toward him, looked back at the woman currently examining Emma’s painting, and then back at the tall man. A flash of cheerful recognition lit his grey eyes, and then his expression turned serious. The newcomer recognized Steed at the same moment and he came striding across the polished terrazzo floor.
“Why so grim, Steed?” he asked, extending his right hand. Steed shook it, the smile returning to his face.
“Good evening Kevin,” he said. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
“Surprise?” Kevin Wycoff’s eyes widened. “Why Steed, Nancy and I have been dating for several months – thanks to you and Emma. For a while there we played at hiding it – just to see if we liked the intrigue,” he shot Steed a knowing glance that the agent ignored. “But we’ve resigned ourselves to behaving like an ordinary couple – just to see if we can tolerate it.”
“I’m delighted to hear it. And Emma will be, too. She’s just back here,” he directed his old friend toward the rear of the gallery.
“And you’re standing guard up here?” Kevin asked with a chuckle as they walked. When Steed did not respond he shot him a sharp, sideways glance. “You’d prefer I stop asking questions, wouldn’t you?”
“That would be extremely helpful, my old friend,” Steed replied with a smile.
Kevin grinned, but held his tongue until they had reached the sofa.
Nancy bounced to her feet when she caught sight of the men while Emma rose more slowly. Steed moved close to her and put his hand under her elbow as if to support her. She smiled fondly at him.
“Good evening darling,” Kevin said, placing his hands on Nancy’s upper arms and a discrete kiss on her lips.
Steed averted his eyes, catching Emma’s. She was wearing a delighted smile.
“Thank you for coming Kevin. Here, let me take your hat and show you Emma’s wonderful paintings.”
“Emma,” Kevin focused his attention on the artist as Nancy took his hat. “You look radiant!”
Emma smiled and shook Kevin’s offered hand. “People keep telling me that. I can’t imagine why,” she said, sounding remarkably sincere. Kevin frowned for a moment, thinking he’d made an indiscrete remark. But Steed’s chuckle relieved him.
“Your sly wit catches me every time, my dear,” he said. “Now remind me: when is the baby due?”
“March 15th.”
“Oh ho! Beware the ides of March, hum?”
“Yes,” Emma sighed, glancing at Steed. He grinned gleefully.
“Heard that one, I take it?” Kevin asked.
“Frequently,” Emma nodded.
“Ready?” Nancy reappeared with a glass of champagne that she handed to Kevin.
“Absolutely – I look forward to seeing Emma’s latest work, and your other artists too, of course,” he took the glass and nodded to Steed and Emma as Nancy guided him away.
“You told him to say that,” Emma said to her husband.
“Certainly not!”
Emma smirked at Steed’s feigned offense. “Face it darling, it’s just too easy. You should tell people March sixteenth, or twentieth.”
Emma sighed, reaching up to stroke his cheek.
“Back to work,” he said, resisting the urge to lean into her caress.
“Back to work,” she nodded, withdrawing her hand and sitting back down.
***
“Have you invited all of Emma’s friends, Nancy?” Steed spoke quietly to the gallery owner, his eyes on Kevin, who was leaning close to a dark, dense oil portrait – not one of Emma’s.
“All of the art crowd, as usual Steed. Why?”
Steed let one brow rise, then turned to look toward the door as it opened to admit more guests. An uncontrolled growl slipped from his throat as he recognized them.
“Steed?” Nancy asked as he strode away.
“What is it?” Kevin asked as he straightened.
“Steed,” Nancy replied. “Sometimes I just don’t understand him.”
“Never mind,” Kevin shot her his most jolly grin then guided her toward the next painting. “It’s best not to ask too many questions.”
Lord Frederick Leighton and his fiancé Lady Miranda Holcombe had paused to sign the guest book when Steed approached them. The lady noticed him first and nudged Freddy, who looked up and followed her gaze.
“Steed,” he said, setting down the pen – a fabulous two-foot black swan quill attached to a ballpoint. “You remember Lady Miranda?” He slipped one hand behind her to rest it on her waist.
“Yes of course, it’s a pleasure to meet you again my lady,” Steed made a small bow while maintaining eye contact with her.
“And you too, Mr. Steed. I have not forgotten your lovely bridge party,” she replied. Her rounded vowels and soft consonants sounded like an unusual accent, but were, Steed knew, the affect of deafness.
“We’re here to run up the bidding on Emma’s painting,” Freddy announced, looking speculatively around the gallery. Steed winced inwardly at the prospect of the man’s unwitting interference with his case.
“The artist herself is just back there,” he said. “You know she’ll never forgive you if you don’t say hello first.”
“Of course!” Lady Miranda said, her eyes focused on his lips.
“We shall pay court immediately,” Freddy added, taking her arm.
Steed edged back to his post making brief eye contact with Gambit. The younger agent showed no sign of recognition, but just the same Steed knew that he was amused by his superior’s distraction. Steed adjusted his wristwatch as he glanced toward Emma’s painting. A man in an immaculate dove-grey suit obviously hand tailored to fit his round body and short legs was bending to enter a bid. Steed pressed his watch stem to snap a photo as the man straightened and turned toward him.
Another man – broad-shouldered and tall with a completely bald head – moved in to examine the picture, bent to write in a bid, and moved on. Steed snapped a picture as he was writing, but did not take care to capture his face in the image.
A few minutes later a blonde woman in three-inch heels moved in, her shoulders draped in a rich fur stole. She studied the auction tag then straightened and looked around the gallery with a frown. Then she wrote in a bid, her hand movement a quick scrawl. Steed snapped her picture and turned to smile at a passing couple -- particularly the woman, who smiled back. She kept her eyes on him, her smile outrageously seductive, as her escort guided her further into the gallery. Steed felt an old, familiar sense of pride at his innate magnetism. He needn’t act on it, but it pleased him to know that he still turned womens’ heads. As he turned back toward Emma’s painting he saw Gambit across the room shaking his head slowly in remote scolding. If they weren’t working Gambit would take it as a challenge to win the woman’s attentions. In fact, he probably would find an opportunity to do so anyway. Steed’s musing ended abruptly when the round man reappeared in front of Emma’s painting.
He and Gambit both watched the man enter another bid and move away. This time Steed noticed that he did not move far – just over to the next vertical panel. From there he also watched the woman return, scowl, and enter another bid, followed by the bald man.
Gambit grinned with delight and watched the woman move to another painting. The round man moved back in on Emma’s work.
***
“Pardon me, is the toilet this way?”
Startled, Laslo Skinner spun around, sloshing the clear liquid he’d just poured from a small metal flask into one of the gallery’s hired champagne flutes. He slipped the flask into his breast pocket as he studied the blonde woman who had addressed him. Her high heels brought her to nearly his height. He had noticed her placing a bid on the painting – in fact, he’d outbid her with his last entry just before the round man moved in and outbid him. With fifteen minutes of bidding time to go he figured he could slip out from under Steed’s constant gaze for a bit, then slip back and enter a winning bid just as the auction ended.
“Yes I think so,” he started to gesture toward a black door with the word Toilet in sans serif white lettering on it, then realized that the woman was aiming a small handgun at his chest.
“Good, and beyond it is the back door. Please go open it.” She said in a vaguely eastern European accent. So she was one of the opposition, not an art lover.
“And if I don’t?” Skinner asked, watching the muzzle of the small gun. She was holding it rock steady – a sure sign of comfort handling and using a deadly weapon. He shouldn’t press his luck by trying to talk her out of whatever she had in mind.
“Do you really want to find out?”
Skinner shrugged resignedly and walked toward the back door. She followed closely. He glanced over his shoulder, hoping she would do the same and give him an opening. But her expression was determined and her gaze remained solidly on him.
He stopped at the door, momentarily contemplating letting her get close then throwing his elbow into her midriff. But as he paused, hand on the handle, she stopped just out of his range.
“Open it.”
He sighed again, hoping she thought him a coward, and opened the door. The muzzle of the little gun pressed into the small of his back as she finally moved close to press him outside.
Half in the doorway, half out, he decided to risk it and shoved his elbow back aiming for her gut, hoping to knock off her aim. He grunted in alarm when his elbow was caught in an iron grip and his bent arm twisted up and around. She shoved with all her weight, wrenching his arm higher up behind his back as they both stepped out into the damp, dark alley. The door shut behind them and she frog-walked him with amazing strength across uneven pavement toward a large rubbish bin.
And then the pressure was relieved from his arm. He spun around, dropping into a defensive crouch with his injured arm hanging at his side, his other arm raised in a guard position. He was going for submissive while trying to keep balanced for either attack or defense. As it turned out, none of it mattered.
She fired her little gun at his heart. At first he felt like he’d been shoved backward, and then he became aware of the pain mushrooming in his chest. He hit the side of the big commercial rubbish bin, its upper edge digging into the small of his back.
She fired again, the pop of the little gun sounding comical as it echoed off the alley walls. The pain that erupted in his left shoulder assured him that it was no joke.
She placed the gun in her handbag and bent to grasp his ankles. She lifted his legs, her surprising strength evident once more as she tipped him into the bin. He landed amid papers from the gallery, rotten food from the café next door, and mounds of indescribable filth.
Miss Tellerman rubbed her hands together as if to rid them of stray dirt, then turned on her heel and marched back into the gallery through the back door.
***
“Ah, here she is,” Steed said as a liveried valet pulled up to the curb in Emma’s pale blue – somewhat faded with age -- Lotus Elan. Steed handed the young man a tip as Emma lowered herself into the small car.
“Don’t say it,” she pronounced, raising one hand palm out to silence him. “I admit it. My belly almost touches the steering wheel. I’ll put her in the garage for the duration. And will you be coming home at all tonight?”
Steed winced as he shut the door for her. “Don’t wait up. And drive safely.”
She nodded, her expression neutral, and put the car in gear.
He straightened and watched her zoom away, glad that the early evening showers had cleared allowing the gallery guests to depart sans umbrellas. He snapped a few more pictures with his watch as he turned back toward the doors.
Nancy appeared there behind a group of guests. She scanned the sidewalk and noticed Steed, then crossed to him, her heels clicking on the wet pavement.
“Have I missed Emma?” she asked.
“Just,” he nodded.
“I wanted to give her the numbers for her paintings. All but two sold, and the final bid on her auctioned piece is very good.” She held a sheet of ledger paper with handwritten notes on it. Steed took it from her and glanced at the selling prices, suppressing his surprise at just how much one of the regular sale landscapes had fetched.
“I’ll give this to her if you like,” he said.
“Fine. Tell her she’ll receive a formal statement by post, too.”
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, folding the paper and tucking it into his jacket pocket.
“Certainly!”
Steed took her arm to guide her back into the gallery where he appropriated two glasses of champagne from a tray and offered her one.
“Cheeky,” she observed with a smile as they touched the rims and then sipped the champagne that she had supplied for the party. Steed shot her a flirtatious smile.
In the workroom at the rear of the gallery one of Nancy’s assistants was tightening the last screw into a rectangular crate. Gambit stood near the open doorway sipping a glass of champagne and admiring the woman who had smiled at Steed earlier. He was also watching the round man, who was hovering in the doorway watching the assistant.
“You’re sure it is well packed? I’m leaving the country first thing in the morning and I want to take it with me.”
“It’s secure sir,” the assistant told him. “Do you have a car?”
“Yes. Out front. Would it be possible for you to carry it for me?”
“Of course sir, my pleasure,” the assistant lifted the crate, “After you.”
Gambit downed the last of his champagne and tucked the glass into a handy potted plant, then strode into the room to the worktable where the assistant had prepared Emma’s painting for the buyer. He pocketed his objective and made a sharp turn out of the room, stopping beside the woman who was momentarily unaccompanied.
“Good evening,” he murmured. “I’m sure we’ve met somewhere before.”
***
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