Free A Long Silence by Nicolas Freeling Page A

nothing could be done officially – there had been no complaint made – and that it had nothing to do with old Louis anyway, who didn’t even know they stocked any watches, like as not; he was quite uninterested in the front of the shop.
    â€˜The usual, I suppose?’ Larry was saying, reading the paper.
    â€˜No, they come here to the shop from time, to time with their little lists – we know them, usual burglary-detail types. This was some damn bureaucrat, customs and excise stuff, worrying away about export licences – I’ve had the same kind of thing before once or twice. Just a warning really to lie low. What about that – you know, the French one?’
    â€˜Why worry?’ Larry did not even look up from his paper. ‘Are we involved or something?’
    â€˜Well, but…’
    â€˜But what? It was in our cellar for over five years – no question of a speculation there. We made a perfectly fair deal with a third person. If he has dealt illegally we don’t even know.’
    â€˜Oh I’m aware how adept you are at invariably finding a third person. It will never be you, my boy, who carries the can, will it now?’
    The paper rustled slightly, as though with irritation, but Saint did not allow his voice to rise.
    â€˜I don’t see you complaining when there’s money to be made.’
    â€˜If it was only in this business – if it was only pictures,’ said Louis angrily. Dick, embarrassed, was staying very still, but Prins had perhaps forgotten all about him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with this business and one should stick to that, I’ve said so a hundred times.’
    â€˜You’ve said so a hundred times,’ repeated Saint, in a colourless tone that was somehow more insulting than mimicry. Spire was stung.
    â€˜That girly stuff, and dirty books – I suppose that’s trivial, but-’
    â€˜Not to you it isn’t!’ and this time Saint’s voice had an unmistakable edge.
    â€˜These other fishy deals …’ Louis’s voice trailed off.
    â€˜That’s my business,’ slowly and coldly. ‘You’re the picture expert. You stick to art.’ But Prins was not going to be snubbed.
    â€˜Art,’ with a snort of real contempt, making for the door. ‘You talk about art as though it were groceries in a supermarket, and to you that’s about all it is. You think yourself clever, my boy, and you take all your precautions – oh yes, I realize – but you’ll never know anything about art.’ He could not slam the shop door, because it could not be slammed, but he went through the movements.
    Saint lowered his paper and smiled sidelong at Richard, as though inviting him to share a private joke.
    â€˜Dear old Louis; whenever he gets cranky – you must make allowances, he’s no longer as young as he has been – he always thinks he can squash me by telling me I know nothing. The old invariably think that, as you’ll have noticed.’
    â€˜My god, yes,’ Dick was pleased at not having to be embarrassed any further. It had only been a little spat of words, a little family squabble. ‘And after all he really is a big expert, isn’t he, and they can’t bear being wrong.’
    â€˜Very good,’ said Saint, laughing. ‘Well observed. Of course Louis is a first-class expert, but not on life, as you’ll find out. Their trouble is their refusal – or their inability – to understand the limits of their expertise.’
    â€˜What was all that about dirty books?’ with immense casualness.
    â€˜Unimportant.’ Saint shrugged. ‘Forms a part of any antique business – erotic engravings and all that – what booksellers call the “curious” trade. Any dealer has a few dirty books; that and “occult” – it’s part of the business. There are always good customers for it –