In the Frame - By Dick Francis Page 0,64

body, and he called his spouse Chuckles without apparently intending satire.

We said, Jik and I, that we were professional artists who would be intensely interested and grateful if we could briefly admire the noted picture he had just bought.

‘Did the gallery send you?’ he asked, beaming at the implied compliments to his taste and wealth.

‘Sort of,’ we said, and Jik added: ‘My friend here is well known in England for his painting of horses, and is represented in many top galleries, and has been hung often at the Royal Academy…’

I thought he was laying it on a bit too thick, but Norman Updike was impressed and pulled wide his door.

‘Come in then. Come in. The picture’s in the lounge. This way, lass, this way.’

He showed us into a large over-stuffed room with dark ankle-deep carpet, big dark cupboards, and the glorious view of sunlit water.

Chuckles, sitting solidly in front of a television busy with a moronic British comic show, gave us a sour look and no greeting.

‘Over here,’ Norman Updike beamed, threading his portly way round a battery of fat armchairs. ‘What do you think of that, eh?’ He waved his hand with proprietorial pride at the canvas on his wall.

A smallish painting, fourteen inches by eighteen. A black horse, with an elongated neck curving against a blue and white sky; a chopped-off tail; the grass in the foreground yellow; and the whole covered with an old-looking varnish.

‘Herring,’ I murmured reverently.

Norman Updike’s beam broadened. ‘I see you know your stuff. Worth a bit, that is.’

‘A good deal,’ I agreed.

‘I reckon I got a bargain. The gallery said I’d always make a profit if I wanted to sell.’

‘May I look at the brushwork?’ I asked politely.

‘Go right ahead.’

I looked closely. It was very good. It did look like Herring, dead since 1865. It also, indefinably, looked like the meticulous Renbo. One would need a microscope and chemical analysis, to make sure.

I stepped back and glanced round the rest of the room. There was nothing of obvious value, and the few other pictures were all prints.

‘Beautiful,’ I said admiringly, turning back to the Herring. ‘Unmistakable style. A real master.’

Updike beamed.

‘You’d better beware of burglars,’ I said.

He laughed. ‘Chuckles, dear, do you hear what this young man says? He says we’d better beware of burglars!’

Chuckles’ eyes gave me two seconds’ sour attention and returned to the screen.

Updike patted Sarah on the shoulder. ‘Tell your friend not to worry about burglars.’

‘Why not?’ I said.

‘We’ve got alarms all over this house,’ he beamed. ‘Don’t you worry, a burglar wouldn’t get far.’

Jik and Sarah, as I had done, looked round the room and saw nothing much worth stealing. Nothing, certainly, worth alarms all over the house. Updike watched them looking and his beam grew wider.

‘Shall I show these young people our little treasures, Chuckles?’ he said.

Chuckles didn’t even reply. The television cackled with tinned laughter.

‘We’d be most interested,’ I said.

He smiled with the fat anticipatory smirk of one about to show what will certainly be admired. Two or three steps took him to one of the big dark cupboards which seemed built into the walls, and he pulled open the double doors with a flourish.

Inside, there were about six deep shelves, each bearing several complicated pieces of carved jade. Pale pink, creamy white and pale green, smooth, polished, intricate, expensive; each piece standing upon its own heavy-looking black base-support. Jik, Sarah and I made appreciative noises and Norman Updike smiled ever wider.

‘Hong Kong, of course,’ he said. ‘I worked there for years, you know. Quite a nice little collection, eh?’ He walked along to the next dark cupboard and pulled open a duplicate set of doors. Inside, more shelves, more carvings, as before.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about jade,’ I said, apologetically. ‘Can’t appreciate your collection to the full.’

He told us a good deal more about the ornate goodies than we actually wanted to know. There were four cupboards full in the lounge and overflows in bedroom and hall.

‘You used to be able to pick them up very cheap in Hong Kong,’ he said. ‘I worked there more than twenty years, you know.’

Jik and I exchanged glances. I nodded slightly.

Jik immediately shook Norman Updike by the hand, put his arm round Sarah, and said we must be leaving. Updike looked enquiringly at Chuckles, who was still glued to the telly and still abdicating from the role of hostess. When she refused to look our way he shrugged good-humouredly and came with us to his front