I pulled her address book out of the drawer, where it lay amongst old maps and balls of string and unopened mousetraps. I flipped to find T for Taxi, and saw two things. The first; under S, in Quick’s flowing black nib, were written the words:
Scott – The Red House
Baldock’s Ridge
Surrey HAS-6735
And secondly, a small white letter, folded in two, and pressed between these pages.
‘Everything all right out there?’ Quick called.
‘Fine!’ My voice quivered. ‘Just getting it now.’
I looked at the Scott address in confusion. This entry might be a recent addition, of course – Quick undertaking some investigating of her own into Lawrie and the painting – and God knows it would not have surprised me. It was unbelievable that Quick might actually know the Scott family. And Lawrie didn’t seem to have recognized her, did he? He was far too convincingly bemused by Quick to be hiding the fact that he actually knew her. And yet, here was his family’s address. None of it made sense.
I opened the letter quickly, knowing I didn’t have much time. A thin slip of paper fell out from the fold and fluttered to the floor. I knelt to pick it up and read it, hunched in the semi-darkness, Quick’s cat still watching. It was a telegram, and my eyes bulged on the words. “DARLING SCHLOSS STOP,” it read: “VERY EXCITING PHOTOGRAPH STOP WE MUST BRING R TO PARIS-LONDON-NYC STOP LOVE PEG.” It was dated: “PARIS – MALAGA 2ND JULY 1936.”
I can see myself even now, kneeling like a sinner in Quick’s hallway, skin tingling with the twitch of connecting threads, a knowledge just beyond my reach. Schloss. Harold Schloss? It was the dealer Reede had mentioned. What the hell was this telegram doing here, in Wimbledon, in Quick’s telephone book? Quick was in her living room, steps away from me, but there could have been a thousand miles between us.
I sat back on my heels, hoping time would stand still in order for me to think. Peg could be Peggy Guggenheim, R could be Robles; the date fitted, and it was sent to Malaga, where Reede said Robles resided. If this was real – and it looked real – then this was a piece of correspondence Reede might kill for. And here it was, out of Quick’s drawer and in my hands.
‘Odelle?’ she called, and I heard the note of panic in her voice. ‘Are you summoning that taxi in Morse code?’
‘The line’s engaged. I’m just waiting,’ I called back. I placed the telegram on the table and picked up the letter. The date was 27 December 1935. I inhaled the scent of the old, thin paper. There was something familiar about it; but I couldn’t place it. It was addressed to a person called Miss Olive Schloss, at a flat in Curzon Street. It ran:
Further to your application to the Slade School of Fine Art, it is our pleasure to invite you to undertake the Fine Art degree course, commencing 14th September, next year.
The tutors were highly impressed by the rich imagination and novelty on display in your paintings and studies. We should be happy to have a pupil such as you, continuing the rigorous yet progressive tradition of the school –
‘Odelle.’ Quick was calling very sharply now.
‘Coming,’ I said. ‘There’s no answer.’
I began to refold the letter in haste, placing the telegram back inside it. I was on the point of reaching for the discarded telephone book, open on the Scott entry, when Quick came into the hall. I froze, the letter still in my hand. My face must have been a vision of guilt. The living-room light shone through the fabric of her blouse. She seemed so small, the outline of her ribcage far too narrow.
She looked at me – stared, actually – deep into my eyes. She reached out, took the letter and the telegram from my mesmerized grip, placed them in the telephone book and closed it. And then my realization came, and I saw in Quick’s face a younger woman smiling, a woman in a photograph, a moment of happiness as she clutched a brush. O and I. O, a full circle. O, for Olive Schloss.
‘You knew him,’ I whispered. She closed her eyes. ‘You knew Isaac Robles.’
The cat brushed against my legs. ‘I’d murder a cigarette,’ Quick said.
I pointed at the telephone book. ‘Who’s Olive Schloss?’
‘Odelle, would you go and fetch me some cigarettes?’