1

It had started to rain in the late evening, lightly at first, but increasing to a heavy, drenching downpour as darkness fell. A wind that, from the feel of it, came all the way from the North Sea, drove the rain before it across the roofs of the city to rattle against the enormous glass window that stood at one end of Bruno Faulkner's studio.

The studio was a great barn of a room which took up the entire top floor of a five-storey Victorian wool merchant's town house, now converted into flats. Inside a fire burned in a strangely mediaeval fireplace giving the only light, and on a dais against the window four great shapes, Faulkner's latest commission, loomed menacingly.

There was a ring at the door bell and then another.

After a while, an inner door beyond the fireplace opened and Faulkner appeared in shirt and pants, a little dishevelled for he had been sleeping. He switched on the light and paused by the fire for a moment, mouth widening in a yawn. He was a large, rather fleshy man of thirty whose face carried the habitually arrogant expression of the sort of creative artist who believes that he exists by a kind of divine right. As the bell sounded again he frowned petulantly, moved to the door and opened it.

"All right, all right, I can hear you." He smiled suddenly. "Oh, it's you, Jack."

The elegant young man who leaned against the wall outside, a finger held firmly against the bell push, grinned. "What kept you?"

Faulkner turned and Jack Morgan followed him inside and closed the door. He was about Faulkner's age, but looked younger and wore evening dress, a light overcoat with a velvet collar draped across his shoulders.

He examined Faulkner dispassionately as the other man helped himself to a cigarette from a silver box and lit it. "You look bloody awful, Bruno."

"I love you too," Faulkner said and crossed to the fire.

Morgan looked down at the telephone which stood on a small coffee table. The receiver was off the hook and he replaced it casually. "I thought so. I've been trying to get through for the past couple of hours."

Faulkner shrugged. "I've been working for two days non-stop. When I finished I took the phone off the hook and went to bed. What did you want? Something important?"

"It's Joanna's birthday, or had you forgotten? She sent me to get you."

"Oh, my God, I had—completely. No chance that I've missed the party I suppose?"

"I'm afraid not. It's only eight o'clock."

"Pity. I suppose she's collected the usual bunch of squares." He frowned suddenly. "I haven't even got her a present."

Morgan produced a slim leather case from one pocket and threw it across. "Pearl necklace…seventy-five quid. I got it at Humbert's and told them to put it on your account."

"Bless you, Jack," Faulkner said. "The best fag I ever had."

He walked towards the bedroom door and Morgan turned to examine the figures on the dais. They were life-size, obviously feminine, but in the manner of Henry Moore's early work had no individual identity. They possessed a curious group menace that made him feel decidedly uneasy.

"I see you've added another figure," he said. "I thought you'd decided that three was enough?"

Faulkner shrugged. "When I started five weeks ago I thought one would do and then it started to grow. The damned thing just won't stop."

Morgan moved closer. "It's magnificent, Bruno. The best thing you've ever done."

Copyright © 1968 by Harry Patterson.