After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page B

enjoyed it, didn’t we, Jack?’
    ‘Absolutely,’ said Jack. There didn’t seem to be anything else he could say.
    ‘Colin!’ called Mr Askern. He nodded an apology to Jack and Bill. ‘Excuse me interrupting, gentlemen. Colin, can you recommend an artist or artists whose work reflects modern ideas? We’re looking for someone who would be both commercially sound and suitable for our purposes.’
    ‘I think so, Dad. I ran into a chap the other day who was very excited about new ways of dealing with old forms. Betty!’ he called. ‘What’s the name of that Polish bloke we met at the Carmondys’? You know, in Bloomsbury. The one who talked about rhythmic structures?’
    ‘It sounds like complete tosh,’ said his father reprovingly. ‘We want someone who can paint.’
    ‘But this chap can. He’s produced some marvellous work.’
    Unnoticed by Mr Lythewell or the Askerns, the flag-seller approached and mounted the steps to where Bill and Jack were standing.
    ‘Buy a flag, sir?’ She smiled at the sight of the flag in Jack’s lapel. ‘I remember you, sir. Didn’t you say your friend wanted to buy a flag?’
    ‘Bartkowiak, that’s the name,’ said Colin Askern. ‘And don’t be too dismissive about rhythmic structures or any other language of that sort. Art’s moved on. We need a new language to describe new concepts.’
    ‘Nonsense is nonsense, even if it is about art,’ said Lythewell.
    ‘
Will
you buy a flag, sir?’ the flag-seller repeated.
    ‘Yes, of course,’ said Bill in a slightly harried way.
    ‘A generous donation, remember,’ muttered Jack.
    Bill took a ten-shilling note from his wallet and, with Jack’s eye upon him, reluctantly added another.
    The flag-seller’s eyes brightened. ‘Thank you very much, sir.’
    ‘Bartkowiak produces some damn good – some jolly good, I should say – art,’ affirmed Colin with some vehemence.
    ‘Tradition’s what’s needed,’ put in Henry Cadwallader, ‘not this so-called abstract nonsense.’
    ‘Will you buy a flag, sir?’ asked the flag-seller. Henry Cadwallader looked scandalised at the idea.
    ‘Even if it was produced last week and not fifty years ago, art’s still art,’ insisted Colin.
    The flag-seller recognised defeat in Henry Cadwallader and moved on to Mr Askern. ‘Will you buy a flag, sir?’
    ‘Art, my dear boy,’ said Mr Askern, absently reaching into his pocket for money, ‘especially sacred art, needs tradition. Cadwallader is perfectly correct on that score.’ He tutted in irritation. ‘Excuse me, Lythewell, have you any loose change? I gave mine to the cloakroom attendant. Tradition is the bedrock of our art …’
    He broke off, staring at the flag-seller. She was gazing at them in a fixed, unnatural manner. ‘Art,’ she said, her voice scarcely more than a whisper. ‘Art! Oh my God, art!’
    Her face seemed to lose all definition and become flabby. As they watched in horrified amazement, her skin turned an unnatural shade of putty-coloured grey, shocking against her dark hair. ‘Art!’ she repeated. Her eyeballs rolled up into their sockets, showing only the whites. She made a funny gasping noise, swayed dangerously and staggered forward.
    For a frozen fraction of a second no one moved, then both Bill and Jack leapt forward, catching her as she fell. Supporting her weight, the two men guided her to the steps where she collapsed in an ungainly heap.
    ‘What the devil happened to her?’ said Colin Askern in shocked bewilderment. ‘What on earth came over the woman?’
    ‘You know as much as we do,’ said Bill. ‘She’s out cold. Jack, can you get that tray from round her neck?’
    Jack was already trying to remove the tray of flags. The ribbon was entangled round her neck, caught up between the loose skin of her neck and her coat collar. He tried to loosen the ribbon, then wrenched it away from the box, gently unwrapping it from round her neck.
    Bill undid her coat, struggling with the large buttons, and