False colors (17 page)

I followed him into the place. He switched on the light and closed the door and glanced at the papers on his desk. Perhaps he had left them in a carefully arranged pattern, and it was lucky that I had caught Nancy before she messed it up. He sat at his desk, motioned me to a chair, and fished an envelope out of his pocket. He unsealed it and pulled out a four-by-five-inch photo.

"What do you think of this?" he said, flipping it across the desk.

The photo showed a portrait hanging on a paneled wall. The portrait was of an old man, dressed in a shabby velvet jacket. A fishnet pattern of cracks covered the painting. "What do you want me to say?" I asked. "Dutch school. Seventeenth century. Who can tell anything from a black and white photo?"

"Does the old man look familiar to you in any way?"

"I wouldn't want to guess. Who do you want it to be?"

"I want it to be Rembrandt."

"Oh Lord! Not another Rembrandt self-portrait. How many have been discovered? Sixty?"

"All the more reason why there should be sixty-one."

"Where is the thing?"

"In the home of a fine old family in the Netherlands. Their genealogy goes back into the sixteenth century, so who is to say they haven't had the portrait all along? Naturally they need money."

"Naturally. How do you feel about the portrait?"

He shrugged. "With the right handling, there's a fortune in it. Besides, who can tell? It might even be a Rembrandt."

It might turn out to be a Rembrandt, and I might turn out to be irresistible to the next ten pretty girls I met. The chances were a million to one that it was by Maes or Lievens or Van den Eeckhout, or one of the many other imitators and pupils that Rembrandt had while he was alive. The portrait might have been planted years ago with the Dutch family, so it could be discovered in the right way and at the right time.

"How does it get handled right?" I said. "And where do I come in?"

"You have just received a letter from the Dutch family, enclosing this photo and asking what you think of the portrait, which has been in their family for centuries. They don't know you personally, but they got your name from a friend who knew you on the Allied Art Commission. They need money and hope the portrait may be worth something."

"I go over there and spot it as a Rembrandt self-portrait?"

"Exactly. You had a passport recently, so it could be renewed quickly. Perhaps you could sail next week."

"Not to be commercial," I said, "but I assume there's a little money involved in this?"

"Ah, money," he said, in the tone Romeo might have used to Juliet. "Two thousand dollars expenses for the trip. Twenty per cent of the sale price of the portrait, with a guarantee of twenty thousand dollars. How does that sound?"

It sounded as if Lassiter was a genius. He figured I was a crook and might cause him some trouble and that he had to buy me off. But he also wanted to make a profit on the blackmail payment. Not everybody can get away with discovering another Rembrandt self-portrait. A lot of the experts, for example, might not go for a discovery by Lassiter himself. They might let me get away with it. I had never been mixed up in any trick deals, and my work on the Allied Art Commission gave my opinions some authority.

"That's a pretty good offer," I said. "But before giving you an answer, I'd like to borrow that photo and study it under a mag-

nifying glass. I want to check it against known portraits of Rembrandt. I'd also have to check all the written sources, to see if the guy's appearance and his costume match whatever facts are on record about that period of Rembrandt's life. I'll take your word that the painting itself goes back to the seventeenth century."

"It does. And your other precautions are quite sensible. You may have the photo. By the way," he said, letting a grin slide over his lips, "you couldn't find the right town in the Netherlands or the right family without my help."

"Your precautions are sensible, too. While I'm checking up, I'll get the passport under way. What about the two thousand for expenses?"

"You'll get it when we sign an agreement on the terms I suggested. And I'll turn over to you the letter you'll claim to have received from the Dutch family. Our story is this. You received the letter and were very interested, but couldn't afford the trip. You came to me for help, both to finance the trip and to sell the painting if it turned out to be valuable. Of course it's quite true that you don't have much money. I had your credit rating checked. You have a little more than eight hundred dollars in your bank account."

"Six hundred and twenty," I said. "The rent came due today."

"After we put this deal over, you can carry six hundred and twenty around for small change."

If I could stall him off for a few days, maybe the cops could take it from there. And meanwhile he might put the Accardi business on ice. "I'll let you know as soon as possible," I said.

"Good. I think we will both find this has been a profitable evening. In several ways, from my point of view. Besides our deal, I believe I have found a buyer for that Caravaggio."

I said curiously, "With the stuff you have here, don't you run the risk of burglars?"

"Burglars would run the risk of Joe Molo. And let me show you something." He took out a key and walked to the window. He put the key in a keyhole set in the window frame and turned

it. Two shutters slid from each side of the window frame and closed silently outside the open window. "Steel," he said, rapping on them to show me. "The man from whom I bought this house was deathly afraid of burglars. Every downstairs window has shutters like these. A switch controls an electric eye gadget on every window. If the circuit is broken, it rings an alarm. Would you like me to take you around the house? It's built like a fort."

"Thanks, not just now. I want to hunt up Miss Vernon. We had an argument just before I saw you, and I'd like to get out of the doghouse."

"Good luck," he said. "A charming girl. Perhaps a little . . . impulsive?"

That was a velvet warning. "She'll get over it."

He nodded pleasantly, and I left the office. I was feeling pretty good. I had both proved he was a crook and had fixed things so he wouldn't cause trouble for a few days. And I ought to be able to get Nancy out of the place now. She couldn't learn anything by snooping that I hadn't already learned. I stuck the photo in my coat pocket, and went looking for her. I weaved through the crowd for a couple of minutes, going from room to room, and then as I was crossing the main hallway a voice hailed me from the entrance. It was Joe Molo.

"Got a call for you," he said. "Telephone."

That was strange. I hadn't told anybody that I was going to the Lassiter exhibit. I walked to the entrance. The phone was on the desk where the white-haired old man checked invited guests in and out. Molo was holding the phone. I took it and waited for him to move away. When he didn't, I said politely, "Thanks."

"Huh?" he said. "Oh, sure, sure." He moved away.

The old man with the list was sitting next to the phone but I didn't think I had to worry about him. "Hello," I said into the phone. "This is Peter Meadows."

"Hello, Pete," a voice said cheerily. "This is Nancy."

"I couldn't imagine who was calling," I said. "You got sensible and went home, did you?"

"Guess again," she said.

At that moment my glance happened to pass over the list of guests in front of the old man. There was a red check after the name of everybody who had arrived, and a black one if they had already left. There was Meadows with a red check. There was Miss Nancy Vernon with a red check. She hadn't been checked out.

I said in a nervous whisper, "What are you doing, calling me? You're still here, according to the list."

"That's right, Pete. I'm here. The line I'm on is an extension of your phone. I asked the operator to give the line a test ring. I knew the man at the entrance would pick it up and think somebody outside was calling. It's so nice you're right at the list. Check me out, please."

Blood started prickling through my skin. "The hell I will," I whispered. "I'm not going to leave you hiding in some closet."

"Please don't argue. There might be another extension. Someone might pick it up and listen in. I'll meet you at my house later."

She was right about the danger of someone picking up another extension. Lassiter might wonder who was calling me. And I could see the ex-wrestler, Molo, heading down the hall as if looking for him. I had to talk her out of this fast. Sweat stung my face, and I fumbled for a handkerchief. I found one in my right-hand coat pocket and pulled it out.

"Pete!" Nancy said, with a touch of fear in her voice. "Pete, are you still there?"

At the moment I couldn't answer. What I had pulled from my coat pocket was not a handkerchief. It was a piece of blue-green silk. It was so light it almost floated out of my hand. It was strong enough to hang a man, though. While I had been pushing through the crowd looking for Nancy, someone had slipped it into my pocket, next to the photo of the fake Rembrandt.

"Pete!" Nancy gasped. "You've got to answer me!"

"Sorry," I said in a cracked voice. "Something took my attention away."

"The reason you've got to check me out," she said, "is that I sneaked upstairs and I can't get down again. Now do you understand?"

15.

I understood, all right. I understood what Nancy said and what the hunk of blue-green silk meant. Nancy was trapped upstairs. The hunk of silk told me what would happen if she was caught there. I hadn't fooled Lassiter as much as I thought. The piece of silk, slipped into my pocket by someone in the crowd, warned me he was suspicious and wouldn't hold still for a double-cross. One moment, everything was under control. The next, I was elected baby sitter to a time bomb.

"How did you get upstairs?" I said. "Why can't you get down?"

"There's a little elevator next to the stairway. I went up in it. But I can't pick a safe time to come down that way."

I glanced down the hall. At the end was a grand staircase, blocked off by a bronze gate that looked ornamental but had a strictly practical lock. The door of the little elevator was near the gate. "Did anybody see you use the elevator?"

"I'm sure no one did, Pete. The guard at the door had stepped outside for a moment. The nice old man at the table wasn't looking my way. And no one else was in the hall right then. I really pushed the elevator button just for fun. But it's one of those automatic things, and when the door opened on an empty car, I couldn't resist stepping in. If I come down the same way, the chances are somebody will see me."

"Come on anyway. They can't do anything to you with this crowd around."

"I can get down the back stairs and out through the kitchen," she said. "I've already checked that way, and it's clear. But the door into the kitchen from your part of the house is locked, so I can't get back into the exhibit rooms. That's why you have to check me out. I'll sneak out the back door and go home and you can meet me there."

"How soon will you promise to leave?"

"In a half-hour or so."

"You get out of the place this moment or—"

"There's no use arguing, Pete. I found something very interesting up here. I'll tell you later. Check me out, please. Good-

by."

"Wait a minute," I said hoarsely. "Wait—" There was a click on the other end of the line. She had hung up.

While whispering to her I had kept an eye on the old man at the table beside me. He hadn't paid any attention to our talk. I pretended to go on talking into the phone. I put away the piece of blue-green silk, got out a handkerchief, two coins and the photo. I dropped the coins and photo as if they spilled from my pocket when I pulled out the handkerchief. The coins hit the table beside the old man, and bounced to the floor. The photo landed on the table. The old man looked up.

"Sorry," I said to him, waving the phone helplessly in one hand and the handkerchief in the other. "They fell out of my pocket."

"I'll get them," he said.

He bent to pick up the coins. I reached down, grabbed his pencil and made a black check on the list beside Nancy's name. Then I dropped the pencil and grabbed the photo just as he came up with the coins.

"Thanks so much," I said. "Clumsy of me."

"No trouble at all," he said pleasantly, handing me the coins.

"What were you saying, Nancy?" I said into the phone. "I dropped a couple of things and couldn't hear."

The old man relaxed again in his chair. I made a few more remarks and was about to hang up when I saw Lassiter coming

down the hall with Molo. I put more spirit into my fake conversation.

Lassiter stopped beside me and tapped my arm and said, "Would you like to take the call in my office, where it's more private?"

I smiled at him. "No thanks," I said. "Just finishing." Into the phone I said, "What did you say? . . . Oh, that was Mr. Lassiter . . . What? . . . Yes, I certainly will tell him. Nice of you to call. Good-by." I hung up and told Lassiter, "That was Miss Vernon. She had a slight headache and went home. Wanted me to thank you for having invited her."

He couldn't help glancing at the list. Then he frowned and said to the old man, "I like to know when my guests leave. You didn't tell me Miss Vernon had gone."

The old man looked at the list, too. He gave a helpless shrug and said, "But Mr. Lassiter, there are so many people it's hard to keep track of them. Maybe when Miss Vernon left, someone else was coming in, and it slipped my mind."

"All right, all right," Lassiter said irritably.

I put a silly look on my face, and said to Lassiter, "I got out of the doghouse."

"How fortunate," he said in a bored tone, and walked away.

They have a big statue of William Penn on top of City Hall tower. I could have had more fun, the next hour or so, if I had been hanging from his hat brim by my fingernails. I wasn't going to leave the place until I had to, just in case anything went wrong upstairs. I wandered around staring at paintings that never came into focus. I talked with Sheldon and a few other people, and for all I knew they could have been reciting the telephone book to me. But I could have told Lassiter that he passed the bronze gate at the foot of the staircase fourteen times, and that he glanced up the stairs four times and checked the lock once. I could have told Joe Molo that he scratched his head about once a minute, and that his shoulder holster was apparently strapped one notch too tight.