Scarlet Night (18 page)

“I have a peculiar hunch—which may turn out to be as suspect as your comment on the Irish and money, Miss Julie—but I think this business of collecting on themes smacks of new money; it suggests ignorance and laziness. Yes! How much thought or study goes into it? Why not collect beer cans or license plates?

“Alberto, have Eloise bring us in
Who’s Who.”
To Julie: “Eloise is my secretary. She has an office in that part of the house.” He motioned to wherever
that
was.

Romano went on while Alberto spoke softly into the phone. “I want to remind you that although we’ve thought of seven categories into which the Leonardo might fit, and because we are certain that it was stolen on consignment, this does not necessarily say that
our
collector follows a theme. We simply don’t know enough about him yet.

“For the time, let us set aside all consideration of the two paintings from Dufayard which stayed in France. We can also eliminate the Picasso, for it remains in the cabinet of the Englishman who bought it from Rubinoff.

“And that brings us to the alleged Degas—and our little dream, Miss Julie, of its authentication. I have consulted at length with a curator who knows a great deal about Degas. Nothing with the Dufayard name in its provenance is in the catalogue of Degas’s works, and there has been an addition to the catalogue within the year. So it is possible even today to come on something the artist never intended to leave to posterity. My curator friend raised a pertinent question: Why in the world would a collector of any stature buy a possible fake Degas or an inferior one when there are numerous authentic and excellent works coming up for sale regularly? The answer that seems most logical to me is that he had complete faith in his dealer, and possibly but not necessarily, a limited trust in his own judgment.

“An interesting aside—Degas spent many months on several occasions in Naples. His father had been a Neapolitan and he had family there. Furthermore,
The Young Spartans
dates from that period and it is known from his journals that he made many sketches. Wouldn’t it be curious…” He interrupted himself and shook his head. “I must not take us any further afield with speculations that are too remote. For the time being we must assume that the alleged Degas sketch remains with Rubinoff.”

“That doesn’t sound right, Mr. Romano.”

“I agree, but it is the safest place for us to leave it for now.”

Romano looked at his watch. “I regret to say I have a business and luncheon meeting of my own Board here at eleven-thirty.”

Julie said: “I think I should take
Scarlet Night
home with me, don’t you? I mean suppose Ginni gets jittery and does come by to make sure…?”

There was an instant chill in the room, a complete change in atmosphere.

“If you think so,” he said distantly.

“No, it’s a matter of us all thinking so. Maybe it’s just that
I’m
getting jittery in case she does come.”

“It is ready to go now. It had to be put together again right away to be sure that every nail was accurate, everything an exact fit. I am sure Miss Bordonelli has a microscopic eye. It may well have been photographed. Will you bring it, Alberto?” The chill was unmistakable.

Alberto went into the studio and returned with the painting neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied with a strong white cord. His eyes refused to meet Julie’s. She felt she had broken a code, but she didn’t know what to do about it. It wasn’t as though she wanted the picture home at all. But she knew, getting up from Romano’s desk, that no matter how she protested, nothing would prevent the picture’s leaving with her now.

A middle-aged woman, well dressed and competent, came in with a volume of
Who’s Who in America.
“Leave it on the desk, Eloise.”

No introduction.

The woman asked: “Do you want me to take minutes during the meeting, Mr. Romano?”

“I think not. There may be language.”

“I know how to spell those words, Mr. Romano.”

“Thank you, but we’ll use the tape.” To Alberto he said: “See that Miss Julie gets into a cab—a reliable cab company.”

“What time am I to come back?” Julie said. “If ever.”

Romano looked at her carefully, as though wondering whether he had made a mistake. He decided in his own favor. “I shall be available at three.”

On the way down in the elevator, Alberto carrying the picture for her, Julie said: “What have I done wrong? It’s not as though I want the responsibility of the picture again.”

Alberto glanced at her and away. His eyes were sad again. “Mr. Romano is very sensitive.”

“So am I!”

Alberto smiled wistfully.

There hadn’t been any suggestion of using the limousine this time and Julie was about to tote that up on the negative side when, just as she was getting into the cab, she saw the big car pulling up to the building. She glanced back, her cab stopped on the corner for a light. The passengers were piling out, Michael holding the door. They waited and then went indoors in a body. Like pallbearers. Then, out of the corner of her eye, as the cab moved forward, she saw Alberto get into another cab. She could be only reasonably sure that he followed her until, from behind the curtain in the vestibule door on Sixteenth Street, she watched and saw him pass. His face was drawn back out of sight, but the checked shirt he was wearing was not to be concealed.

If he was following to protect her—or to protect the picture—why not say so? It had to be that Romano was making sure she hadn’t gone to the F.B.I. with it. It was something to remember about him: the habit of mistrust ran deep.

J
ULIE KNEW SHE HAD
to call Mrs. Ryan about her note, whether or not she admitted to her that the pocketknife had turned up at the shop. She decided against that. After all, the knife could have lain harmless at the bottom of the catch basin or whatever, at least so far as O’Grady would know—for some time.

“I’ll look around again just to be sure,” Julie said.

“The man is beside himself with some kind of worry,” Mrs. Ryan said. “I suppose it’s the politics over there. I often meet him at McGowan’s, and I was thinking if I seen him today I might invite him to come to supper and fix him a bit of steak. He needs cheering up.”

Oh, boy. Mrs. Ryan didn’t have any kitchen—just an electric plate on a board over the tub in the bathroom. She cooked potatoes in an electric coffeepot.

“It’s very comfortable now with the air conditioner and the blower clears the smoke in no time. You wouldn’t be free yourself, would you, Julie?”

“I’m not sure, Mrs. Ryan. I won’t know until about five-thirty. Is that too late to call you?”

“Just come if you can and we’ll make do. I might be out with Fritzie when you called. I’ve been saving that fan I promised you and Johnny could carry it over for you afterward. He’s as strong as a horse.”

“I
HUNG IT IN
the dining alcove. It’s not exactly the right place for it, but it’s on the wall at least.”

“And you do think she may turn up?” Romano wanted to know.

“Yes! I do think it’s possible—after she’s talked with Rubinoff and O’Grady maybe. And if she did come—where would I say it was? They know it’s not at Forty-fourth Street.”

“I understand your anxiety. And if she brings Rubinoff with her? And if he suggests taking it with him? That must not happen until we’re ready.”

“Mr. Romano, why didn’t you say that when I first made the suggestion?”

“Because, frankly, I thought you were using it as a pretext to confide the whole disposal to the F.B.I.”

“That’s crazy.”

Romano leaned back and laughed. “Alberto, have you ever heard anyone say that to Romano before?”

“No, sir.”

“If he did insist, I’d say, ‘No way. Now if you want it, go ahead and sue me.’ I’ll bet he’d back off then.”

“I’m sorry if it offends you that I mistrusted you, Miss Julie. I suspect it was a variety of transference, to use psychiatric patois. I was distracted from our issue by issues to be discussed with my associates who were about to arrive. They are not always in agreement with my methods of doing business. I apologize.”

“No need to,” Julie said.

“Thank you. There are some splendid developments.” He pulled the open
Who’s Who
across his desk and referred to it as he said: “Peyton Marcus Wade is an oil-company executive. He’s—let me see, he would be forty-three years old. Divorced. Lives in Dallas, but he is on the Board of the Houston Museum, a member of the Mid-Texas Tennis Association, and a director in several firms—one of which might interest us: Campbell Drilling Equipment, now owned by A. M. and M., which is a conglomerate.” He closed the book. “Your turn, Alberto. What do you have for us from Venice?”

Alberto referred to a note pad. “The information comes from last year’s registration of visitors to an exhibit of master drawings at the Institute of Art. On September seventeenth, E. Schoen signed in, an address in Rome. The persons signing the book ahead of him were apparently with a Swedish tour, but the names that follow are…”

Romano interrupted: “In this order, note.”

“…G. T. Campbell, New York, and Peyton Wade, Dallas, Texas.”

“Well?” Romano was impatient for Julie to react.

“Is Campbell our man?”

“A distinct possibility.”

“He lives in New York,” Julie said.

“That does make him more lovable,” Romano said. “He is not in the phone book. Nor am I, for that matter. He has been in the news in recent years. Eloise is checking that for us. I rather think it has to do with a stockholders fight in Campbell Equipment. It will have been in the
Wall Street Journal
if not the
Times.”

Which reminded Julie of her brief search in the early afternoon for the story of the I.R.A. man’s theft at the National Gallery in London. “It’s going to take time to find it,” Julie said, “and I may be coming up against Mr. O’Grady soon.”

“Then make it up—as it may turn out I did with much of the story. It’s possible—unless his only dedication is to violence—that he’ll be able to give you the correct version.”

Julie let her eyes rest on Romano, two thoughts colliding: his distaste for physical violence and his quick pragmatism.

“Yes?”

She shook her head and averted her eyes. “I was thinking that you know a lot.”

“Rather more than is so, perhaps, and certainly more than I understand. When do you expect to see O’Grady? I’m by no means easy about him.”

“Mrs. Ryan wants to have both of us to supper tonight.”

“Oh, dear, and we are having blanquette of veal, one of André’s specialties.”

Julie burst out laughing, thinking of André in his kitchen and Mrs. Ryan in hers.

“What?”

Julie did not get to answer, for the house phone rang and Alberto went downstairs to bring up Andrew Davis, the dealer whom Romano had charged with hiring the detective. Romano set about changing and marking tapes. “Auction Gallery information,” he murmured.

Not one man but two came in with Alberto, and while Romano was polite, Julie knew he was annoyed at the penetration of his tower by an unexpected person. Davis was tall and tanned and there was a tinge of yellow to his gray hair. He had coached the man he brought with him, for when he introduced him to Romano, Dave Schweitzer, private detective, made no move to shake hands. A small man, he wore a conservative business suit and looked as much as anything like an investigator for the Internal Revenue Service. Romano made formal introductions. Everybody was going to know his place during this interview.

“Since you said time was of the essence,” Davis said, starting to explain.

“Say no more.”

“I’ve got to say something more, if you don’t mind. I had to give Dave a rundown on values, procedures, and so forth, and since I’d done that so that he could get you extra information if it was there to get, I thought he ought to be here for you to question.”

“Just so.”

“I’m a quick study, Mr. Romano,” the detective started, his accent pure New York, “but I don’t understand the ins and outs of the art game. I didn’t get to the gallery till noon. I had to work on my credentials, you know what I mean.”

“Precisely. What gallery?” Schweitzer’s homework did not interest him.

“Bristol’s. Mr. Davis figured we might as well hit the biggest.”

Romano nodded.

“I figured the boss might be out for lunch. He sure was.”

“He will be away until October,” Romano suggested.

“Almost. Anyway, I got six dates for you—and I took down the auction dates as long as I was at it—about a week’s difference every time between Rubinoff’s visit and the auction coming up. I’d made up photocopies of phony bank records which I was pretending to check against. I can tell you what three of the pictures Rubinoff and his client wanted to see.”

A quiver of excitement played at the corner of Romano’s mouth. It was more than he had expected.

“A drawing of an oarsman by Thomas Eakins.” He pronounced it EEkins. “Tin-tor-etto’s
Swimmers…
and there was a Michelangelo there that almost blew it for me. I was supposed to know that was big money, the commission on that baby. So I pretended to think I had something on Rubinoff—that he hadn’t reported it, see. But what it turned out to be—nothing secret about it. He didn’t get it. It went to a museum in Kentucky that immediately advertised it was their bid that won it. But here’s the inside information, Mr. Romano. This gal that was helping me said he mustn’t’ve really wanted it because when Rubinoff wanted something for that client, he got it. Money’s no problem.”

The little detective sat facing Romano, his notes written in block letters on a large index card.

Romano put out his hand for the card. “May I?” He looked for the date the Michelangelo had sold. “January of this year. Perhaps he was saving the money for something more pertinent to his client’s collection.”

“When you get more pertinent than Michelangelo, Mr. Romano, you’re talking astronomy,” Andy Davis said.

“Would I be interested otherwise?” He turned to the detective. “May I keep this?”