circumstances, especially not your husband. You have my word on that.”
She nodded as if she didn’t care one way or the other; but when I stood up she looked at me full-face for the first time, as if she had not expected a kindness from someone like me. Then she averted her gaze again, without speaking. And I left her there, a big woman sitting small and huddled and alone among the ruins.
I drove back downtown to O’Farrell, parked on the street-the downstreet garage was closed on Saturdays- and went up to the office. The books on snuff bottles and boxes that I’d checked out of the library were still there, on a corner of my desk; I opened the one I’d skimmed through previously, refamiliarized myself with some terms and types, and then got Margaret Prine’s telephone number out of the Chronicle file and dialed it.
An elderly female voice answered and admitted to being Mrs. Prine. I said I was Charles Eberhardt, from New York; that I was a dealer in antique miniatures; that I understood she was a prominent local collector of rare snuff boxes; and that I had for sale an exceptionally fine and unusual eighteenth-century ivory box bearing a portrait by the famed English miniaturist, Richard Cosway. Was she interested? She was interested, all right. But she was a wily old vixen: she wasn’t about to show enthusiasm to a voice on the telephone, to react to such a proposition with anything but coolness and caution.
She said, “May I ask how you obtained my name and telephone number, Mr. Eberhardt?”
“Certainly. They were given to me by Alejandro Ozimas,”
Pause. “I see. And why did you choose to call me about the Cosway piece?”
“Mr. Ozimas said you were a collector of discerning taste. He also said you were both discreet and quite able to pay my price.”
“And that price is?”
“Twenty thousand dollars.”
“I see,” she said again. “Describe the box, please.”
“It is made of ivory, as I said; oval-shaped, with delicate gold ornamentation. The Cosway portrait is of the Prince of Wales-an associate of Cosway’s, as I’m sure you know. Or at least he was before the scandal that linked him romantically with Cosway’s wife.”
“You’re certain it’s authentic?”
“Absolutely certain.”
“How did it come into your possession?”
“I purchased it from a collector in Hawaii.”
“His name?”
“I’m afraid I can’t divulge it.”
Another pause. Then she said flatly, “I do not buy stolen or tainted property, Mr. Eberhardt.”
I’ll just bet you don’t, I thought. But I said, feigning indignance, “Nor do I sell stolen or tainted property, Mrs. Prine. Perhaps I’ve made a mistake in calling you. I’m sure Mr. Ozimas can recommend another local collector…”
“Just a moment. If you’re from New York, why don’t you take the Cosway there and sell it to one of your customers? You do have customers in New York?”
“Of course. But I hope to make another purchase while I’m in San Francisco, a very lucrative purchase, and it happens I’m short of cash at the moment. That’s why I’m willing to let the Cosway box go for twenty thousand.” It sounded phony even to me, but if I was reading her correctly it wouldn’t make any difference. “May I show it to you? I could bring it to your home within the hour-”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question. I am expecting guests shortly.”
“This evening, then?”
“Also out of the question.”
“Tomorrow? It’s important that I complete a sale on the Cosway as soon as possible-no later than Monday. I’m sure you understand.”
“I’m sure I do,” she said. “Very well, Mr. Eberhardt. Shall we say tomorrow afternoon at three?”
“Good. At your home?”
“I’d prefer not. Do you have objections to meeting publicly?”
I didn’t, although I would have preferred the chance to look at her collection-at the Hainelin box, if she did have it. I hadn’t expected an invitation anyway. She didn’t know me from a hole in the wall; she would have had to be a damned fool-and she was hardly that-to let a stranger who knew she had a valuable art collection set foot inside her door.
I said, “None at all. Where do you suggest?”
“The main lobby of the Fairmont Hotel.”
“How will I know you?”
“I carry a gold-headed cane,” she said. “You’ll know me by that. I. look forward to seeing the Cosway, Mr. Eberhardt.”
“You won’t be disappointed when you do.”
“I sincerely hope not,” she said, and the line clicked, and that was that.
I thought as I cradled the receiver: Even money she’s trying Ozimas’s number right now, to check up on Charles Eberhardt. But Ozimas had indicated that he and his houseboy were going to Big Sur this weekend; otherwise I wouldn’t have taken the calculated risk of using his name. The odds were pretty good that Mrs. Prine would show up at the Fairmont tomorrow afternoon, on schedule.
I hung around the office for a while, making inroads on a written report to Tom Washburn. Nobody telephoned, and I was fresh out of productive ideas. Hunger made me call it quits around two-thirty. I drove home, treated myself to a beer and the last of the leftover chicken, and spent the rest of the afternoon puttering around the flat, making a few minor repairs-damn toilet kept running, even when you jiggled the handle-and listening to the rest of the Cal game. The Bears were down twenty points late in the fourth quarter when I finally shut off the radio. Some game. It was a good thing I hadn’t gone with Eberhardt, I thought; I’d have been bored sitting there in the sun guzzling beer. Bored to tears.
I almost believed it, too.
At five I called Kerry. She was in a good mood; she said, “Come on over. I rented us a movie.”
“Yeah? Which one?”
“You’ll see when you get here.”
“Not another of those X-rated jobs?”
“No, but it’ll do things for your body temperature.”
“I’m too old for that kind of stuff. Think about my heart.”
“I’ve got a different organ in mind,” she said.
I said, “That’s me you hear knocking on the door.”
I took a quick shower, changed clothes, got the car, and drove up to Diamond Heights. Parking on Kerry’s street is sometimes as bad as it is on mine; somebody must have been having a party this afternoon because there wasn’t a space anywhere closer to her building than a block and a half. I hoofed it uphill, taking it slow so I wouldn’t use up all my energy just getting to her.
Even so, I was puffing when I reached the building vestibule. Which is why I had my head down, which is why I didn’t see the guy coming out of the door. He didn’t see me either; we collided, caromed off each other-and I found myself standing there eye to lunatic eye with the Reverend Raymond P. Dunston.
I said, “What the hell are you doing here?”
He said, and I’ll swear to it, “God sent me.”
“Dunston, if you don’t leave Kerry alone-”
“She is my wife.”
“She is not your wife!”
“ ‘Bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh. Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother-’ ”
“You quoted that one before. Try a new one.”
“Heathen,” he said.
“Crackpot,” I said.
We glared at each other for about five seconds. Then he turned on his heel and stalked off, and I turned on mine and went inside and upstairs and whacked on Kerry’s door so hard I jammed my wrist doing it.
She opened up, took one look at me, and said, “Oh God, you ran into him.”
