‘Christian Hatcher, Mr. Stenhauser. I just want him, that’s all. An address, a phone number. I’ll vanish from your life like that.’ He snapped his fingers.
‘I think you oughta just’ — he snapped his fingers, too — ‘vanish like that anyway, whoever the hell you are.’
‘No matter what happens, the game’s over, Mr. Stenhauser. It’s not going to work anymore — the art scam, I mean, and I know you know what I’m referring to. Now, I just want to talk to Hatcher, that’s all. No big hassle. Hell, we’re old friends. I once helped him out of a bad scrape.’
‘Is that a fact.’
‘Yes.’
‘Listen, I don’t know any Hatcher, but if I did know a
Hatcher, I wouldn’t tell you so much as his middle name. I
wouldn’t tell you his shoe size, I wouldn’t tell you his — I
wouldn’t tell you a damn thing about him. I don’t like you. I
don’t like your style, or your crazy talk Is that clear?’
Sloan nodded earnestly. He wiggled a finger under Stenhauser’s nose.
‘You’re going to be obstinate, I can tell,’ he said as slowly, as patiently as always, still smiling. ‘And that’s too bad.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. Obstinacy will buy you about — oh, I don’t know
— at least ten years. Plus they’ll take every dime you’ve got, which I’d say is plenty at this point.’
‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Mr. . . . Sloan, was it?’
Sloan nodded. ‘Listen, why don’t we just walk up to Seventy-fourth Street together. Maybe I can clarify all this for you. Nobody will pay any attention to us, and you’ve got to go up there to let your dog whiz anyway, theater or no theater. And in case you need more convincing, we could even chat about Paris, Chicago— New York.’
They sat there, trying to stare each other down. It was Stenhauser who lowered his eyes first.
‘What the hell,’ he said in almost a whisper. ‘If you promise not to mug me on the way, maybe it’ll get you off my case.’
Outside, a brisk spring wind was blowing across town. They walked over to Madison Avenue and headed north. Stenhauser said nothing. He looked at the ground while he walked and his hands were jammed deep in his coat pockets.
‘You know, maybe I’ve been a little hard on you,’ Sloan said, his smile broadening. ‘Maybe Hatch changed his name. Maybe you know him by another name.’
Stenhauser said nothing. He walked briskly, still staring a foot or two in front of each step.
‘He used the same technique in all three jobs. I know his style. Down through the ceiling on a wire, pressure sensitizers on the walls when he lifts the paintings. He never goes near the floor, no worries about electric eyes, floor feelers, that kind of thing. And the son of a bitch always leaves a little something behind to help the police along. Old Hatch hasn’t changed a bit. He used the same technique hitting the Russian embassy for me in London.’
Stenhauser looked up sharply, staring at Sloan as they walked.
‘Also the Iranian embassy in Washington, before the hostage thing. Always leaves something. One of the sensitizers, the wire, something. It’s magician stuff — misdirection, because he always jumps the alarm system but he never leaves the jumper behind, you know why?’
Stenhauser’s pace began to quicken.
‘Because to jump the system requires inside knowledge. In both my cases, Hatcher had an inside man, but he didn’t want to blow their cover, so he leaves a little something behind. Now, here he is pulling the same old stunt. Hell, I was on to him from the first job, the thing in Paris. What a score!’ Sloan laughed appreciatively.
Stenhauser stopped. He jabbed a finger at Sloan.
‘You’re crazy, you know that? I don’t know who you are or what your game is, but you’re stuffed full of shit.’
‘I haven’t gotten to the good sniff yet. See, here’s the way I figure it works. Let’s say somebody lifts a Picasso from a museum. The museum doesn’t want a million bucks’ insurance money, they want the work. They want it before it winds up on some Arab’s yacht over in the Mediterranean. So they make a deal. The insurance company pays fifteen percent, no questions asked. It costs the insurance company a hundred fifty grand on a million- dollar policy, the museum gets its goods back, and the thief walks with a clean bill of health.’
Stenhauser was not a brave man. All he did was provide information and make deals. It had never occurred to him that he and the Bird would be caught. Now fear began to nibble at his insides.
‘There’s nothing illegal about what I do, Sloan,’ he said defensively. ‘I make deals, sure. 1ut it’s perfectly legitimate. It saves the taxpayers money because the police aren’t involved. It saves the insurance company money. The victims get their things back. Everybody ends up happy.’
Bluffing, and not very well, Sloan. thought, chuckling to himself. Still smiling, he shook his head. ‘I couldn’t care less,’ he said with a shrug. ‘But let me give you a new scenario. A thief hits the Louvre and walks off with twelve million dollars’ worth of goods. The fixer steps in, quietly gets the word around, makes a deal. The insurance company gets stiffed for one point eight mill, but saves ten point two mill in the long haul, and the museum gets its paintings back. Now, just supposing we had a real smart man working for the insurance company. And supposing he approaches this flier and says, “Look, pal, I can give you advance information on where art’s gonna be, when it’s vulnerable, the security systems, I’ll set up the buy, and we just split the pie up two ways.” Sloan paused. ‘Neat,
