Griffith gave his name again, and the man at the desk smiled, more in personal satisfaction than in greeting. “Come on in,” he said. “I’m Mr. Smith. Sit down.”
“You come well recommended,” Mr. Smith said. He was pulling forms out of drawers. “If you’ll fill these out —”
They seemed to be ordinary loan application forms: name, occupation, income, bank accounts, references. In silence Griffith filled them out, and then pushed them across the desk toward Mr. Smith, who went through them slowly and carefully. Griffith sat there, watching Mr. Smith read and wondering what the man was thinking. Nothing showed in his face at all.
Finally Mr. Smith nodded and put the forms down and said, “Well, you seem fine, Mr. Griffith. Now, you understand the terms of the loan?”
“I think so.”
“Two percent per month.”
“Yes.”
“With a minimum of six months’ interest.”
Griffith said nothing. He stared at Mr. Smith.
“You didn’t know that?”
“No.” Six months’ interest: eighty-four hundred dollars. Almost ten thousand dollars.
Mr. Smith’s smile was sympathetic. “In that case,” he said, “I imagine you also didn’t realize the first six months’ interest is taken in advance.”
“In ad—” Griffith shook his head, unable to understand.
“If you borrow seventy thousand dollars,” Mr. Smith said, being gentle and friendly, “you’ll actually receive sixty-one thousand six hundred. But of course your interest is paid for the first six months.”
“But I need seventy.”
“In that case,” Mr. Smith said, “I suggest you borrow eighty. That way, you’ll receive in cash seventy thousand, four hundred dollars.”
“How much—uh, how much interest?”
“Nine thousand, six hundred dollars.”
An incredible amount. Griffith licked his lips. Faintly, he said, “And then I have to pay the principal in six months?”
“No no, not at all. So long as you continue to pay the interest, you don’t have to worry about the principal.”
“Sixteen hundred dollars a month?”
“That’s right.”
“Every month, as long as I want, until I pay the principal.” Mr. Smith nodded.
Griffith saw the doom opening up in front of him. Almost two thousand dollars a month. It would keep him off- balance, keep him from getting very far ahead, probably keep him from ever paying off the balance.
Ever? God, no. He’d have to get the eighty thousand together sometime. Within a year, anyway. Somehow or other. Once this current mess was straightened out, he’d be able to work on the problem of the loan.
Mr. Smith said, “Do you want to go ahead?”
Nervously, Griffith nodded. “Yes,” he said.
Six
The show closed in Indianapolis at eight p.m. on Monday. It was ten after the hour when the last visitor trailed out and the guards could lock the door and turn the gallery over to the moving men, who came streaming in with their wooden boxes and plastic padding and clipboards and trolleys and canvas gloves, and went to work dismantling the display.
Nearly two dozen men were now distributed through the three rooms of the temporary gallery, more than had been in here at any one time all day. There were five uniformed and armed private guards. There were eight local moving men, working under the supervision of two experts in art transportation imported from New York. There were two suited and sober representatives from the insurance company, and two men from the government- associated foundation sponsoring this tour. The local museum official who had been the foundation’s Indianapolis contact was present, for no particular reason, and so was one plainclothes city detective.
The packing job was brisk and efficient, but it still took a long time for each individual piece. A painting was carefully taken off the wall and laid face down on a bed of clear air-filled plastic padding in a shallow wooden box. More padding was put around the edges, and another layer of it on top, and then the lid of the box was fastened in place with bolts and nuts. The name of the painting was already inscribed on the lid and sides of the box, and now that same name was checked off on two clipboards, one held by a man from the foundation and the other by a man from the insurance company. Next, the box was carried over and stacked near the door to the loading platform outside, to wait for all the rest of the paintings to be stowed away and ready for transit. During the time this packing was being done, no one left the gallery and no one attempted to enter it.
Three hours were spent in crating the paintings, the last one being finished just before eleven-thirty. When that part was done, one of the art-transportation experts reported the fact to one of the foundation men, who passed the news on to the city detective, who got on the phone and called headquarters to say they were ready for the
