A Glancing Light

ancient street levels.

Assuming he stayed in Italy, it was going to be tough on Max. Not so easy if he came back to America, either.

They say that when patients start complaining it means they're getting better. If so, Max was well along. He started the minute I walked in. Not about the pain, or the difficulties to come, but about the little things hospital inmates like to gripe about: the rotten food, the forcible awakenings at 10:00 P.M. to proffer sleeping pills, the nurses who twittered instead of speaking, the many offenses against one's modesty.

'You ought to see the production when I need to take a crap,' he said. 'First, two guys have to come in with—You probably don't want to hear this, do you?'

'Not really,' I said. Then, nobly; 'But I'll listen if you want to talk about it.

Max laughed. 'Not really.'

He lay back against his cranked-up bed with a sigh. He really did seem better. His face was no longer corpse-gray, and the bruised flesh of his legs wasn't quite so lurid; a dull yellowish-brown now, instead of raw purples and reds. Black scabs had begun to form along the edges of the punctures and incisions. And I had the impression the grumpiness was pro forma; a way of showing me he was on the mend.

'Are you still on pain pills?' I asked.

'Yeah, but they've cut way down. It really isn't that bad, Chris.' He glanced down at his bear-trapped legs. 'Disgusting, yes; agonizing, no. Now they're telling me I'll be up and out of this by the end of this month.'

'That's terrific, Max.' It sounded a lot more realistic than the end of the week. 'Hey, did you hear that Blusher's donating his reward to the Seattle Art Museum?'

You don't often see somebody's jaw literally drop, but Max's did. 'Blusher is? How much?'

'A hundred and fifty thousand.'

'A hundred .....He tipped back his head and laughed. 'Well, what's his angle?'

'What makes you think he's got an angle?' I said, as if I hadn't been wondering the same thing since the minute I'd walked into Blusher's office.

'Come on, I've met the guy. So have you.'

I smiled. 'He claims the publicity he's getting from it is worth it.'

'Worth a hundred and fifty thousand bucks? Wouldn't you love to handle his PR account?' He shrugged. 'What do I know. Maybe it is worth it to him. I'm glad it worked out for the museum.' Suddenly he was tired, subdued. The muscles around his mouth had flattened. The pain was back, I thought.

I searched for something to make conversation about. 'There was some excitement on the art-theft front today,' I told him, feeling like the aged Cyrano reciting the news to Roxanne. 'I got to see Colonel Antuono in action.'

'Is that right?' he asked dully.

'Max, do you want a nurse? Do you need some pills or something?'

He shook his head. 'I'm not due until seven o'clock, and I'm not about to let them make a junkie out of me. So go ahead. What did Antuono do?'

'He recovered a couple of stolen pictures from Cosenza. Pittura Metafisica, nothing big, but he thinks it might turn out to be related to the Bologna thefts. He told me—'

'Chris—' He started to sit up, grimaced, and sank back. 'Look, I don't want to know anything about this.'

'Well, he didn't mean there was a direct connection. But he thinks the dealer that tipped him off, Filippo Croce—'

'Chris, please!' He seemed really agitated. 'Don't tell me any names. The less I know, the better, that's all. The less you know, the better. Why the hell don't you go home? What are you doing talking to Antuono? You don't know anything. Why take a chance on making them think you do? Jesus, you want to wind up like me?'

I tried to settle him down. 'It's okay, Max, don't worry. All I was going to tell you—'

'Never mind, don't tell me.' His eyes fluttered and closed. 'Oh, God.'

I leaned closer to the bed, put my hand on his wrist. 'Max, listen. I understand why you don't want anything to do with this anymore. I'd feel the same way if I were you. Look, those five names you were going to pass along to Antuono—or anything else for that matter—I could tell him for you. Your name wouldn't have to come up. How can you just let them get away with it? What about Ruggero Giampietro? Just let them get away with murdering him when he got in their way? Max, I wouldn't tell Antuono where I got the information if you didn't want me to.'

His eyes had remained pressed closed. He was breathing through his mouth.

'Max?'

'You know,' he said softly without opening his eyes, 'maybe I could use a nurse after all.'

I had dinner again with Calvin. Then we walked back to my hotel for coffee and dessert in the bar. As we passed the front desk the clerk waved me down.

'A message for you, signor Norgren.'

He pulled a form from a slot behind him and handed it to me. Tony Whitehead had telephoned. From Tokyo. I was to call him back at the Imperial Hotel. That seemed odd. He had telephoned just last night from Seattle, full of concern about my condition. It had gotten me out of bed, and we had talked for over half an hour.

I asked the clerk to have cappuccinos sent to my room and took the elevator up with Calvin.

'What's he doing in Tokyo?' I asked.

'Thinking about putting in a bid on that late Tokugawa screen, I guess.'

'Good-bye, hundred and fifty thousand,' I said.

Calvin peeked at the note. 'The Imperial Hotel,' he read admiringly. 'The guy really knows how to travel. No dumps for Tony.'

The glance at the hallway with which he accompanied this was patently disparaging. The Europa wasn't Calvin's kind of hotel. Nor mine. It was a commercial hotel, a big barn of a place, clean enough but shabby when you looked too closely at anything. I had made a reservation at a pleasant hotel called the Roma, where I always stay, but there had been a mixup and no room was waiting for me. With a big trade fair going on—Bologna has a lot of them—I'd been lucky to get this place. Of course, Calvin wouldn't have approved of the cozy, unpretentious Roma, either. He was staying at the four-star Internazionale a few blocks away.

I opened the door to my room, motioned him into one of the two worn armchairs, and picked up the telephone.

'Wait a minute,' I said. 'It's ten-thirty. Tony could have called hours ago. What time is it in Tokyo?'

The question delighted him, giving him as it did an opportunity to employ his high-tech wristwatch. He did something to his ratcheted safety bezel, pressed a micro-button on the mini keyboard, and consulted one of the dual LCD displays

'Well, um, it's two-thirty in Karachi,' he said slowly. “A.M.”

'Hey, that's good to know, Calvin. I guess we better not call anybody in Karachi.'

'Wait a minute, wait a minute.' He fussed some more with the watch. 'Tokyo! Ha! It's eight-thirty in the morning. Tomorrow, according to this.' He hesitated. 'Or is it yesterday? Which way does the international date line go?'

'I don't know, but we better get it straight. I don't see much point in calling him yesterday.'

Calvin grumbled something and I punched in the thirteen digits it took to reach room 1804 at the Imperial Hotel.

 'Tony? It's Chris.'

'Everything okay there?' he asked. 'You didn't get run over again or anything?'

'No. Oh, I've had a few interesting adventures with the Eagle of Lombardy, but that can wait till I get back.'

 'Who the hell is the Eagle of Lombardy?'

'Colonnello Cesare Antuono—the man who was so anxious to hear any shreds of information I might be willing to pass along?'