Gordon.
There were some small bills and loose change. A key ring and a loose skeleton key. A pocket knife and a sweaty handkerchief. The cablegram addressed to Mrs. Brighton which Shayne had taken from her room, and the telegram advising of Henderson’s imminent arrival.
Gordon’s facial muscles twitched as he read the two messages. “And the bastard didn’t know anything about Henderson,” he growled, turning swiftly to the telephone to learn when the Pan American plane from Jacksonville was due.
A string of oaths boiled from his mouth when he was informed that it had landed at the airport fifteen minutes previously. He cut them short to whirl on Dick. “Let’s get out to the airport. Maybe we can spoil their party after all.”
Dick grabbed his cap and motioned down to Shayne. “What’ll we do with the body?”
“Let him lie. We’ve got to get going. He don’t matter if we can reach Henderson.” They hurried out together, leaving Shayne lying on a carpet soggy with his blood.
It was an hour before he stirred back to life. He groaned and tried to use his right arm to lift himself, the excruciating pain clearing his brain swiftly.
He sat up with another groan, lifting his left hand and gingerly feeling his battered face. The blood had dried, and he decided he was all there, though much the worse for wear. With a terrific effort of will, he dragged himself painfully to his knees, then lurched up to his feet. Both eyes were puffed and black, and he couldn’t see very well, but he managed to make his way to the bathroom on wobbly knees, leaned against the lavatory while he turned on the ice water and soaked a bath towel.
He winced and cursed as he bathed the dry blood from his battered face, grimacing at the grotesque image of Michael Shayne that grimaced back at him from the mirror. Then he drank several glasses of ice water and decided he might live.
He looked like the wrath of God, all right, but aside from that he congratulated himself on being in pretty fair condition as he went back into the living-room.
The pile of stuff from his pockets was still on the floor. Things blurred before his eyes when he tried to stoop down to recover them, and he had to get down on creaking knees to paw over them. He nodded without surprise when he discovered the two messages were gone, stuffed the rest of the stuff back in his pockets and reeled back up on his feet.
People glanced at him in astonishment and got out of his way as he went to the elevator and down to the lobby.
Carl Bolton was kidding the switchboard girl and he glanced up with incredulous eyes as Shayne weaved toward him. “For God’s sake, Mike! I didn’t know Joe Louis was in town.”
Shayne tried to grin, but it hurt too much. He said, “Listen, Carl. You remember checking 614 for me?”
“Sure.” They moved behind a potted palm to avoid the curious stares of the hotel’s exclusive clientele.
“Any dope on them?”
Bolton screwed up his fat face and shook his head. “I been keeping tabs and I ain’t caught anything screwy. The daughter checked out yesterday. They rented one of those Drive-Yourself automobiles and took her and her bags off in it.”
Shayne nodded. “Okay, Carl. Leave them alone unless they check out. You might tail them for me if they do.”
“Yeah. I’ll do that. But what the hell’s it all about, Mike? You look like-”
“Gordon owes me a pretty big bill,” said Shayne softly. “I aim to collect before he leaves town.” He went out, leaving Carl Bolton staring after him and scratching his head.
Shayne took a taxi and went to his apartment hotel. Inside, the clerk started exclaiming about his appearance, and Shayne cut him short by asking curtly whether a package had been left for him.
The clerk said there was a package in the safe. It had been left by the man who had picked up the envelope that morning.
Shayne’s slitted eyes gleamed as the clerk got out a tightly rolled cylinder about two feet long. It was wrapped in heavy brown paper and tied with a cord.
Inside his own apartment, Shayne took a water glass of Martell to clear his head, then opened the package Tony had left him.
Beneath the brown paper was a tightly rolled canvas. Shayne spread the oil painting out on the table and considered it somberly.
It didn’t look like so much to Shayne. There were some plump cherubs in the background, a bearded man lying outstretched on a rude couch with a woman bending over him holding what looked like a glass of wine to his lips. The coloring was quiet, harmoniously blended browns and grays.
Shayne took another small drink, wondering if the unostentatious painting could possibly be at the bottom of a couple of murders. His gaze kept straying back to it, and he began to feel that he recognized the woman’s face. That worried him because he knew damned well that if the thing was an authentic old master it shouldn’t have in it the portrait of any woman who moved in Michael Shayne’s circles.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on the problem, and things began to get foggy, and he was a freckled Irish lad kneeling by his mother’s side in a Catholic chapel, and there was the subdued drone of the priest’s lips and a ray of light coming softly through the stained glass of a window radiantly lighting the figure of a Madonna. He opened his eyes slowly and stared at the picture again. Curiously different, the features of the ministering woman were those of the Madonna he remembered from childhood. He leaned closer and looked down at a scrawled signature on the canvas. R M Robertson.
He rolled it up carefully and rewrapped it, went down to the lobby, and told the clerk to forget about the package and about seeing him after receiving that call to The Everglades Hotel. The clerk said he would, and Shayne went out with the brown paper cylinder under his arm.
Things were going around in circles before his eyes but he grimly made his way to Pelham Joyce’s studio on Flagler. He entered unsteadily and thrust the parcel at Joyce, croaking, “See what you make of it.”
There was a dusty leather couch in one corner of the studio. Shayne made it there before his knees buckled under him. He stretched out painfully as the artist unrolled the painting and studied it.
He nodded with pursed lips. “An excellent imitation of Raphael’s work. By Robertson, of course. By Jove, the man’s caught the very spirit of the Master’s style-tone, color, harmony, excellence of composition. No mere reproduction, either. I’m positive I haven’t seen an original-”
Shayne propped himself on one elbow and asked, “How does an expert go about telling that from a genuine Raphael?”
“By the signature, of course.” Joyce pointed to it.
“Suppose,” said Shayne slowly, “the bird who painted that had put a copy of Raphael’s signature on it and tried to palm it off as an original?”
“That has been often attempted-unsuccessfully.” Pelham Joyce chuckled toothlessly. “There are many tests which may be applied. The age of the canvas, for instance. Quality and texture of the paint, the mellowing influence of centuries. For example,” he went on, turning to the painting carelessly, “this canvas will show obvious newness.” He turned a corner up to examine it. Shayne watched him silently.
“Why, bless my soul,” Joyce muttered. “The canvas seems to have been treated to make it appear authentically ancient. But the pigments, of course, cannot be treated.” His voice trailed off as he leaned close to examine the painted surface.
Shayne kept on watching silently through puffed eye slits. The old man straightened up with a queer blending of bewilderment and anger on his face.
“It appears,” he muttered, “that some fool has gone to great lengths to give this work an appearance of authenticity.”
“What would be your opinion if you discovered Raphael’s original signature covered over by that daub of paint carrying Robertson’s name?”
Pelham Joyce’s thin body trembled as he bent over the painting again.
Sinking back, Shayne closed his eyes and said, “Do you recall our talk the other day? You told me that the easiest way to smuggle a valuable painting past the customs was to paint another signature over the original and declare it a reproduction.”
