CHAPTER 16
Pulling up at the Brighton Estate, Shayne saw a couple of strolling pedestrians in the street and recognized one of them as a Beach detective, but the fellow merely looked at him blankly as he turned in.
There was another loiterer on the beach in a bathing-suit, and a fourth lolling in the shade of a palm behind the garage. The police trap was set. Shayne parked his car beyond the porte-cochere and went up the steps with the million-dollar bait under his arm. The elderly maid answered his ring and sourly told him he was expected in the library. It was eleven twenty-eight as Shayne went down the hall.
Mr. Montrose and a man whom Shayne recognized as D. Q. Henderson arose as he stepped in. They had been sitting in two armchairs near the center of the room. Beyond them was Oscar the chauffeur, sitting stolidly in a straight chair with a low-browed glower for Shayne as the detective greeted the trio briskly, “Gentlemen.”
“Mr. Shayne.” Mr. Montrose moved forward, rubbing his hands together, with his eyes fixed on the cylindrical article beneath Shayne’s arm. “You have it?”
“Naturally.” Shayne awkwardly transferred the roll to his right hand and offered his left to Mr. Montrose. He nodded past him toward the morose chauffeur.
“What’s that ape doing here?”
“You mean Oscar? Ha-ha.” Mr. Montrose’s laugh was without mirth. “I felt a natural uneasiness about being alone with such a large sum of money. Ah-decidedly so in view of the tragic events of the last few days. I asked Oscar to remain as a sort of guard until the transaction was completed.”
“You’ve got the money?” Shayne asked brusquely. “Oh, yes, indeed.” Mr. Montrose patted his breast pocket. “And you have the-ah-”
“Raphael,” Shayne supplied shortly. He walked to the table and dropped the rolled painting.
Henderson came forward, and Mr. Montrose exclaimed, “Oh, dear me. I do beg your pardon. This is Mr. Henderson, Mr. Shayne.”
Shayne nodded to the art expert and said, “Look it over and let’s finish our business.”
Mr. Montrose wet his lips and moved to Henderson’s side as the expert took up the roll and unwrapped it. The secretary was shaking with agitation, and his eyes glittered as Henderson carefully unrolled the picture on the table. Even Oscar seemed to sense something of the drama of the occasion. He heaved his body up and edged toward the table, planted his hands solidly to support his weight as he leaned forward to stare openmouthed at the not-impressive blending of soft colors on the canvas.
Henderson’s breath made a queer little unmusical whistle as he studied the painting a moment, then he turned and nodded to Mr. Montrose. “This is it.”
“I’ve kept my part of the bargain,” Shayne said to Montrose. “I’ll take that ten grand.”
“Are you positive?” Mr. Montrose asked the art expert. He eyed the unostentatious painting with an air of faint disappointment.
D. Q. Henderson said haughtily, “I stake my reputation as a connoisseur of Art on its authenticity.”
Mr. Montrose leaned past Shayne and pointed a shaking forefinger at the painted signature. “That,” he quavered, “does not spell Raphael.”
Henderson smiled indulgently. “Naturally not. This masterpiece would not have been allowed to leave the Continent had the truth been known. And it would cost a small fortune to enter an authentic Raphael through the customs. I, myself, saw to having Robertson’s signature painted over the original. You’ll find the old master’s mark plain enough when this bogus signature is scraped off.”
“For Christ’s sake!” Shayne broke in harshly. “Are you stalling, Montrose?” He made a gesture as though to pick up the canvas.
“Oh, no. No, indeed.” Mr. Montrose flutteringly stopped Shayne.
“All right. Let’s see your money,” Shayne growled.
Mr. Montrose sighed and dipped his hand in the inside breast pocket of his coat. He drew out a long unsealed envelope. His fingers lingeringly caressed the thick sheaf of bills as he riffled them under Shayne’s intent gaze, then slid them back into the envelope.
“This is a tremendous responsibility I am assuming for Mr. Brighton,” he murmured. “Naturally, I wish to take-every-er-precaution.”
“What more do you want than Henderson’s word?”
Mr. Montrose held the envelope tightly in both hands. Oscar had stepped back two paces and his little eyes were fixed on Shayne’s uninjured left hand.
“I should like,” Mr. Montrose said apologetically, “to see the bogus signature removed and the true one revealed.”
“Why not?” Shayne reached out and tweaked the envelope from the secretary’s hands. Oscar stiffened, but no one paid him any heed.
“Go on,” Shayne said to Henderson. “Scrape it off and show him. I’m not going to do a Houdini with the dough. But I’ll just keep a tight hold on it before half a dozen niggers jump out of the woodpile.”
Henderson looked questioningly at Montrose. “As Mr. Brighton’s accredited representative, do you accept full responsibility?”
“I do. Of course I do.” Mr. Montrose was shaking feverishly.
“Very well.” D. Q. Henderson spoke with a solemnity befitting the occasion. He drew a penknife from his pocket and opened a small blade.
“This, gentlemen, is an event such as few men of this generation have been privileged to witness.” He bent over the canvas and began scraping lightly and with extreme care over the surface of Robertson’s signature.
Slowly, beneath the blade of the knife, another layer of paint began to appear faintly.
Mr. Montrose’s breathing was hoarse as he bent almost double watching the knife blade. Bit by bit, in almost imperceptible degrees, the signature of Raphael began to show up beneath that of Robertson.
Shayne took one backward stride and placed the envelope in his pocket. “That,” he said, “should satisfy you, Montrose.”
The maid stuck her head in and said, “A Mr. Gordon and two other gentlemen.”
While Mr. Montrose craned his head around, Shayne exclaimed, “My client. He’s a trifle late but he’s bringing his expert to be sure the painting is genuine and he isn’t cheating you. Bring them in,” he directed the maid.
He moved toward the door and grinned at Gordon as the square-faced man strode in. Dick was a pace behind, his eyes queasy as they rested on Shayne’s face. Pelham Joyce came last, holding himself stiffly erect, his shrunken body swathed in a frock coat which might have fitted him when he was young.
Shayne said, “Mr. Montrose and Mr. Henderson-D. Q. Henderson. My client, Mr. Gordon.”
Gordon strode to the table and looked down at the painting suspiciously.
“And this,” Shayne went on, taking Joyce’s arm, “is the well-known artist and art critic, Mr. Pelham Joyce.”
Joyce nodded stiffly. Henderson held out his hand with a smile of genuine warmth.
“Pelham Joyce? Gad, sir, I’m indeed pleased to make the acquaintance of so eminent a connoisseur.”
“You honor me,” Joyce told him precisely. “What is this falderal about a hitherto undiscovered Raphael?”
“There you are, sir.” Henderson stood aside to give Joyce access to the painting. Dick lounged in the background, his gaze interlocking antagonistically with Oscar’s.
Joyce stood by the table and peered at the canvas as though he had never seen it before. His lips moved, and one word came worshipfully from them. “Raphael.”
“I smuggled it in by painting the signature of Robertson over the master’s mark,” Henderson explained importantly. “I’ve just now scraped off the bogus name.”
Joyce’s voice shook with emotion as he turned to Gordon and assured him, “A genuine Raphael.”
Gordon asked hoarsely, “Do you guarantee it?”
“There is not a shade of doubt concerning its authenticity.” Joyce spoke sincerely and confidently.
“Very well.” Gordon’s lips were twisted in a snarl as he turned to Michael Shayne. “Much as I hate to do business with you-”
Shayne stopped him with upheld hand, jerked his head toward the door significantly. Gordon hesitated, then
