“There are more middle-class hotels, Sylvia.”
“Middle-class? You crazy in the head, you bullshitting son of a bitch. The Countess de Grassi is not middle- class.”
“I see.”
She flounced the white gloves in her hands, substituting the action for removing them. They had never been on. It was doubtful they would fit over her rather impressive diamond ring.
“Now. Where my room?”
“Sylvia, you wouldn’t be here just to keep an eye on me, would you?”
“Eye on you? Devil eye on you!”
Her eyes spit into his.
“Because, honestly, I’m not doing anything about your paintings. I know nothing about your paintings.” Fletch thought a shout would be worth trying. “I’m here researching a book about an American artist, and you’d be in my way!”
“You bet your cock I’ll be in your way!” One should never try to outshout a Brazilian who had been married to both a Frenchman and an Italian. And who was not middle-class. “You no make one move without me! I at the hotel! I might as well be in Rome! In Livorno! I’m not here to buy you a drink and go away again! I’m here to catch my paintings!”
“Sylvia, I know nothing about your paintings.”
“Now. Where is my room? Servants can, bring in the luggage.”
“Sylvia, there are no servants.”
“No servants! Always you lie. Who answered your phone the other day? The woman who puts her eyelashes in the refrigerator!”
“Oh, boy.”
The Countess de Grassi marched down the corridor to the bedrooms, snapping on lights as she went.
While Fletch was still in the reception hall, the telephone rang.
He answered it in the den.
“Hello, Mister Fletcher?”
“Yeah.”
“This is Mister Horan, of the Horan Gallery.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Sorry to bother you on a Friday night, especially after seven, but I thought you’d be pleased to heat my good news.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I’ve succeeded in locating the painting you were interested in, Picasso’s ‘Vino, Viola, Mademoiselle.’”
“That’s wonderful.”
“I’ve talked with the present owner. Like the rest of us, I guess, he’s suffering somewhat from a shortage of cash, and I think he was rather pleased that someone has come forward at this time with an interest in buying it. I suggested to him that as you had sought the painting out, he might get a slightly higher price than if he were simply to offer it on the market himself now or in the near future.”
“I hope you didn’t make his mouth water too much.”
“No, no. Simply a negotiating device. But of course a seller does do better when a negotiation is initiated by the buyer. You do understand.”
“Of course.”
“He does slightly better. If, after we see the painting, you are still interested in its purchase, I will do my best to get it for you at the most reasonable price.”
“Tell me, Mister Horan, where is the painting?” There was a hesitation on the phone. “Who is its present owner?”
“Well, I don’t usually like to answer that question. I’m a private dealer.”
Fletch said nothing.
Horan said, “I guess there’s no reason why I shouldn’t answer you, in this instance. The painting is owned by a man named Cooney. In Dallas, Texas.”
“Texas. Texas is still big in the art market, eh?”
“There are some superb private collections in Texas. Mister Cooney has not been an active collector, to my knowledge, but he does have this piece and some others I know of. The Barclough Bank in Nassau has given you a credit reference more than adequate. Therefore, I have asked Mister Cooney to fly the painting up for our inspection. It should be here by morning.”
“The painting is coming here?”
“It should already be on its way. I tried to get you by phone this afternoon. Truth is, I had to spend considerable time advising Mister Cooney on the work’s proper crating and insurance.”
“I’m very surprised the picture is coming here.”.
“Well, I want to see it myself. If it’s authentic I might want to purchase it myself, or find another purchaser for it, should you decide not to purchase it. Once an owner gets over what might be called a psychological hump and makes the basic decision that he might consider selling an object of art, if the price is right—as our Mister Cooney did this afternoon after lunch in Dallas—then a dealer should go forward with him and arrange a sale.”
“You did all this by telephone?”
“Oh, yes. I’m not unknown in Texas.”
“Well, that’s wonderful. What else can you tell me about Mister Cooney?”
“Not much. I was put on to him by a curator friend of mine, at the Dallas Museum. My source knew Cooney owned a Picasso of your general description, but had never seen it. I called Mister Cooney last night and asked him bluntly if he owned a Picasso entitled ‘Vino, Viola, Mademoiselle’, an impossible title. I gather he dropped his bourbon bottle. He answered in the affirmative. I said I might have a purchaser for it. He thought about it overnight. I believe he’s in ranching. Has something like eight children.”
“That’s why he needs some cash, right?”
“In any case, Mister Fletcher, albeit tomorrow is Saturday, I believe if you came here—is nine-thirty too early?—we could look at the painting together and perhaps make Mister Cooney an offer before the bourbon begins to flow again.”
“Yes. That would be fine. You say the painting is coming by air tonight?”
“Yes. If all goes well. If it’s not here in the morning, I’ll give you a ring. But I’m sure it will be here.”
Fletch said, “Okay, I’ll see you in the morning.”
Sylvia stood in, the doorway to the den.
“You’ll see who in the morning?”
At least she had not been listening on the extension.
“I have to see a man about a horse.”
“A Degas horse?”
“No, Sylvia. A pinto.”
“What is this, pinto horse. A painted horse, right?”
Now in a more kittenish manner, she sat in one of the leather chairs.
“What about my dinner?” she said.
“What about it?”
“No servants. Don’t you expect me to eat, Flesh? I am your guest!”
“Right,” Fletch said. “You’ve never tasted my cooking, have you?”
“You cook?”
“Like a dream.” He kissed the tips of his fingers and exploded them before his face. “Um! Better than the Ritz! Let’s see.” Thoughtfully, he paced the small room. “To begin with, a
