'You make a common mistake there. Men tend to consider indifference to their appearance to be a mark of rugged virility. Personally, I celebrate beauty, and therefore, of course, I celebrate artifice. Growing old is neither attractive nor inevitable. The mind is always young. The challenge resides in keeping the body also young.' There it was again: that slight jamming of sentence structure that hinted of Strange's German origins. The only other clue was his pronunciation, neither exactly British nor exactly American. A kind of midatlantic sound that one found only on the American stage. 'Exercise, sun, diet, and taking one's excesses in moderation,' he continued. 'That is all that is required to keep the face and body. How old do you think I am?'
'I can only guess. I'd say you were about... fifty-one.'
Strange stopped the masseur's hand and turned to look at Jonathan closely for the first time. 'Well, now. That is remarkable. For a guess.'
'I'd go on to guess that you were born in Munich in 1922.' It was showing off, but it was the right thing to do. Jonathan was pleased with the way it was going so far. He was giving the appearance of holding nothing back, not even the fact that he had background knowledge about Strange.
Strange looked at him flatly for a moment. 'Very good. I see you intend to be frank.' Then he broke into a deep laugh. 'Good God, man! What happened to your clothes?'
'I fell down the side of a brick wall.'
'How exhibitionistic. Did you have trouble with Leonard?'
'Is Leonard this droopy-eyed ass here?'
'The very man. But your taunts will go unanswered. Poor Leonard is incapable of banter. He is a mute.'
Leonard watched Jonathan glassily from beneath heavy-lidded eyes. His meaty face seemed incapable of subtle expression, its heavy-hanging muscles responding only to broad, basic emotions.
Strange climbed from the exercise table and picked up a thick towel. 'Will you join me in a steam bath, Dr. Hemlock?'
'Do I have a choice?'
'No, of course not. And you could use a wash anyway.' He led the way. 'Few people know the proper way to use lanolin, Dr. Hemlock. It must be applied thickly just after your sunbath. Then you allow the steam to melt off the excess. The pores of the skin retain what is necessary for moisture.' He stopped and turned to make his next point. 'Soap should never be used on the face.'
'You'll forgive me, Mr. Strange, if I find this concern for beauty and youth a little grotesque in a man of your age.'
'Certainly not. Why should I forgive you?'
Leonard accompanied the two of them to the tiled dressing room that separated the steam bath from the exercise area. As Jonathan stripped down and wrapped a towel around his waist, Strange informed him that his stay at The Cloisters might be a prolonged one, so they had taken the precaution of having his room broken into and some of his clothes brought back.
'And while you were searching for my clothes, you had a chance to take a more general look around.'
'Just so.'
'And you found?'
'Just clothes. You use a very good tailor, Dr. Hemlock. How do you manage that on a professor's salary?'
'I take bag lunches.'
'I see. Ah, but of course, you are doing well on your books—popular art criticism for the masses. How dreary that must be for you.'
The three men passed into the steam room, Leonard looking grotesquely comic with only a towel to hide his powerful but inelegant primate body. Not once, not even while undressing, had his hooded eyes left Jonathan, and when they sat on the scrubbed pine benches of the steam room, he positioned himself in the corner, protectively between Jonathan and Strange.
The jets had been open for some time, and now the room was filled with swirling steam that eddied and echoed their movements; the temperature was in the mid-nineties. But Jonathan found no relaxation in the heat and steam. During the introductory badinage, he had recovered from his surprise at discovering that Strange and the Renaissance man were one, and now he had begun to model a cover story for himself. It covered the ground thinly, but he had no time to test it for fissures.
Strange closed his eyes and rested back, soaking up the steam, his confidence in Leonard's protection absolute. 'You realize, of course, that this Dantesque room may be your last living memory.'
Jonathan did in fact realize this.
Strange continued, his voice a lazy drone. 'You sought to impress me just now by dropping information concerning my past. What more do you know?'
'Not much. I've been trying to track you down, and in the course of it I discovered that you were in the whorehouse business—if I may simplify.'
Strange waved an indifferent hand.
'I also discovered you are in the country illegally, and that you have been in one aspect or another of the flesh trade as far back as my sources go.'
'What are these sources?'
'That's my affair.'
'I think I can guess at them. You were in CII. You were an assassin—or, to be polite, a counterassassin. It is my opinion that you found out what you wanted to know about me from old contacts in that service.'
'I'm impressed you know that much about me.'
'I'm an impressive man, Dr. Hemlock. So tell me. Why were you seeking me out?'
'The Marini Horse.'
'What is that to you? I know something of your financial condition. Surely you don't expect to be able to buy the Horse.'
'I don't even particularly care for Marini, nor for any of the moderns for that matter.'
'Then what is your interest?'
'I need money. And I thought I might turn a buck out of it.'
'How?'
'You have to admit there were some bizarre aspects to our meeting at Tomlinson's. You intend to sell the Horse, and evidently for more money than one would have considered possible. I naturally began to think about that and wonder what I might do to turn it to my fiscal advantage.'
'Go on.' Strange did not open his eyes.
'Well, my public evaluation of the statue could increase its value by a great deal. Just at this barren moment in art criticism, things tend to be worth whatever I say they're worth.'
'Yes, I'm aware of your singular position. A one-eyed man among the blind, if you ask me.'
'I thought you might be willing to share some of the excess profit with me.'
'Not an unreasonable thought.' Strange rose and crossed through the thickening steam to a large earthenware jar of cold water. He poured several dipperfuls over his head and rubbed his chest vigorously. 'Good for toning the skin. Care for some?'
'No, thanks. I don't want to be refreshed. I want to relax and get some sleep.'
'Later perhaps. If all goes well, we shall take supper together, after which you may wish to sample our amenities here, the most modest of which is a comfortable bed. What would you say if I told you that, while you were seeking to contact me about the Marini Horse, I was bending every effort to contact you?'
'Frankly, I would doubt you. Coincidences make me uncomfortable.'
'Hm-m. They make me uncomfortable too, Dr. Hemlock. It seems we have that in common. And yet there are coincidences here. And discomfort. Could it be that it is not particularly coincidental for two such men as we to see profit in the same thing?'
'That could be.' This was the narrow bit. The only story Jonathan had been able to put together quickly was Strange's own. He knew he'd be driving up the same street Strange was driving down, and he knew the coincidence of it would loom large, but at least he had been able to mention it first. He rose to get some cold water after all, and with his first movement, Leonard sprang to his feet with surprising alacrity for a man of his bulk and interposed his body between Jonathan and Strange. 'Oh, relax, dummy!'
