fake, I mean-and switched
… No, what kind of sense would that make?'
'None,' I agreed. 'Stealing an original to sell it off and substituting a copy for it is one thing, but stealing a fake and substituting a genuine three-million-dollar masterpiece for it-why would he want to do that?'
'Why would anybody want to do it?' Anne asked sensibly. 'It doesn't sound tike a very good business proposition. Harry, what do you think?'
'I think we better get back to the other room. Somebody's going to notice we've been in here a long time, and they're liable to figure out what we've been talking about.'
'You're right,' I said. 'Let's go.' But I didn't go, I stood there looking at the picture, chewing on my lip. 'Come to think of it, where did this come from? It's been missing since 1944. That's why it's here in this alcove. I mean that's why the copy's supposed to be here in this room.'
'It just doesn't make sense,' Anne murmured. 'No sense at all.'
But it was starting to make sense to me. Just a glimmer of sense, a hazy vision of the threads that bound it all together; the hoax, the murder, everything. Even the storage-room break-in.
'No,' I said slowly, 'I think maybe it does make sense… but we're going to have a hell of a time proving it.'
'Proving what?' they said together.
'Harry, I've got an idea. It'd involve using one of the security guards and-well-staging a sort of incident. Entrapment, some might even say. Would you be game to go along with it?'
'Let me hear the idea first,' Harry said warily, but I saw his dark eyes glint.
Chapter 20
After the reception about a dozen of us sat tiredly in a closed-off section of the Columbia House dining room awaiting a private dinner, courtesy of the Defense Department. The exhibition's senior staff was there, and the Bolzanos, and Emanuel Traben from the Frankfurt Kunstmuseum. There were some others too: a youngish air-force one-star general, somebody from the American ambassador's office, and a Bundestag member. An uneasy-looking Conrad Jessick was crimped into a corner chair, trying to look inconspicuous among all the brass.
Each of us- held a half-filled cordial glass. Robey had somehow acquired a bottle of brandy from recently discovered stores laid down by General Rommel forty-five years before, and he thought this would be a good time to open it.
'First of all,' he smiled drowsily, 'I want to offer a toast to the man whose generosity has made this magnificent exhibition a reality.' He nodded in Bolzano's direction. I could tell that he hadn't yet gotten around to breaking yesterday's news. Maybe this was the final phase of the softening-up process. Robey raised his glass. 'To il signor Claudio Marcello Bolzano.'
He heard Flittner mumble 'Hooray' as he lifted his glass. He had been as sullen and unsociable as ever during the reception, but I'd been surprised to see him there at all, since he had only three more days to put in.
The brandy was watery, but all of us made the silly faces people make to each other to show they've just tasted something special.
'I'd also like to express our appreciation,' Robey continued, 'to the German government for its extraordinary-'
He was interrupted by the noisy busting in of a guard who came galumping breathlessly over the hardwood floor in his heavy combat boots. It was quite dramatic. Anne, Harry, and I exchanged quick glances and settled back to watch.
'Sir!'
Robey turned, frowning. 'What is it, airman?' His glass was still raised. He was the only one at the table who was standing.
'Sir, there's been a-we've had a problem. In the Clipper Room-one of the paintings-it's…'
It was as if we were all in a movie and the projectionist had pressed the stop-frame button. All the little sounds and movements of people seated around a table stopped. No squeaking chairs, no scraping feet, no breathing, as far as I could tell.
'All right, airman,' Robey said with pointed calm, 'what's wrong? Nothing to be afraid of.'
The guard glanced nervously around the table, as if he didn't know whether he ought to speak in front of us. Harry had picked a good actor. 'One of the paintings, sir- somebody got in there-I don't know how-the C-system was alarmed as soon as the reception was over-'
'God damn it, airman!' Robey shouted, surprising all of us. 'What the hell happened? Spit it out!'
'Somebody's slashed one of the paintings, sir. It's in shreds-'
I leaned forward and tried to watch everyone at once.
Lorenzo cried 'No!' and stood gawkily up in uncoordinated segments, like a camel, his hands on the table bunching the cloth, his Adam's apple going crazy. His father sat deathly still with his eyes closed. Gadney's mouth opened and shut, but I don't think anything came out. Flittner's mouth just opened and stayed open. Next to me, I saw Robey grope behind himself for a steadying grasp on his chair. Jessick shrank more invisibly into his corner. Traben I couldn't see, but I heard a soft hiccup followed by a distressed burp.
'And, sir, they scrawled something on the wall-in blood, I think-some kind of political message.'
'Political message?' Flittner croaked. 'What message?' He shot a furious, frightened glare at me, filled with outraged innocence. Not me! his eyes shouted.
I was as interested in the guard's answer as he was. There wasn't any bloody message in the script; it appeared that our airman was indulging a flair for improvisation.
'Sic semper tyrannis,' he said, deepening his baritone. Not bad. 'I think-'
'Never mind,' Robey interrupted with a panicky glance at Bolzano. 'Which painting was it, for God's sake?'
'I-well, I don't know. It's the second one from the door, in the little room at the back. You know-'
'The little room?' Lorenzo repeated, his voice cracking with strained laughter. 'The little room? You mean it's one of the copies?' I thought he was going to faint with relief. He sank back down. 'Only a copy,' he said shakily to his father.
'Second from the door… ' Flittner said. 'The Vermeer.'
Claudio Bolzano jumped up so abrupdy that his chair clattered over backwards. 'The Vermeer? The Vermeer is slashed?'
'No, no, Father,' Lorenzo soothed, 'only the copy.'
And that did it.
'Only the copy, only the copy,' Bolzano hissed, his black eyes snapping, his head waving from side to side like a cornered wolf's. I half-expected a lolling red tongue to slide out between his jaws.
'Yes, only the copy, signore,' I said. 'Why get so excited over a copy?'
'You… fool!' He glared at me, choking on his emotion.
'Father,' the mortified Lorenzo whispered, 'please. You don't understand…' He reached a hand upward toward his father, but Bolzano easily swatted his gangling arm out of the way, and then, in a surge of sudden rage, backhanded him in the face with his closed fist. The sound of his blocky gold ring against his son's soft mouth was shocking and embarrassing, and Lorenzo's tall forehead blushed a brilliant pink almost before the blow struck.
'Idiota!' Bolzano snarled. 'You don't know the difference-'
He spun and took three quick strides toward the door, then stopped as violently as if someone had jerked a leash.
He turned, staring directly at me, breathing heavily, saying nothing. His tongue emerged, not like a wolf's, but quickly, like a lizard's, twice darting in and out over his hps.
'A trick.'
'Yes,' I said, 'a trick.'
'And the picture is really all right?'
I nodded.
