by Kane, Henry
“Coffee?” I suggested.
“Fresh,” he said, and he brought me a mug of fragrant coffee and I devoured my breakfast and Mr. Trennem said, smiling happily, “You look like you can use more of same, Mr. Chambers.”
“I can,” I said, “but I’m saving space for lunch. Mr. Trennem, you’re, as always, a lifesaver.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Another coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
And so, fortified, I quit the quiet cathedral of Trennem’s Dark Morning Tavern and invaded the busy citadel of Cobb Gilmore, Inc. Eager customers were being accommodated at sit-down tables and stand-up counters as a sway-hipped young man glided up to me and said through the pleasant odor of his rampant perfume, “Yes? May I help you, sir?”
“Mr. Cobb Gilmore,” I said.
“You wish to see Mr. Gilmore?”
“I wish,” I said.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes. Peter Chambers.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Chambers, he’s expecting you. He’s in the back room. Do you know your way?”
There were two back rooms. The first was a spacious office done in rosewood where select customers transacted select business in the select confines of select and august privacy. Beyond that was a second back room which was, more properly denominated, not a back room, but an apartment: one beautifully adorned Oriental room with small kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom annexed. Here Cobb Gilmore transacted more leisurely, and more select, and more private business, and here he greeted me, coming forward, beaming, white pudgy hand outstretched.
“Good, good, good that you could come,” he said. “Please sit down. Would you like tea?”
“No, thanks.”
He was a symphony in brown, set off by gold. His shoes were ox-blood brown Bluchers with gold strap-buckles. His suit was a chocolate-brown basket-weave. His shirt was pale tan. His tie was a brown foulard pinned with a triangular pyramid of gold tie tack. And the pièce de résistance was a tattersall vest of gold linen with small gold buttons.
“Peter,” he said, “you owe me a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Sue me,” I said.
“I’ve heard that when you finally came to deliver, the expectant recipient was rather dead.”
“More than rather,” I said. “Very.”
“I hope you have, or will, tear up that check which I wrote to his order. No matter, of course. I’ve already put through a stop-order to my bank. But that isn’t why I’ve asked you to come here, Peter.”
“Are you all recovered, Cobb?”
“Recovered?”
“From yesterday’s indisposition?”
“Of course, of course.” He nodded, his pink jowls joggling. “It wasn’t, actually, any true indisposition. My doctors insist that I have a complete day of bed rest as frequently as I can manage it. Mine is a rather precarious, and incurable, heart condition. Rest. Always rest. As much rest as possible.”
“But you work like a beaver.”
“Doctors have their theories, but the theories of doctors have been exploded before this. If I retired, I would die—I tell you that. This way, I work a good deal and rest when I feel I should, and so far, I’ve been correct in my treatment of me, as some of my doctors could testify if they were alive. I’ve outlived rather a few who were most pessimistic about my condition. But, Peter, I didn’t ask you here for a grisly discussion of heart disease.”
“Why did you, Cobb?”
“A most interesting matter, most interesting. Please sit down.”
I sat in a corner of a soft couch and he stood over me for a moment, smiling, patting his hands upon his convex stomach. “Dear Peter,” he said, “this past Monday night you met a charming lady, one Sophia Patri. I trust you remember her.”
“I remember her,” I said.
“Would you like to know how I met her?”
“If it suits you,” I said.
He lowered himself into a soft chair and crossed his legs but not all the way, the fat of his thighs preventing. “Approximately two months ago she came to me. She was beautiful, she was a foreigner, she had run out of money, and she had a rather illicit object of art. An interesting combination, what?”
“Yes, an interesting combination what,” I intoned.
“The illicit object of art was not whole; rather it was a part of an object of art. Such as it was, I could realize for the lady perhaps sixty thousand dollars or so. On the other hand, were this object of art whole, together, entire, we would have one of the true masterpieces of the world—a most valuable piece eagerly sought after by such who seek after such prizes, a treasure, true, in the most literal sense of the word. Are you following me?”
“Somewhat,” I said.
“When I questioned the lady, I learned, to my astonishment, that she knew of the existence of the other part of this treasure; not only knew of its existence, but had a rather good idea as to where it was. As you may well imagine, my interest in the lady became quite feverish.”
“I have seen the lady. I can understand the feverish interest.”
He chuckled. “I’m an old man. I admit to a physical interest. But the feverish interest encompassed much more. The connoisseur revels in the discovery, say, of an undiscovered Rembrandt, a newly unearthed Da Vinci, an unknown Van Gogh, lost handwritten works of Shakespeare … oh, I can go on and on and on. There are many treasures reposing in such museums as the Louvre that are worth millions, millions, my boy; and there are many such treasures out of the museums, for one reason or another, and this lady had got hold of part of such treasure—and seemed to know where the other part was.”
“And you had become feverish because you would revel in such discovery?”
“Don’t be silly, dear Peter. Let me be slightly more precise. This particular jeweled work of art was probably the most valuable piece once resting in one of the most famous museums in Italy. During the fall of Mussolini—during that time of turmoil—this museum was sacked, and this piece was stolen. People in my business hear of this and know of this. There exists a sub-world of priceless, illicit treasures. There are people of great wealth who gloat in such possession; after all, there are limits to what wealth can acquire that is legitimate—the other, the illegitimate, the possession of such great and famous treasures …”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “How much would this thing be worth if she had all the parts?”
“Off-hand, quick guess, a million bucks.” He folded his fat hands on his stomach and his pink cheeks glowed. “Now hear this, dear Peter. When I quote a price of sixty thousand dollars for the part the lady has, I merely quote the quick price of sale. The matchless jewels—perfect gems—contained in it, when taken out and put into proper settings, and sold separately, would in themselves probably bring more than half a million dollars at the retail market. But that would require time, and specialists, and reworking, and separate sales, of course. I just want you to understand what this lady had, my dear boy.”
“All right,” I said, “I’m impressed—but just a little bit. I’m getting bored.”
“To the point then.” He unfolded his fat hands and unfolded his fat legs. “I made a deal with the lady. I would set her up and support her pending a thorough and judicious investigation of the premises.”
“Plus a little judicious love-making on the side?”
The innocent blue eyes grew round. “I’m an old man. Whatever sacrifice the lady would make along that line would be small sacrifice.”
“And the deal?”
“She would put the thing away in her vault. I would be in contact with one of my collectors and fix a price. Then we would attempt to retrieve the other part of the object of art.”
“And your cut?”
“Twenty per cent of the total sale price. That is the customary commission of the middle man in this type of transaction.”
“And?”
“The lady gladly consented.”
“She didn’t have much to lose,
did she? And then?”
“These things can’t be hurried. There was one man I had in mind, a Brazilian, a multi-millionaire, many, many times over, but he was off in Africa on a safari. He returned a couple of weeks ago and I flew down to Brazil to talk with him. I have a firm offer.”
“How much, Mr. Gilmore?”
He stood up. “For the piece intact, as a whole, all together—eight hundred thousand dollars.”
I whistled. “Oh, those rich sons of bitches.”
“Peter, if I wanted to travel around and haggle with some of those Indian potentates, Saudi-Arabian oil billionaires, Chileans who live like royalty never lived—that hunk of stuff could bring a cool million.”
“But you mean twenty per cent of eight hundred G’s is enough.”
“Frankly, yes. I have neither the time nor the vitality to pursue one item of business to its farthest-end conclusion. Plus there was the matter of actually getting hold of the other part of this damned thing. All right. Once I had a firm offer, I was ready to begin to capitalize on my investment. That, dear boy, is where you come in. I suggested you to Miss Patri and, of course, she wanted to meet you. That is why we attended the ballet Monday night—Miss Patri wanted to form some judgment about you, without your knowing that you were under such surveillance.”
“How did I make out?”
“You’re here, Peter, aren’t you?” He went to a teakwood cabinet and brought out brandy. “Would you care for a drink?” he said.
“I don’t drink this early in the morning.”
He poured brandy into a large bowl-shaped brandy glass, warmed it in the cup of his two hands, sipped a bit, sipped again, placed the glass on a marble-topped teakwood desk, and sat down again. “And now the specifics, my boy. Particularly, this object of art is a sort of crown, a sort of exquisite jeweled gold crown. This crown was sawed in half by a jeweler’s saw. Our lady is in possession of one half of this crown. The other half is in Paris; at least, that is our best lead. This should not be a difficult operation for a man of your resourcefulness. Whoever is in possession of the other half needs us just as much as we need him. I have some very practical suggestions and some very pointed particulars, but the first question is are you willing to take on the job, and the second, are you available? Can you take off for Paris and possibly other points on the Continent, at once?”
“How much would this junket cost you, Cobb?”
“I estimate, what with expenses and fee, about fifteen thousand dollars.”
“How would you like to save fourteen thousand of that?”
His hands shook. His jowls shook. His bright blue eyes oscillated as though intent upon a ping-pong match. He rose and trotted to his brandy and lifted it as though it were smelling salts. He did not sip. He drank, leakingly, some of it dripping onto the golden waistcoat. He set the glass away, rattlingly, and heaved a deep sigh. “Chambers,” he said, “you’re a devious son of a bitch and a clever son of a bitch, and sometimes I’m deathly afraid of you. What is it this time?”
Indignantly I said, “I look to save you fourteen big ones and you call me names. Now is that nice?”
“Chambers,” he said, “what are you trying to pull?”
“What is it with you, Cobb? Are you allergic to saving money?”
“What are you trying to pull?”
“A few rabbits from the hat,” I said, as I came up from my corner of couch and went to him. “These rabbits have names but I’m afraid to shoot them at you too fast. After all, you’re a guy with a bum heart.”
“Shoot, you bastard. Don’t worry about my bum heart.”
“Cellini. Eleonora. Medici. Bargello. Skahnos.”
For a moment I thought I had forfeited my thousand bucks. For a moment I thought he was going to drop dead. Color ran out of his face as though it were being chased. A hat of perspiration sat on the bald pate. His hands trembled, his jowls trembled, his stomach trembled, and his eyes bulged like an overstuffed brassiere. I gave him his glass and he grabbed it and drained it and it helped. A sick smile crossed his face like the mirthless smear of a clown, but at least he was coming back to me. He held the huge glass as though it were a basketball and this was the last shot in the last second for the two points that meant the ball game. I took the glass away from him and he seemed relieved. He used his handkerchief to wipe his cheeks and wipe his head. He put the handkerchief away and he smiled again and it was much better. He tottered to a drawer of the desk, opened it, opened a green money box, counted out ten crisp hundred dollar bills, and gave them to me. His voice was as faint as a virgin’s yes. “Chambers,” he said, “perhaps you’re not so smart, perhaps you’re stupid.”
“What’d I do now?”
“I think you’re handing me, on a platter, a commission of a hundred and sixty thousand dollars, and you’re dumb enough to hold me up for a paltry thousand.”
“Hold-up,” I said. “That may be the key word.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m not holding you up for anything. I don’t practice extortion. I think it’s worth a thousand bucks to you for me to put you together with the guy that can put his half of the tiara together with the lady’s.”
“It certainly is—if you can.”
“Sit down, Cobb. Think of your heart. Think of the restful day you put in all day yesterday.”
He sat where I had sat on the couch. “Now, please,” he said. “Please tell me.”
“No miracle,” I said.
“God, it sure sounded like one.”
“Skahnos is here in New York with his half of the object of art, looking for the other half. Simple. No miracle. No magic. No rabbits. No nothing. The guy’s looking to turn his buck, just like you’re looking to turn yours, just like the lady is looking to turn hers. It all turns on the damned buck, doesn’t it—from some discriminating fancy scavenger looting this Bargello to Henry Martell trying to loot Cobb Gilmore.”
“A short sermon, Mr. Chambers, but long enough to fill me with ennui.” The man had bounce. He was a quick cure. The pink was back in his face and the blue eyes were snapping with avariciousness. “I’ll thank you to spare me any further preachments. Please let us get back to the matter at hand.”
“You’ve paid me,” I said. “How do you want it handled?”
“You can reach this Skahnos?”
“Of course.”
“When?”
“Any time.”
“Look, Peter,” he said, “please let me give you some advice, business advice. You’re going to put this man in a position to pick up a fortune of money. I advise you to insist upon a commission from him.”
“I’ve already given myself that advice, Cobb. I don’t believe in a commission two ways. In this matter, I represent him, and he’ll pay my commission.”
“Very commendable,” he said but his expression did not agree with his words. His expression was one of contempt for stupidity, rather than approbation for some kind of cockeyed honor. “All right,” he said, “let us get this perfectly clear.”
“Go,” I said.
“Will you be able to obtain his half of the tiara?”
“Yes.”
“He trusts you?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. Let me call Miss Patri. After all, she’s my principal in this matter just as this Skahnos is yours. Let me acquaint her with these rather startling developments and hear how she wants it handled.” He went to the phone, lifted the receiver, replaced it, and left the room. I had no complaint. He wanted privacy with his client—he was entitled to privacy with his client. I mulled about, alone, thinking of my privacy with his client, and that drove me to his teakwood cabinet for a quench of consolation.
He returned affably smiling and affably patting his corpulent vest. “All right, I think we’ve worked out a rather businesslike and properly protective sequence of procedure.”
“Man,” I said, “you sound like a politician flinging the roundabout words.”
“These,” h
e said, “are not roundabout words. You can get to your man at once?”
“Yes.”
“And you say he’s retained you, he knows you, he trusts you?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. Miss Patri seems to have great confidence in you.”
“She has?”
“Probably more a compliment to me than to you. I touted you very highly and it seems to have taken.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Well, I do believe in you, Peter.”
“All right. Let’s catch up with the sequence of procedure.”
“Miss Patri will wait at her apartment. You are to come there with your half of the tiara. If she is satisfied that this isn’t some sort of hoax, you will accompany her to her bank vault and she will exhume her half of the damned thing. From the bank you will call both Mr. Skahnos and myself. You two shall return to her apartment, and we shall meet you there. Once there, all of us, we shall work out the details of retaining experts to weld the thing together, and we shall work out and have a complete understanding of the financial structure down to the most minute detail. It is imperative, in these rather delicate matters, that there be no scintilla of misunderstanding. Once more, dear Peter, I counsel you to settle upon an adequate commission from your client.”
“Thanks for your counsel, pal. And thanks for your thousand bucks. Now let me out of here.”
I was past the threshold when he called, derisively: “Peter, my boy …”
I turned. “Now what?”
“You’re slipping. Or is it that the prospect of some real money has discomposed you?”
“What is it, you superior bastard?”
“The focal point, dear boy.” His genteel sneer was utter ungentle obloquy.
“What focal point? What the hell? Now come on, man.”
“The meeting place. The site of assignation. How stupid can you be?”
“What’s stupid?”
“Miss Patri’s address.”
“Oh,” I said.
“You don’t know it.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Sixty-one East 65th. Apartment 2 B.”
“Thank you,” I said.