"That is correct, and fair. You would be doing all the work."
"Quite altruistic of you," I said. "I wonder what Mister Gladden would say?"
"He was quite enthusiastic when I mentioned the possibility to him last night," he said. "I would have introduced you, but you had already left the gallery by then. Still, I can arrange a meeting before you leave town. What are your feelings?"
"Yes," I said, "I’d like to meet him."
"…and you will have an exhibit at the Taurus—soon?"
"Yes. I can do that fairly soon after my return. My calendar is nowhere near so filled as yours."
"Excellent!" he said, raising his glass and clicking it against my own.
As he refilled them, he said, "My heart would have been heavy, but if you had told me ‘no’, it would not have been the first time I had had to turn away a talented individual after a brief exposure, to make way for better known artists. It is sad, but then there are the stern realities of business. One can only accommodate so many."
"Space and time," I agreed. "Truer for you than myself right now. I must confess I somewhat envy you your quandary."
"Why," he went on, as if not having heard me, "there is a boy in Greece—only seventeen years old—who has done grotesques worthy of Goya. I have sold several of his things, but politics…" He grimaced. "And there is a woman—Aleda, she signs herself—a schoolteacher in Belgrade. Primitive. Very powerful. And two French women—sisters—who did not begin painting until quite late in life. How they do the female figures!" He kissed his fingertips and smiled. "They are lesbians, of course. But this is good. It is always a labor of love that way. And an old man in Denmark with a house full of eerie statues he has made…Beautiful! When he dies who knows what his relatives may do with them? He is eccentric—mad, perhaps. Who will ever know or care but a few such as ourselves?"
"It is a pity."
"Another man might say, ‘Since I cannot handle them, let them be. Else, they may cause me difficulty one day.’ But I am not such a man. I have been thinking…"
He paused and took a sip of wine.
"Would you be interested?" he said then. "It sounds as if, having snatched up the best, I am offering you what remains—and this is true. Still, what remains is of considerable value, and some of it of intrinsically greater worth than much that I am forced to handle. I love art sufficiently to abet its recognition, though."
"What would you want for all these leads, Bruno? We are still competitors."
"Not really, not at the same level," he said. "I would not think of touching some of the things you handle, nor you some of mine. This does not preclude our appreciating their merits, however. If I would—and I must—pass along news of such items, I might as well give it to a friendly competitor, to someone I have known and trusted for a long while—"
"What do you want in return?" I interrupted. "I am not—repeat, not—in the old business any longer. I have a clean record in my own country. So if you’re leading up to something along those lines, forget it."
He sighed, then smiled.
"It would be hypocritical of me to take offense," he said, "and I do not despise my own roots. But I was honestly not thinking of anything of the kind. I wish to see these artists receive some real public exposure, because they deserve it. If I am to do someone a favor of throwing business into his lap, I would rather it be a friend than a stranger. That is all. I can see how you would misunderstand, though. If it will make you feel any better, please feel free to do me favors also, whenever you wish."
He smiled then and finished his wine.
"My apologies," I said. "Of course I am interested."
"I have photographs of some of their works with me," he said, still smiling, "and the names and addresses of the artists."
He produced a large, heavy envelope from inside his jacket, opened it and began spreading pictures.
Then I could tell why he was grinning. Even from photographs I could tell.
They were all of them good. Very good.
After many long minutes I looked up and said, "You’re right, of course. They deserve to be shown."
"Then you think you will handle them?"
"Yes," I said. "Certainly."
He poured us the last of the wine. We drank it and he picked up the check.
*
The day faded into evening: Buildings and foundations raked and dappled by well-placed lights. A full, clean lunatics’ or lovers’ moon high in the sky. Prospect of candlelit cafes. Violins and flowers. Stuff like that.
My mood had advanced sufficiently so that no real rancor remained when my cab deposited me in front of Mister Peter Martinson’s small villa. He answered my ring himself, and while I could not tell much from the brick wall that kept the world outside, the interior proved to be a comfortable bachelor’s lair.
My thoughts of maintaining a cold politeness faded after a moment or two. He was an affable enough fellow, somewhere in his mid-fifties, somewhere between husky and fat, white eyebrows matching what remained of his hair, remnants of a military manner about him. He had on sandals and wore a dark green dressing gown over slacks and a shirt. We shook hands and moved into his living room, where I decided to accept a drink after all.
He hooked a leg over the arm of his chair, took a healthy slug of his drink, smiled and said, "Okay, tell me about it."
"Is this being recorded?" I asked him, for curiosity’s sake.
"Yes," he said. "I find it easier than taking notes. The recorder is part of my stereo setup and the mike is under that table." He gestured, indicating both pieces of furniture. "If it really bothers you, I can make do without. But it’s strictly for my own use and I’ll erase it when I’ve finished."
I shrugged, said, "Academic curiosity," and began telling him about the people with whom I had spoken and what they had said.
At first, he interrupted only occasionally, with small questions to clarify small points. Then we were both interrupted by a telephone call to which he said, "Sorry, you have the wrong number," and hung up. When I got to Maria’s story his expression changed, and he leaned forward and did not say anything until I had finished. Then, "Damn it!" he said, punching his palm. "Why didn’t you get word to me sooner?"
Since I couldn’t come up with a good lie fast enough, I told him the truth.
Then hellfire flashed in his eyes, spread across his face in an instant, red sheet. His mouth tightened and his cheeks rose. He proceeded to demonstrate that years of desk work had not robbed him of a first-class military vocabulary.
Despite my earlier mellowness, there was plenty of fuel inside me and a spark leapt the gap. I do not like being pushed around, by anybody. Especially for reasons unknown.
So I waited, I lit a cigarette and waited. I composed myself while he chewed me out, ignoring his words and waiting for them to stop.
Finally they did, and I spoke very softly then.
"So fire me," I said. "Or dock me my next paycheck."
He started in again, then stopped. He stared at me as if I had suddenly become a different person, then seemed to collect himself and address the new guy.
"You don’t understand…" he said, and it was somewhere halfway between a question and a statement.
"Why not tell me? All about it," I said. "I might be a lot more useful if I know more."
He shook his head.
"You know why," he said.
"The old need-to-know bit?"
"The same. I’d like to tell you more, believe me. Hell! I don’t even know the whole story!"
I shrugged, drew on my cigarette, swallowed some more of his excellent bourbon.
"Well," I said, "if Maria’s story checks out—and I’m sure it will—I’m pretty much out of the picture, aren’t I? I mean, they wanted me to find the priest. Okay, I did. Mission accomplished and all that. Right?"
He appeared to ponder, for the space of a drink and the lighting of a small, evil-looking cigar.
"You may well be correct," he f
inally said. "I simply do not know. I’ll probably have definite information for you after I’ve relayed what you’ve told me so far. I’ll include your query when I send things along."
"How long do you think it will take?"
"A day. Perhaps two," he said, the blue-white atmosphere of his exhalations creeping toward me. "I don’t know what my opinion will be worth, but I’ll recommend patting you on the head and sending you home. I don’t see what more they could expect of you—unless I’m missing something they had in mind. You were one person the girl was likely to talk to—an old friend with no particular fondness for the law—and talk she did. My guess would be that that’s all they will want of you.
"In the meantime, though," he went on, "I want you to continue to keep an eye on her. Be with her as much as possible, and learn everything else that you can about Father Bretagne. Friends, enemies, likes, dislikes. Anything that can help us—"
"…get back the money," I finished, as the doorbell interrupted him.
"Exactly," he said, rising. "Excuse me a moment, will you?" and he passed into the small entranceway, turned toward the door, moved out of sight.
I heard him take hold of the doorknob. Then for some reason he paused and said, "Who is it?"
"Embassy messenger," came the partly muffled reply.
"All right."
I heard the door open then, followed by a puffing sound I had not heard in ages. I might not even have recognized it had it not been followed by a sharp cough and a wheeze, unlike that of one who is simply clearing his throat. There was a brief moan and a crash, as of someone falling or being pushed to the floor.
I sprang to my feet, knowing it was a gun with a silencer that had made the noise. By then, though, the man was already in the room with me and the gun swinging in my direction.
He tried to say something as I tried diving forward, and neither of us was very successful. The gun did not puff this time. It emitted the peace-pulverizing blast guns generally do, right before I slammed into the floor near the man’s feet.
He had missed me, I learned several heartbeats later.
It was either my loopy luck, my stumbling swan dive, his half-aimed shot, or all of these. But he had missed.
As I scrambled to regain my footing, I was knocked to my knees by a heavy blow on my right shoulder as he swung the gun downward, using it as a club.
As I caught myself with my hands, he swung the weapon sideways, striking me a mean blow near the top of my head.
I skinned my left elbow as I fell toward that side, trying to roll with it…
…and as I looked upward through the spark-shot, dancing piece of reality that separated us, trying to make my muscles drive me upward, forward and through him, I saw that he had swung the muzzle toward my face and was smiling as he pulled the trigger.
The click was deafening.
Then he made a mistake in choosing between two possible reactions.
Instead of bashing me again, he made a quick attempt to unjam the pistol.
He managed one oath before my already-aching head struck him below the belt and sent him sprawling backward, the weapon falling from his grasp and landing beneath me where I fell.
I seized it to use as a club as he doubled, then rolled onto his hands and knees, facing me.
I found myself pointing it as he reached out with his right hand, and my reflexes jerked my trigger-finger toward me.
This time it did not jam. Perhaps the impact when it struck the floor…
He slumped forward, face down, and sprouted wet, red antlers upon the rug.
The bullet had entered his forehead and emerged at a sticky looking point behind his right ear…
Rapid footfalls in the entranceway caused me to raise the weapon in time. I had a glimpse of an ambiguous expression on the new man’s face and of the pistol in his right hand—thankfully held high, in anticipation of a standing target—before I squeezed the trigger again and caught him in the shoulder.
His weapon clattered to the floor and he turned and ran as I scored the far wall with another round and heard it ricochet.
By the time I managed to get to my feet and out into the entranceway, I heard a car door slam. He had parked his car right beside the curb, with its engine running. I leaned back against the door frame as his tires screeched, and resting my right wrist upon my left forearm, took aim and emptied the weapon at the retreating vehicle.
The second shot shattered the rear window. I don’t know what the final one did.
The car continued on, gathering momentum as I sagged. Then, four long seconds later, it swerved suddenly, crossed pavement, curb, sidewalk, and struck the side of a building near the corner, shaking loose bricks down about it. After a few moments it began to burn.
I knew that the street would not be deserted much longer. Except by me.
VI.
I stepped back inside and locked the door. Automatically, I wiped the pistol on my jacket before dropping it to the floor. I stared down at poor old Martinson, then stooped and felt for a pulse. There was none.
I tried to stand, grew dizzy and dropped to all fours. My right arm almost gave way then, and my shoulder felt ready to explode. Perspiration suddenly beaded my forehead, and when I was able to wipe it away I saw that it had mingled with blood. I strove to control my breathing, succeeded, crawled forward.
Then I took my first real look at my assailant. Despite deep creases between his eyebrows and along his cheeks, I guessed his age at around twenty-five. He had a dark complexion, black hair, flaring nostrils. All the pockets of his cheap, dark suit were empty.
Regaining my feet by stages, I crossed the room and raised the telephone from its cradle. I heard the sound of a distant rock band and a subdued murmur of voices. Whoever had phoned earlier had not broken the connection at his end, effectively tying up Martinson’s line. I replaced the receiver and headed toward the rear of the dwelling.
I located his kitchen and discovered a door that let upon a small, walled garden. A brief exploration there led me to a gate which opened upon what appeared to be a narrow alleyway.
I paused before unlatching it.
It did not seem likely there would be another of them in the alley. No. With two unsuspecting victims, one driver-backup man and another to do the actual meat work was all that would seem necessary.
Still, I shuddered. I wanted to be away, far and fast. I wanted to fade from the world and come back on a sunny day. The gate seemed to lean in that direction.
Taking several deep breaths, I flung it open. I tucked my shoulder and gritted my teeth as I did so, went through and hit the ground rolling.
Nothing. I was alone.
I lay there shivering and aching for several moments before I climbed to my feet. I dusted off my clothing, wiped my face and hands with my handkerchief and ran my comb though my hair. I almost screamed at the last. Once my comb was in my hand, my reflexes had taken over. But my hand was no longer its usual self. I settled for a light brushing back with my fingertips.
Then came the old one foot after the other business as I turned right, heading away from the corner where the smashup occurred.
Between silent curses, walking, I was able to think once more, as my spinal nerves slowly returned control of things to my forebrain.
Three dead men, two of them by my hand, behind me; a fourth, the priest, getting stiffer in Lisbon; a fifth, Carl Bernini, whose choice of a deathbed had served to get me into this thing…
That was one thought.
Now an attempt had been made on my life. Which made no sense at all. I knew nothing that would so jeopardize anyone that he should consider my removal necessary. I eliminated coincidence from my calculations. I simply could not believe that my visit with Martinson just happened to coincide with the time when someone was planning to remove his name from the list of the living. No. I had been sitting quietly in the living room and the man with the gun had come to me, as if he had expected to find me there.
But if it
was me he was after, why not go for me sometime when I could be found alone? Ditto for Martinson, if he were the only target. A double killing is always more risky than a single one.
It indicated they were after both of us, and the only reason I could see for a combination like that would be an assumption that I had something important to tell him and had gone there to do so. It had become necessary to destroy the information at that point.
Information. I needed it now, to keep alive. Someone had already drawn a line through my name, stuck a pin in my doll and driven a nail into my coffin.
That was thought number two.
I walked for perhaps twenty minutes before I began making my way back toward the main thoroughfare. By then, the sound of sirens was a thing of the past.
I crossed the street immediately when I reached it and began making my way south. After a time, I located a cab, decided against returning to my hotel, gave the driver a fake address several blocks from Maria’s place and closed my eyes.
I once spent a day looking after my sister’s kids. I took them presents to keep them amused and settled down with a book I was reading. Only I had made the mistake of giving my nephew Timmy a toy drum. After a couple hours, I gave him my pocketknife and told him that drums were usually filled with candy. This solved the problem for a small while, and I still remember shaking my head and telling him, "Yours was one of the ones that wasn’t."
My head was a toy drum with no sweets inside.
*
I walked past Maria’s place several times, pausing periodically to skulk in doorways. I spent a good half-hour doing this. Passing beneath the window before which she had spent so much time the previous evening, I could see that her apartment was lighted. No one else seemed to be surveying the place.
Finally, I entered her building, hoping she had gotten everything out of her system and wasn’t off on another bender. I wanted her full, fast, sober cooperation in what I suspected was necessary to preserve both our lives.
No one below, no one on the stair, the landings empty…
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