The Peter & Charlie Trilogy

by Gordon Merrick

  Peter reluctantly stopped looking at her long enough to glance in the direction she indicated. He saw a big glittering speedboat tied up at the newly reconstructed outer mole that had been put in for yachts. He turned back to her with a laugh. “This place is mad. You never know what’s going to happen next.”

  “I’ve had several long letters from the boss. He mentioned your being here. It seems that whoever took the pictures aren’t ordinary crooks. They have important connections. At least, that’s what he thinks. He has some reason for thinking they’re operating by yacht. Customs people are apparently intimidated by yachts. Anyway, there seem to be a great many of them about. The police can’t search all of them.”

  “Where do I fit into this fascinating tale? Does Tim suspect me of dealing in hot pictures?”

  “He said if I mentioned his name, you’d help me in any way you could.” She smiled again, this time with open delight in herself. “Funnily enough, I’ve had some success. It’s not difficult for a girl with no striking deformities to cut quite a swathe in a small town like Athens. I’ve been meeting everybody who is anybody. I’ve heard that Michael Cochran picked up some pictures while he was there. I’m not exactly trailing him but I thought it might be a good idea to talk to you while he’s here. I suppose you’ll be seeing him. He might mention having bought some pictures. You could ask to see them. You know the Bertin collection, don’t you? You could identify anything from it?”

  “Yes, but is Cochran apt to discuss stolen pictures? I’ve met him a couple of times at parties. He’s very attractive and turns on terrific charm when he wants to. I probably shouldn’t say it because I hardly know him, but he struck me as slippery. I can imagine him trying a fast one with stolen art if he thought he could get away with it.”

  “Oh, I don’t necessarily think he would know they’re stolen. He could buy them in good faith. Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t know if he has anything from the Bertin collection. It’s just that it’s the only art transaction I’ve heard of since I’ve been playing detective. It gives one food for thought.”

  They looked at each other and burst out laughing. They had nothing in particular to laugh about; it was a way of telling each other that they were enjoying themselves. In this season of thefts, the Bertin collection was more interesting to Peter than George’s money, much as he wanted him to get it back. “Well, well, well,” he said with lively relish. “If it turns out your hunch is right, what would you do about it?”

  “That’s the sticky part. Mr. Thornton would have to take over. Or you, if you see a way to handle it. Michael Cochran is a very big gun. He’s a personal friend of the President. The government here is making a tremendous fuss over him. He’s practically an unofficial ambassador. He’d have to be handled with kid gloves.”

  A twinkle came into Peter’s eyes. “You know, I’ve never told Raoul, but I’m pretty sure that a lot of his collection is fake. Mike Cochran would look a fine idiot if he’s not only bought hot pictures, but hot fakes.”

  “Fake? How could they be fake?” The efficient businesslike side of her became more pronounced. “If they’re insured, they’ve surely been authenticated.”

  “They don’t do things by halves in the forged art racket these days. There’re plenty of fake authentications around. Modern art is a field I approach very warily.”

  “The boss will be hopping when I tell him that. Are there fakes among the things that’ve been stolen? He’ll be very unhappy letting his clients shell out for fakes.”

  “I haven’t seen a complete list of what’s been taken. I’ve just read about it in the papers.”

  She reached down into the capacious linen bag on the ground at her side. The way she held the arm of the chair with her other hand stretched the fabric of her shirt taut so that Peter could see her breasts clearly defined for the first time. They were small but firm and full, breasts that would lift excitingly if she were naked. She brought out a folded paper and handed it to him. He opened it out and made a little whistling sound between his teeth as his eyes ran down it.

  “They got away with all this? It’s quite a haul.”

  “Are some of these the fakes you’re talking about?”

  “Do you have something to write with?”

  She handed him a ballpoint pen. He called for more ouzo as he took it. He put the list on the table and checked off a Pissarro, three Bonnards, five Modiglianis and two Utrillos.

  “Those are the ones I’m almost certain of,” he said, pushing the list across to her. “There may be others.”

  “That’s about a third of all that’s been taken,” she said indignantly, studying his notations.

  That such beauty could be animated by everyday, practical concerns made him laugh; thoughts came to mind of the Botticelli Venus dealing with a plumber or the TV repairman, piquant and absurdly inappropriate. “Not in terms of value,” he pointed out, picking up the fresh ouzo. “The Picassos and Braques and Matisses are superb, but Raoul knew them before most people did. I’m afraid too many painters have painted too many pictures that all look alike. It makes it easy for the forgers. I know of cases where famous painters have denied their own work. Can you imagine a Vermeer being taken for anything but a Vermeer?”

  “I might not know a Vermeer if I saw one,” she said with forthright simplicity, her expectant lips still asking for a kiss. “Everybody says you’re a very good dealer. It’s certainly a lot more fun talking to you about the wretched pictures than traipsing around alone after them.” Little bubbles of laughter began erupting from beneath her surface. “You are fun, aren’t you? People aren’t as a rule. You will help me with Michael Cochran, won’t you?”

  “I thought I’d made it clear that I’d do almost anything for you so long as you don’t go away.” Peter touched her wrist lightly with his fingers. He was immediately attacked by this horrible disease in its most violent form. He removed his hand hastily. “Cochran shouldn’t be difficult to approach. I’ll get him talking about pictures and ask him if he’s bought anything lately. We’ll see what that produces. Let’s finish our drinks. I want to take you home and introduce you to the family.”

  “That would be lovely. Is your brother here? I do know his work.”

  “You mean Charlie?”

  “Yes. Have you others?”

  “Other brothers? At last count, I had four. They, along with my father and a good many uncles, are the backbone of the United States Army. Charlie isn’t my brother. He’s my beloved friend and a very distant cousin. As a matter of fact, his name is Mills and mine is Martin. We merged.”

  “How very peculiar. You’re married, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, indeed. I don’t usually bother to explain all this to people but I like so much to look at you that I thought I’d better make it clear right from the start.”

  “You’re making it clear?” She leaned back with laughter. There was a girlish note in it that struck his ear with delight. “You’re too absurd. Doesn’t your wife mind your picking up stray females on the port and bringing them home?”

  “It doesn’t happen every day. She’ll be very pleased. I think maybe we’d better just let you take it as it comes.” He drained his glass, his eyes lively and teasing as they noted her mystification. In addition to being strongly attracted to her, he was beginning to like her very much. He wanted her to be prepared for his unconventional family life.

  He dropped money on the table and they rose. “Can I go like this?” she mused, more to herself than to him. “I thought a shower——”

  “No. You’re perfect.” He hadn’t really looked at what she was wearing, he knew only that she looked trim and fresh and that her breasts were covered with expensive-looking silken stuff in tones of blue and green. He registered now that she was wearing a green linen skirt and immediately imagined her without it, without any clothes, being naked with her. With women, he had always felt it a matter of take it or leave it; on the occasions when circumstances had been favorable, he had gl
adly taken. What he felt for Judy was surprisingly close to the urgent driving desire he had felt long ago for boys. He lusted to please her, to give her pleasure. Standing close to her made him acutely aware of how well matched they were, of how perfectly they would fit. She was tall, only a couple of inches shorter than he. She was as dark as he was blond. He felt a need to be joined to her like a necessity of nature.

  They set off at a leisurely pace, retracing their steps across the inner edge of the port. They walked side by side, but he avoided touching her. In the old days, had she been a boy, they would have exchanged open invitations to bed by now. She was allowing him to exercise his male prerogative of taking the initiative. A connection had been made and he was ready to let it ripen in its own time. He felt that she had accepted his extravagant flattery in the spirit in which he had intended it: a tentative sexual approach lightened by self-mockery that hadn’t required her to accept or reject him. He sensed a great self-containment in her, an inviolability, and ascribed it to her beauty. It exempted her from flirtatiousness; she was capable of making men swoon with a look. And a girl this morning? He wondered.

  “The light is absolutely amazing,” she said. The sun was getting low in the west. It bathed the white houses on the eastern promontory with a rosy, coppery sheen. “Where’re we going?”

  He pointed up at the house that dominated the hillside. “The one with the colonnade.”

  “And all those terraces? It looks magnificent.”

  “It’s quite a house.”

  “When do you think you’ll see Michael Cochran?”

  “I haven’t so far, but he’s here to visit a good friend of mine. You know, George Leighton, the writer. You’ll have dinner with us up at the house. We’ll come down later and cruise the port. He’ll be around with George. When it’s as hot as this, everybody’s inclined to stay up all night.”

  “I’m so glad you’re taking charge. It wasn’t fair of the boss to unload the pictures on me. This is more like a vacation. I’m beginning to love the place. Have you had your house long?”

  Peter explained that he and Charlie had bought it for two hundred dollars after they had seen it in the course of the yachting trip with Martha. He didn’t attempt to explain that the yacht had belonged to Martha’s first husband or that before the cruise was over Martha had been pregnant with Charlie’s child. If the evening ended in the way he ardently hoped it would, perhaps he would explain it all to her in bed.

  He saw George and Sarah emerging from their side street and waved. They didn’t respond. He led his girl through narrow streets and up steep steps, climbing slowly so as not to feel the heat too acutely. They paused frequently while she exclaimed at the glowing amphitheater of the town and the red globe of the sun sinking toward the rim of the flat sea and the vast panorama of distant islands and mountainous mainland. The sun was only a point of fire on the horizon when they reached the house and then it was gone, leaving only a hot glow in the west and the gathering twilight.

  “Now it’s supposed to cool off,” Peter said. “It doesn’t feel as if it’s going to.” He opened the door for her and escorted her up through the sprawling, multileveled structure.

  “But it’s a palace,” she exclaimed as they crossed a living room that gave onto the long colonnaded loggia.

  “We’re prone to palaces here,” he said. “They cost about the same as a hen house at home.” He led her across a courtyard and smiled as he heard the children’s voices. They mounted stone steps to a garden in the rear. This was a property they had acquired more recently for Charlie’s studio. It was protected from the sun most of the day and had no view. There were a few big trees, olives and almonds and, along the back, the single story of the studio.

  As Peter reached the top of the stairs, the children were upon him, clamorous with welcome. They clutched his bare legs and seized his hands. Little Petey managed to butt his crotch with his head. Peter backed away, laughing. “Hey, now. Wait a minute. Hold on. Quiet everybody. We’ve got a visitor.” He put his hand on Charlotte’s shoulder and urged her forward. “Charlotte, this is Judy. The blond bombshell is Little Petey.”

  Charlotte performed her neat curtsey. Petey smiled up from lowered brows and said something in a language of his own.

  “She’s a very pretty lady, Daddy,” Charlotte said judiciously.

  Judy leaned down to her and took her hands. “And you’re a very beautiful girl,” she said.

  “Is she a mummy, Daddy?” Petey demanded, reverting to English.

  “I don’t know. You’d better ask her.”

  “Are you, lady?” Little Pete persisted.

  “I’m afraid not. I’d like to be your mummy. You look like a wonderful little boy.”

  Little Petey looked at her with wide eyes and then turned and scooted off across the stone paving toward the studio. “Daddy, Daddy,” he shouted. “Daddy’s brought a pretty lady.”

  Judy gave Peter a slightly questioning look as they moved into the garden. The children’s indiscriminate use of “Daddy” always alerted strangers to the fact that they were confronted with an unusual situation. He was wondering if he should tell her that they weren’t both his when Charlie emerged from the studio wiping a brush with a rag, wearing his short sarong. Peter’s eyes went automatically to the folds that fell from the bunched-up cloth at his waist. He knew at a glance which fold draped the prodigious sex; his practiced eye could discern its outline faintly lifting the cloth and its slight swing as he walked. Peter moved toward him. “How goes it, mate?” he asked.

  “Pretty good, mate.” Charlie placed a hand inside the collar of his shirt and held his neck. They exchanged a look and a smile that asserted their total possession of each other and excluded the whole world.

  Peter turned back to Judy, presenting her to Charlie. “Look what I found. Have you ever seen anything like her?”

  “Who is she? Hedy Lamarr? Elizabeth Taylor?”

  Peter saw Judy’s astonishment as she looked from one to the other.

  “I’d have taken you for brothers,” she said to Peter. “You’re so extraordinarily alike.”

  “It’s growing with the years. You know what they say about people who live together. This is our resident genius. Charlie. Judy Menzies. She’s Tim Thornton’s secret agent. She’s hot on the trail of Raoul’s pictures.”

  “And desperately in need of your assistance.” Charlie winked at Peter and exerted a little extra pressure on his neck before releasing him. He went to their guest and took her hand. His smoky purple eyes studied her intently for a moment. “Forget those dames I just mentioned. You’re much more beautiful than either of them. You’re the real thing. Peter’s an expert.” His smile was warm and welcoming. Peter moved to them, propping an elbow on Charlie’s shoulder. “What’s the news?” Charlie asked. “Did you see Jeff?”

  Peter threw his head back and laughed. “I sure did. I’ll tell you about it later. How about a drink? Where’s Martha? The sun’s down. Let’s go to the loggia.”

  Charlie handed the brush and rag to Charlotte. “Put that in there with the others, will you, sweetheart?”

  Little Petey charged him, tugging at his sarong and threatening to strip him. “Horsie, horsie, horsie,” he chanted. Charlie grabbed him and swung him up onto his shoulders. They all descended the stairs and passed through the house to the long colonnaded terrace. Both Peter and Charlie called to Martha as they went. A table with bottles and glasses and iced water awaited them. Handsome garden furniture was set about. Columns framed the view. A telescope mounted on a tripod stood at the stone railing. Peter went to it and trained it on Lambraiki’s.

  “There’s Mike Cochran,” he said to anyone who was listening. “He’s a damned attractive guy. The Leightons appear to be in good order.”

  “This is the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen,” Judy said.

  “Hello, darlings, one and all.” Martha appeared, wearing one of the long loose robes she wore around the house, more dress than dressi
ng gown.

  Peter turned from the telescope and went to her and took her hand. “Come meet our dinner guest,” he said, leading her to Judy. “This is our resident wife.” He was aware of a slight stiffening in Judy as the women shook hands.

  “What a beautiful creature,” Martha said, all ease and smiles. “Is this the girl who had you falling all over yourself at noon? You’re staying for dinner? I’m so glad. I’ll tell Kyria Tula.”

  Charlie handed them all drinks. They settled down in comfortable chairs. Little Petey engaged Peter’s attention with a rambling story about a fish he had caught that afternoon. The fish had a complicated and incoherent family life, with numerous fathers and mothers. He had ended up back in the sea, but had failed to swim away. “He died, Daddy,” the child announced dolefully, barely able to conceal his glee at this tragic ending.

  Peter caught fragments of the conversation Judy and Charlotte were having, sitting side by side on a sofa. He heard Judy say, “… then back to school in the States?” And, “… because he’s my particular father,” from Charlotte. He saw Judy’s shoulders straighten and his breath caught again as he watched it happen—the forward sway of her body, the tilt of her head, her eyes melting with generous absorption. He understood now that it was a trick, a physical mannerism that meant nothing and of which she was apparently unconscious, but he felt it still all through him, in his loins, in the tingling of his arms and legs.

  The lights around the port blazed up and he applied his eye to the telescope once more. “Uh-oh. George looks as if he’s getting started early. He’s giving the word to Cochran,” he said, turning to Martha.