Madonna of the Apes

by Nicholas Kilmer

  The younger man had landed on his face on the carpet. He lay in a sullen crouch. “Twelve hundred dollars,” Fred continued. “In cash. Another ten thousand in blank traveler’s checks, in this other pocket.”

  Reed, continuing to revolve slowly, like a top in its last vertical play, observed, “Fred, there is more going on here than meets the eye. No matter. There is always more going on than meets the eye. Mr. Tilley, a question. As long as I am here. Albeit in grotesquely anomalous circumstances. The unsigned watercolor over your head. Tell me about it.”

  “Jeekers!” Fred said. “What is this? Business as usual?” He nudged their prostrate captive with his foot. “Sit up, Franklin. Make yourself at home. What the hell. Answer the man’s question. I hold the wallet while we get acquainted.” He put it into his back pocket.

  Franklin sat and assembled the ingratiating smile used by the prep school’s star athlete when he is discovered next to the headmaster’s wife, in the headmaster’s bed. “I’m alone here,” he whined. “You’ve got me wrong. Let’s fix this. Let me offer you gentlemen a drink,” he said. “If it’s my fault, I apologize. You’ve wrecked my suit, but that’s fair. Rough trade, Fred. I love it.” He tried a lopsided grin pregnant with innuendo, though it aborted quickly against Fred’s impassive gaze. “It’s—not a game exactly, more a sales technique. If I appear to be slightly incapacitated…”

  “What do you sell?” Fred demanded. “Besides the obvious.”

  “Nothing for me,” Reed said. “Maybe a small brandy. If you don’t mind, Fred? While we explore.”

  “He drinks first,” Fred said. His nod allowed Tilley to get up, step out of his shoes, and walk across the carpet to the table. He poured from a decanter into a snifter, breathed in, drank a half-ounce, smiled and spread his arms to illustrate the innocence of the brew.

  “Okay?” he asked Fred. Fred nodded. Tilley poured for Reed and looked inquisitively toward Fred. Fred shook his head.

  Reed, following his host’s example, took his shoes off and sat cross-legged with his back against the wall, in a position from which he could watch the watercolor he had asked about, a faint and very tentative study that looked like a preparatory essay for one of Cézanne’s Bathers.

  Franklin, at the bar, poured amber into a snifter from a different decanter. Turning to catch Fred’s eye, he explained, holding up the decanter, “This one’s the 1812. Why waste my personal beverage on someone who might not understand it? Fred, I do ask my guests to remove their shoes.”

  Fred said, “Your guests. That leaves me out.”

  Franklin pouted and turned to Reed, twirling the liquid in his snifter while crossing to stand next to the watercolor, just one of thirty some paintings in the room, “You have an excellent eye. Unfortunately, you ask about the one thing in the room I am not in a position to sell. A client—another client, perhaps I should say?—has first refusal.”

  “Reed,” Fred said, “you buy anything from this joker, you are on your own. I’m going to look around. Five minutes, then I’m on my way. You want to stay, that’s up to you.” He patted his back pocket, reminding their host that he carried the man’s identity as well as a good deal of his money, and left the two men talking.

  The bedroom was empty of additional players, and nondescript, but at least the man owned a bed—a queen-sized double with a spread bearing an Aztec motif. Lie there, my dear, and we’ll cut out your heart. A writing table held reasonable papers, including bills addressed to Franklin Tilley here, at Fourteen Pekham Street. The closet held enough clothes to prove that Franklin was here for longer than overnight, but didn’t live here. Nobody lived here. The scene was temporary: stage set for Act One, scene two. Next to the bed the top bureau drawer held a set of car keys, complete with a plastic penguin. And a serviceable Lublin .38, loaded.

  Fred, passing the entrance to the main room, saw that Reed was now on his feet. The two men, like old friends, were examining the objects displayed on the walls.

  “It’s your funeral,” Fred grumbled, shrugging. He held the gun where Franklin could see it and told him, “This goes into the toilet,” moving toward the bathroom.

  Franklin’s petulant voice followed him down the hall. “Honest to God, Fred. That’s not necessary.”

  Chapter Four

  “Mostly Italian but some French,” Tilley was explaining when Fred entered the room again. Reed, having apparently toured the room, was standing again in its geographical center, balancing the snifter but paying no attention to its contents. “So, as I say, the little Cézanne I have to reserve for the time being, ” Franklin went on. “But this Diana from the School of Fontainebleau is worth a detour, no? The Greuze portrait is said to be of the Duke of—I forget—It’s written down. I don’t guarantee that’s a Mantegna. It might be. We’re waiting on the expertise. It’s good, and it’s fifteenth century.”

  The paintings around the room, too much to take in quickly, especially under the circumstances, projected an aura of authenticity more convincing than Franklin himself could manage. Even the Cézanne Bathers, which might be either fake or a thin effort on the great painter’s part, sat uneasily on the wall, as if impatient of its cage. The picture Franklin described as a possible Mantegna represented Mary Magdalene. No artist in that time or place could exhibit that much nudity without either classical or religious cover. The woman, sitting in a desert landscape, was nude from the waist up, and contemplating a skull that lay in the dirt. The frame was excessive. Many of the frames were excessive, while a few pieces were not framed at all.

  “Interesting collection overall,” Reed said.

  “I came into some money,” Franklin confided. He shrugged. “I like nice things. The Mantegna. What may be a Mantegna…”

  Reed walked over to the Mary Magdalene and took a slow and concentrated look. The work was on a wooden panel, two feet high by two wide. “I wouldn’t have said Mantegna,” he said, bringing his nose to within three inches of the painting’s surface. “Since we’re here, I might as well ask your price. It is for sale?”

  “Three million,” Franklin said smoothly.

  “Indeed.”

  “Because it may be by Mantegna,” Franklin said. “Why take the risk? I sell for less and it turns out to be Mantegna, I’m a fool. We’re looking into it. Getting the expertise. Meanwhile, I like nice things. You yourself, being a collector—I see it in the way you study my walls, Reed—I’m dying to know what little treasures you might be prepared to de-accession, yourself. I’m always open to a trade.”

  Reed, disregarding this opening, continued to walk along the walls, studying other objects. He paused in front of a deep blue-green painting depicting a boar hunt and said, “Let’s have a look at the back.”

  “Of the Mantegna?”

  “Of course.” Reed nodded.

  The painting in its ornate gilded frame was heavy. Franklin struggled as he lifted it off the wall and put it on the floor, turning it so that its back faced into the room. The back was dark wood, well braced with a cradled trelliswork of wooden supports, and showing traces of old paper labels and splotches of crimson sealing wax. Reed fished into the breast pocket of his suit and drew out a magnifying glass through which he examined the back before he turned the painting around and began a minute raking examination of its face.

  “I’m without protection now,” Franklin complained to Fred in a hoarse whisper. “Honest to God, you didn’t have to do that.”

  Reed held his hand up to command silence, and continued his survey. “I need daylight,” he said. “Your price is ridiculous and exploratory, even if this were Mantegna. I shall return tomorrow afternoon with my conservator. I wish to consider the collection in the daylight, at my leisure. You will not need the firearm, I assure you. I am harmless.” He stroked the livid welt on the side of his face. “No, tomorrow won’t do. Tuesday is bad. Wednesday? Shall we say three o’clock?”

  Franklin went through the motions of reflecting on his busy schedule before he agreed to the a
ppointment. “Wednesday is good,” he said. “By then I should have my prize to show you.”

  “Your prize,” Reed said. “That is?”

  Franklin shook his head, put a finger to his lips and grinned. “The keystone of my collection,” he said. “I can’t say more. Though I can tell you…”

  “Yes?” Reed prompted.

  “Actually, in fact, I can’t say anything,” Franklin said.

  “I’ll leave you then,” Reed announced, moving toward the door, Fred following.

  “My wallet,” Franklin Tilley protested.

  “Downstairs,” Fred said.

  “Then, when we get to know each other better, you will introduce me to your own collection,” Franklin wheedled. “Treasures I can only imagine. You have a delicious eye.”

  “I shall look forward,” Reed said. He sat on the painted box next to the door in order to put his shoes on again. The size of a child’s toy chest, its sides were decorated with rather primitive flat angels, gilded arches, and lilies, and its top painted to pass for marble, on which a wreath of laurel leaves was resting. Reed’s backside, in turn, now rested on the wreath of laurels.

  “This box,” Reed said. He smacked his palm next to his right buttock. “It might do for my silver.”

  “It’s painted inside also,” Franklin started.

  “I saw that. It doesn’t matter,” Reed said. “I can line it. Have to line it anyway, to hold silver.”

  “It’s old. I don’t know how old,” Franklin said. “I don’t know what it is.”

  “In any case, it will hold my silver,” Reed said. “It seems solid enough. I’ve been looking for something this size. Though, as you say, it is rather gaudy.”

  “I’ll give you a price on Wednesday,” Franklin said.

  Reed stood and dusted his hands together. “Never mind. I’m looking at one tomorrow. I’m going…”

  “Eight thousand dollars,” Franklin tried.

  “Six thousand would be exorbitant,” Reed said. “But I’m willing to pay for the convenience. If you’ll take six thousand, we can accomplish the transaction now.”

  “Cash,” Franklin said.

  Reed hesitated. “Cash is a different story. Five thousand I can manage.”

  Franklin’s hesitation was palpable, almost entertaining. “It’s highway robbery. But I need cash for another purchase. You’ll have the chest picked up?”

  “We take it now,” Fred broke in.

  Reed looked up at him with surprise. “As Fred observes, the weather is clement. Better that we complete the transaction now. I’ll take it with me. If I may, I shall adjourn and avail myself of the requisite funds. Your washroom?”

  Franklin jerked his head sideways toward the hallway, in the direction of the bathroom Fred had just come from, where the gun stared mutely out of the toilet bowl. “Money belt,” Franklin told Fred, once Reed was out of sight. “You didn’t have to do that. That’s how they carry their cash, these Brahmins. Boston Brahmins. Maybe you’ll come back too, some time.” Fred shrugged, looking at the objects on the man’s walls. It was a bewildering collection. It made no sense. Reed reappeared, his hand crackling with a wad of greenbacks. He handed them to Franklin and made an effort to raise the chest by the metal handles on its ends.

  “Franklin and I will get it down the stairs,” Fred said. “That keeps Franklin out of trouble while we exit the love nest. Take an end, Franklin. I go in front.” He led the procession to the street, Franklin taking his end of the chest obediently, Reed in the rear. When he handed the wallet back he gave Franklin Tilley a final, careful look. The man was sallow and thin, but sufficiently robust not to worry his mother. He could well be the thirty-five years of age the Tilley license showed. His hair was dark and curly, too long for most white-collar professions that did not imply an artistic orientation.

  “Wednesday, then, three o’clock,” Franklin confirmed. “Be prepared to have your eyes knocked out. In case I get the other thing in time. When may I return the visit? I must see…Sorry about the misunderstanding before. No hard feelings. And you’ll bring your conservator? Wednesday afternoon. I’ve been looking for a conservator. Maybe…” He pocketed the wallet as he turned into the house, leaving the two men on the sidewalk next to Reed’s painted chest.

  Chapter Five

  “Are you out of your flaming mind?” Fred demanded. “After the way the guy set you up, you leave him with a wad of cash? Even if you find a taxi at one-thirty in the morning, this damned toy chest won’t fit, unless you find a wagon. What’s the plan?” He broke off. Reed was trembling like a leaf in a high wind.

  “I live on Mountjoy,” Reed said.

  “That’s not far. You can walk it. No, obviously you can’t. We’ll walk it over,” Fred said. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

  The older man had stood undecided, watching as Fred hoisted the box onto his shoulder. It was a heavy, substantial object. “Be careful, for God’s sake,” Reed protested. He stood trembling under the streetlight. The color had left his face, but for the red welt on his cheek. “I’m faint,” he said. “I’m going to faint.” He sat suddenly on the bottom step of the brownstone they had just come from, breathing hard, and put his head with its mad tousle of white hair between his knees. Fred balanced the box.

  “There was nothing wrong with the brandy. Anyway, you didn’t drink it,” Fred said. “What’s wrong? Regrets? A fool and his money? I could, but I’m not going back for your money. You knew better. Hell, at your age you should know it’s not safe to go cruising bars for young men. ”

  The older man shook his head and looked up vaguely, as if Fred were speaking from deep underground, and in Swahili. “The desecration! I sat on it! Sat on it! You saw me. As if I were at Brooks Brothers selecting shoes! Forgive me, I am moved.” His voice was tremulous with shock and chagrin. But it was strong. He didn’t require medical attention.

  “Let’s hump this thing to Mountjoy,” Fred said. Reed, sitting up straight again, breathed a deep lungful from the cool dark air of springtime. “It is like sitting on the Ark of the Covenant. I shall never be forgiven. Lightning should strike. God help me, there was no other way.”

  “Let’s move out, Reed,” Fred said. “Your Ark of the Covenant weighs a fair piece.”

  Reed said, standing slowly, “You spotted that man’s game. You saved my life.”

  “Maybe,” Fred said. “I doubt it. The gun was next to the bed. Some people do that. Let him spend the rest of the night cleaning and drying it out.”

  “It’s fortunate for me, your appearing when you did. I’m grateful to you, Sir. Fred. Clayton is fine, or Clay. My first name. We have become familiar, although we do not know each other. Thank you. I would appreciate your extending your courtesy as far as my home on Mountjoy Street. Truly, I am overcome. My heart is racing.”

  “Not my business. There may be a lesson here,” Fred said.

  Clayton smoothed the drape of his suit and the two men descended the hill and turned onto Charles Street again, heading left, in the direction of the Boston Garden. The night mist had grown heavier, but it was still warm for May, and the air was filled with the promise of spring blooming. They had the street to themselves.

  Clay muttered, “He struck me! Then he has the gall to invite himself into my home? Mantegna indeed! What did he take me for? Magdalene was never a Mantegna subject. Show me a Magdalene by Mantegna. I defy you!”

  Fred said, “Where did he pick you up?”

  “I met him tonight at the M.F.A,” Clay said. “Not ‘cruising’ in a bar. Perhaps you meant no insult. Still, one might take exception to your implication. The M.F.A. is Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts. They were having a do ostensibly to show appreciation to their donors. Mr. Tilley was at my table. It was a dinner following which, as I should have expected, we were rewarded with instructions concerning methods we may use in order to entail our assets to the museum during our lifetimes, preempting later testamentary decisions.”

  “No need to wait t
ill you are dead,” Fred said.

  “They were politely obvious about the whole thing. Next block we turn left. This is exceedingly generous of you. Uphill, I fear. I am an innocent. The sexual motive, if it was proffered at all by Tilley, I missed entirely. I should have seen it. We tend to see no more than what we are prepared for. From our conversation, I gathered only that Tilley owned paintings, and I am interested in paintings. Though there was no suggestion that I would see his collection. No suggestion! Why would I? I do not know the man.

  “I lost track of him during the social mix-up after the program. Then, when everyone was preparing to leave, in the vicinity of the coat room, he materialized at my elbow. He had been friendly over dinner, and—I cannot understand that room or what was in it. He could only be so ignorant if he had inherited everything. Nowhere to sit? The Kashan rug would cost seventy thousand dollars in a shop if you could find it, and if you could bargain it down. At auction fifty thousand. I assure you, he didn’t appear to be drinking or I would never have gotten into a taxi with the man. There was never any idea that I would go into his abode. The drink, fraudulent as it was, did not seem to come over him until after he’d given the driver his address.”

  Fred said, “He was playing the wounded bird until he could get you into his trap.”

  “Could he think I would do anything so dishonorable as to engage in a serious financial transaction with a man who is incapacitated?”

  They’d passed the shop over which she was sleeping. What was her name? Patsy? Had she spread the sheet drowsily across herself? Caroline? They turned onto Mountjoy now. It was steep going.

  “Maybe he only wanted to knock you on the head and feed you cooking brandy,” Fred suggested, “then snatch your money belt.”

  “You are commendably alert. The brandy the man offered was, indeed, undrinkable. Following which he had the insufferable gall to regale himself, in front of me, with an old Napoleon. I could smell it. Exquisite. Which he downed as if it were drugstore coffee. He understands his liquor as well as he does the rest of his collection. He drank it because of its cost, and not its nose. In every way, a despicable fellow.”