The Little King suggested disingenuously, “Mister Romano?”
It didn’t faze Kliegman.
Julie concentrated on the food: after the gazpacho, filet of sole—Bolognese, Romano informed her when she asked, cooked with wine, herbs, and parmesan cheese, browned under the broiler at the last minute.
It was during the sole that Romano said: “You know G. T. Campbell, don’t you, Mr. Kliegman?”
Kliegman opened his eyes a little wider. They were half closed most of the time. “I’ve done him, yes.”
“At his home at Maiden’s End?”
“I’ve been there. It’s grotesque. He has no taste. I hope he’s not a friend of yours.”
“I was more interested in your opinion of his collection,” Romano said.
Kliegman flopped his hand at his host. “It’s an exhausting collection, absolutely debilitating.”
“Because of its single theme?” Romano suggested.
“Of course. No matter how many instruments there are in the orchestra, if they don’t play a different tune now and then, we must go mad.”
Romano chortled. So did Julie. Not that it mattered what she did: Kliegman really believed she was Romano’s niece.
Romano said, “But you must admit, he has some good things. The Courbet, for example.”
“Yes,” reluctantly. “And the Tintoretto is very good. Important.”
“What about his Eakins?”
“I don’t like Eakins. He’s so sincere.”
Romano did not contradict. “Campbell has some of your things, doesn’t he?”
“Abominably hung. He’s a segregationist.”
Julie thought she was going to have to figure that one out. But Romano got it right away. “Ah, yes. He has your Musicians.”
“He has my Harlem Musketeers, which is a masterpiece.”
“Of course, of course. I’d forgotten where that was.”
“Which makes my point, doesn’t it?”
Romano nodded, his expression sympathetic. It was lost on the guest of honor, for Alberto had come in with the salad. Romano’s and Julie’s eyes met. It was an electric moment.
Romano turned a bland gaze on Kliegman and said, “I wonder if you have an opinion of his Degas?”
“Ha! In the first place, Mr. Romano, the final painting of The Young Spartans, even as it hangs in the National Gallery, is one of the most static pieces of art ever allowed out of a painter’s atelier. It is small wonder he kept it to himself most of his life. And in the second place, I doubt the authenticity of Campbell’s sketch.”
“Interesting,” Romano murmured. “But he believes in it?”
“Oh, utterly. He’s one of those people who must believe in the authenticity of everything he owns. Otherwise, it devaluates the dollar.”
Romano smiled. “I will show you my collection after lunch, and then perhaps we shall talk business.” He turned to Julie: “The dessert is especially for you, my dear.”
It was oranges in Grand Marnier, sprinkled with shreds of the peel and glazed.
FORTY
AT THREE-THIRTY THAT afternoon, Friday, with Alberto at the tape recorder and Julie on the extension phone, Romano reached G. T. Campbell. He had just come in off the water.
“It must be beautiful up there this afternoon,” Romano said.
“Too damn calm. Only thing moving out there is the tide and you can’t fill your sails with that. Your name’s Romano. Do I know you?”
“Probably not, Mr. Campbell, although, like you, I am a collector of some breadth. I have been persuaded by a young scholar friend to help him put together a Degas exhibition for Los Angeles. I understand you have one of the earliest sketches for The Young Spartans.”
“Well, yes.”
“I wonder if you would be kind enough to see Mr. Scotti this weekend. Alberto Scotti…If you haven’t heard of him, believe me, you will.”
“I think I’ve heard of him,” Campbell said.
“He’s flying on to London the first of the week. Otherwise I wouldn’t press him on you over the weekend. Is Sunday evening possible?”
“Definitely not, Mr. Scotti.”
“Romano. It’s Mr. Scotti I’m sending to see you.”
“Sunday’s out from, say, noon on. No. Let’s just say Sunday’s out, period.”
“Perhaps you would suggest a convenient hour?”
“Is he an early riser?”
Romano, off the telephone: “Are you an early riser, Scotti?” Then: “Any time convenient for you, Mr. Campbell.”
“How’s eight-thirty breakfast tomorrow morning? Put him on the phone so’s I can tell him how to get in here. I keep this place pretty well locked up.”
Julie counted the clicks to be sure Campbell had rung off before she hung up the extension. She returned to the office. Romano was chuckling in self-satisfaction. He said: “Now I am able to believe.” He looked up at Julie. “So, my dear, our fantasy has come true: His Degas is a Young Spartans sketch pedigreed by Edmund Schoen. And Mr. Campbell does seem to want his name in a catalogue.”
“And Sunday’s out,” Julie said. “That’s the day he expects to fork over six hundred thousand in cash for Scarlet Night. Wow.”
Alberto said: “Mr. Romano, I don’t know very much about Degas and I never studied at the Actors Forum. Isn’t there somebody else you could send up there tomorrow morning?”
“Certainly not. You look the part, by which I mean—you know what I mean. And there is a tape of my conversation with the curator who gave me an education on Degas. You will memorize that transcription. What is of equal importance, we must get hold of Andy Davis again and have him instruct you on the preliminaries at least of organizing this exhibit. You should probably go equipped to impress him with the names of, say, a half-dozen private collectors whose paintings you expect to have in the show. I shall provide those for you.”
“Thanks,” Alberto said as though for not much. “And what if Rubinoff shows up for breakfast with us?”
“I can almost certainly assure you that he won’t. But if he does, he will discourage Campbell’s loaning his Young Spartans, not wanting its provenance questioned too closely. But the grounds on which he will object will concern reliability of the sponsors, transport, insurance, etcetera. Which is why we must get you to Andy Davis at once. The weekend is upon us. And I don’t suppose we should overlook the real purpose for which you are going: to put it in the vernacular, to case the joint. If I have faith in you, Alberto, why have you so little in yourself?”
“Because I know what I don’t know.”
“Believe me, that is the best place to start. Do you realize that not having even laid eyes on you, Mr. Campbell provided us with the most important information of all: how to get on the estate whether or not the watchman is on duty? I was touched at so much trust.” He sat in silent musing for a few seconds. “Six hundred thousand dollars. I wonder what denominations…and what sort of transport Rubinoff will be using. Your Irishman may prove of some worth in that matter, Miss Julie.”
Julie said, “Mr. Romano, isn’t it time I called Rubinoff?”
“Yes.” Slowly but emphatically.
In the silence they could all but hear one another’s heartbeats. They were about to set the countercaper rolling.
“The Maude Sloan Gallery would close at five on Sunday. Shall I tell him to come to my house at five?”
Romano rocked back and forth gently and nodded.
“I suppose I’d better ask him for five hundred dollars even though I only paid a hundred.”
“In cash, Miss Julie. Otherwise, he is likely to stop payment on the check Monday morning.”
“I can’t do that. That would make him suspicious.”
“I understand. But it’s a pity.”
Julie made the call from the studio.
“I’ll see if he’s in,” the secretary said. “He may have left for the weekend.”
Rubinoff was not far. “Mrs. Hayes,” he said as though trying to rem
ember. “Ah, yes. Scarlet Night. I wondered if I’d hear from you again.”
“Are you still interested in it?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, but the tone was casual. “Unless of course you are thinking of making money on it.”
Julie was much too uptight to play games. “Five hundred dollars, Mr. Rubinoff. You can have it Sunday, if you want to come to my home for it about five or so.”
“That is inconvenient, Mrs. Hayes. Why not bring it over here this afternoon? Or tomorrow. The gallery will be open even if I’m away.”
“Because I made up my mind to keep Ralph’s painting either until I heard from him—which I haven’t…” She had to catch a little breath…“Or until the show would have closed in the normal course of events.”
“Really,” he said.
She hated him and it helped. “But if you want to let it go for a week or two, that’s all right with me. Only I’ll be away next week.”
“Make it at six on Sunday and I’ll be there. The address, please?”
She gave him the address on Sixteenth Street.
She put the phone down carefully and wiped her palms, one hand in the other.
Romano stood in the doorway. “Bravo!”
“Now I’ve got to call Ginni and play it straight all the way, invite her for a drink and a last look at Scarlet Night.”
“Bravissimo.”
FORTY-ONE
GINNI ARRIVED AT O’GRADY’S at six-thirty. Steph and Tommy groveled when she wafted through the door. And she was a vision, O’Grady admitted, for them who could stand the light. She wore a shimmery gown of bluish-gray fluff with silver slippers and a purse to match. He suspected the earrings were genuine sapphire. What would keep her from harm in this neighborhood: they wouldn’t know her kind from a whore. Beneath the makeup was the first scratching of crowsfeet at the corners of her eyes. In time she would surely look like her mother and O’Grady wished it on her at the earliest possible moment. She draped herself on the daybed, the boys at her feet dramatizing their experiences in New York.
She turned to O’Grady and translated something of her own choice: “You left them alone last night, Johnny.”
“They’re not children. I had an engagement of my own.”
“With whom?” She smiled coyly, as though she could persuade him now that she was jealous.
“Tell me where you were and I’ll tell you,” he said, having a story ready that he hoped not to tell.
“I danced all night,” she said and didn’t want to know about him at all. “Has Rubinoff ever been here before?”
“Never. It’ll tickle that delicate nose of his coming up the stairs.”
“You used to be such a good sport, Johnny. What’s happened to the pixie in you?”
“He’s become an old dwarf. I’ve aged with this caper, that’s the truth.”
“Poor darling.” She leaped from the couch and came to him. “I should never have given you all that responsibility.” She cradled his face in her scented hands.
He caught one of them and held it to his mouth while he twirled his tongue around its palm.
She let him have the other hand across his face, a resounding whack which put everything into proper perspective.
Rubinoff arrived, breathless from climbing the stairs—or from holding his breath while he climbed them. He kissed Ginni on both cheeks. What a sugarplum of a fellow, O’Grady thought. A ripe olive would be more like it. He shook hands with the boys and O’Grady and they all adjourned to the kitchen where there were a table and four chairs. O’Grady went into the bedroom and swept a pile of dirty clothes from the chair and carried it into the kitchen. Ginni had taken the head of the table, Rubinoff the other end, and the boys one side.
“Get the beer, Tommy,” O’Grady said. Tommy jumped up and went to the refrigerator. Steph brought glasses from the cupboard.
“They’re not your servants, you know,” Ginni said to him.
“Nor I yours, madam.” He sat.
Rubinoff was craning his neck to look the place over. “I think this is the room we had better use. Those window shades will have to be drawn all the way, which means the windows must be closed.”
“We’ll suffocate,” Ginni said.
“Maybe we should go to your mother’s,” O’Grady said.
“Very funny.”
Rubinoff said, “Johnny, why don’t you rent an air conditioner? Perhaps you will want to buy one? You’ll be able to afford it.”
“I will, won’t I?” He chuckled and that seemed to provoke the mirth in all of them. Everyone around the table chortled for a second or two in pleasurable anticipation of their approaching affluence. Ginni reached for his hand and squeezed it and O’Grady felt terrible although he kept on laughing.
Rubinoff explained that neither his office nor his apartment provided sufficient privacy, with the security people at one and the doorman at the other.
“I understand,” O’Grady said. He had never before appreciated the privacy of a West Side tenement.
“I should arrive here sometime between nine and ten on Sunday night. But you must not worry if I’m a little late. There may be social amenities I will have to observe.”
Ginni translated the date and the hour for the boys. That glint returned that he had seen in their eyes when she spoke of the money on the day of their arrival. Not a thought of the treasure they had stolen from a country where the people were even poorer than the Irish. O’Grady’s peace with himself was restored.
“I shall have four suitcases,” Rubinoff went on. “And I can’t be expected to manage getting them up here myself.”
“Will they fit in the Porsche?”
“I’ve rented a station wagon for the weekend. I have to deliver pictures out on the Island tomorrow.”
“You’d better let me have the make and the license number to be watching for it.”
“D-A-S 320, a dark red Buick.”
“D-A-S,” O’Grady repeated. “It’s SAD, spelt backwards.”
“I wish you hadn’t said that. I am superstitious.”
“Things like that run to opposites, Rubin,” O’Grady reassured him. “I’ll make it my job to be on the street watching out for you. I spend hours down there sometimes, hanging around just. I can whistle up for the boys if you have trouble parking.”
“That rings true,” Ginni said. She was great at evaluating things by the sound of them. “Let’s get to the nitty-gritty, the money itself.”
“It will be perfectly safe money. Some of it will be bills which have been in circulation; there will be a few packets of twenties. Otherwise, it’s all fifties and hundreds. I’m not going to insult my client by counting it there.” He paused and cleared his throat. “I believe I’ve found a courier for you.”
“A courier for what?” O’Grady said, taken by surprise.
Ginni said, “Johnny, to bring our money over.” She then set about soothing his pride. “You really shouldn’t have to do that. You’ve done so much already.”
“You don’t trust me.”
“I thought you’d be relieved.”
“Oh, I am. And I’m sure you are. You’ll be the sooner done with me entirely.”
“You’re so damned right,” she said, and tossed her head impatiently.
He had misplayed her again, forgetting for the moment that it didn’t matter.
Rubinoff said quietly, “It will cost you twenty percent, Ginni.”
“Jesus Christ!”
O’Grady laughed.
Rubinoff looked at him. “I understood you would want to transfer your funds overseas also.”
“I’ll find my own means of transfer. Here’s one boyo who’s not going into business with the Mafia.”
“Is it the Mafia?” Ginni wanted to know.
“I wouldn’t say that. But it’s not a question one asks directly under the circumstances.”
Without missing a beat she turned to O’Grady. “I don’t know. What do you think, Johnny? Is it all that dan
gerous for you?”
He threw back his head and laughed at the brazenness of her. She gave him her shy, wistful, little-girl smile which, to use a saying of his mother’s, would melt the heart of a wheelbarrow.
Rubinoff said, “Why don’t you let my man handle half? That will make it worth his while and at the same time reduce the risk for you.”
“How do I know he’ll ever show up?” Ginni said.
“Mr. Schoen and I have used him before,” Rubinoff said mournfully as though his own honor had been questioned. “And I’ll be sending money abroad myself for further investment. Perhaps you and I shall do business again?”
“How lovely,” Ginni said.
He took a sip of beer and made a face. It was not his beverage. He looked at his watch. “Can we go over the details of our arrangements now? Then I can run you down to Sixteenth Street. I’ll wait in the car until you come out. I should like to be perfectly sure.”
O’Grady went downstairs with them a few minutes later and watched them drive off in the red station wagon. He called Julie Hayes from the public phone on the corner and told her they were on their way. He started to give her the gist of their plans. She stopped him and gave him a number at which to call her after nine-thirty. “We’d better have a code name for you in case you call me,” he said. “The boys are getting smarter by the hour. How about ‘Dolly’?”
FORTY-TWO
JULIE PUSHED THE BUZZER and watched from the door, where she caught her first glimpse of Ginni as she came running up the stairs, her auburn hair flying.
“Hello!” Ginni cried and gave Julie her hand. “It’s darling of you to do this. I’m a sentimental slob.”
“I don’t mind,” Julie murmured.
Scarlet Night was visible the instant you walked through the door where Julie had hung it in the dining alcove.
“There you are!” Ginni said, addressing herself to the painting. She cast a surreptitious glance around the rest of the apartment. Julie knew what was going through her mind: Scarlet Night in the tiny half-room. It pushed out like a fat woman in an elevator.
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