Nightwork (28 page)

The thought had crossed my mind that he was attempting, for some private reason of his own, to corrupt me. But if so, he was doing it in a most peculiar way. Ever since we had left Paris, he had treated me in a semiaffectionate, semicondescending manner, like a sophisticated uncle entrusted for a short while with the worldly education of an untutored nephew from a backward part of the world. Things had moved so fast, and the future he outlined seemed so bright, that I had had neither the time nor the inclination to complain. The truth was that, during those first days, despite my moments of panic, I felt myself lucky to have lost my suitcase to him. I hoped that before long I could manage to behave very much as he did. In other eras the virtues for which heroes were celebrated were such commonplaces as courage, generosity, guile, fidelity, and faith, and hardly ever included, as far as I could remember, aplomb. But in our uneasy time, when most of us hardly know where we stand, cannot say with confidence whether we are rising or falling, advancing or retreating, whether we are loved or hated, despised or adored, aplomb attains, at least for people like myself, a primary importance. Whatever Miles Fabian may have lacked, he had aplomb.

“Something has come up,” Fabian said. “In Lugano.” We were in the living room of his suite, littered, as usual, with American, English, French, German, and Italian newspapers, all opened to the financial pages. He was still in his bathrobe, having his morning coffee. I had had my morning Alka-Seltzer in my room on the floor below.

“I thought we were going to Gstaad,” I said.

“Gstaad can wait.” He stirred his coffee vigorously. For the first time I noticed that his hands looked older than his face. “Of course, if you want, you can go to Gstaad without me.”

“Is it business in Lugano?”

“Of a sort,” he said carelessly.

“I’ll go to Lugano with you.”

He smiled. “Partner,” he said.

We were in the new blue Jaguar an hour later, with Fabian at the wheel, heading for the San Bernardino Pass. He drove swiftly, even when we climbed into the Alps, and hit patches of ice and snow. He said hardly a word until we had gone through the enormous tunnel and emerged on the southern slopes of the mountain range. He seemed abstracted, and I knew him well enough by now to understand that he was working something out in his head, probably just how much he wanted to tell me about the day’s business and how much he wanted to leave out.

It had been overcast all the way from Zurich, but we hit another weather pattern when we got out of the tunnel, and the sun was shining brightly, only occasionally obscured by high, fast-moving white clouds. The sun seemed to change Fabian’s mood, and he whistled softly to himself as he drove. “I suppose,” he said, “you would like to know why we’re going to Lugano.”

“I’m waiting,” I said.

“There’s a German gentleman of my acquaintance,” he said, “who happens to live in Lugano. There has been a great influx of Germans, wealthy ones, in that section since the German Economic Miracle. The climate of the Ticino appeals to them. And the banks. You’ve heard of the German Economic Miracle?”

“Yes. What does the German gentleman of your acquaintance do?”

“Hard to say.” Fabian was dissimulating now and we both knew it. “A little of everything. Dabbles in old masters. Adds to his fortune. We have had one or two minor dealings. He called me in Zurich last night. He mentioned a small favor I might do for him. He would show his gratitude. Nothing is fixed as yet. It’s still very vague. Don’t worry—if it amounts to anything, you’ll be in on every detail.”

When he talked like that, there was no use in asking any more questions. I turned on the radio and we descended into the green Ticino to the accompaniment of a soprano singing an aria from
Aida
.

In Lugano we checked into a new hotel situated on the lake shore. There were flowers everywhere. The spiky fronds of palm trees waved gently in the southern breeze, and people in summery clothes were sitting out on the terrace having tea. It was almost Mediterranean, and I could understand why the climate of the Ticino might appeal to a northern and refrigerated race. In the glassed-in swimming pool adjoining the terrace, a robust blonde woman was methodically swimming lap after lap.

“All the hotels have had to put in pools,” Fabian said. “You can’t swim in the lake anymore. Polluted.”

The lake stretched out blue and sparkling in the warm sunshine. I remembered the old man in the bar in Burlington complaining that Lake Champlain would be as dead as Lake Erie in five years.

“When I first came to Switzerland after the war,” Fabian said, “you could swim in every lake, in every river, even.” He sighed. “Times do not improve. Now, if you’ll ask the waiter for a bottle of Dezaley for us, I’ll go in and call my friend and make the necessary arrangements. I won’t be long.”

I ordered the wine and sat in the late-afternoon sunshine, enjoying the view. The necessary arrangements Fabian was making on the telephone must have been complicated because I had drunk almost half the bottle of wine before he came back. “Everything in order,” he said cheerfully, as he sat down and poured himself a glass. “We have a date to see him at six o’clock at his villa. His name, by the way, is Herr Steubel. I won’t tell you anything more about him just yet. …”

“You haven’t told me
anything
so far,” I reminded him.

“Just so. I don’t want you to have any preconceptions. You have no prejudices against Germans, I trust?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Good,” he said. “Too many Americans are still fighting World War Two. Oh, incidentally, to explain your presence to Herr Steubel, I said that you were Professor Grimes of the Art Department of the University of Missouri.”

“Good God, Miles!” I spluttered over my wine. “If he knows
anything
about art, he’ll catch on in ten seconds that I’m an absolute ignoramus.” Now I realized why Fabian had been so quiet and thoughtful on the first half of our journey. He had been cooking up a useful identity for me.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Fabian said. “Just look grave and judicious if he shows us anything. And when I ask your opinion, hesitate … you know how to hesitate, don’t you?”

“Go on,” I said grimly. “What do I do after I hesitate?”

“You say, ‘At first glance, my dear Mr. Fabian, it would seem to be authentic.’ But you would like to come back tomorrow and study it more carefully. In the light of day, so to speak.”

“But what’s the sense in it?”

“I want him to spend a nervous night,” Fabian said calmly. “It will make him more generous in his arrangements tomorrow. Just remember not to show any undue enthusiasm.”

“That’ll be the easiest thing I’ve done since I met you,” I said sourly.

“I know I can depend on you, Douglas.”

“How much is all this going to cost us?”

“That’s the beauty of it,” Fabian said gaily. “Nothing.”

“Explain.” I sat back in my chair and crossed my arms.

“I’d really rather not at the moment,” Fabian said. He sounded annoyed. “It would be much better if we just let things work themselves out. I expect a certain amount of taking on trust between us …”

“Explain or I don’t go,” I said.

He shook his head irritably. “All right,” he said, “if you insist. For reasons of his own, Herr Steubel is breaking up a family collection. He believes that by doing it this way he can avoid lawsuits from distant members of the family. And, naturally, he prefers not to pay the grotesque taxes imposed by various governments on this kind of transaction. To say nothing of the difficulties with customs officials when one attempts to ship national art treasures out of one country and into another. …”

“Are you suggesting that you and I are going to smuggle whatever this art treasure is out of Switzerland?”

“You know me better than that, Douglas.” His tone was reproachful.

“Tell me,” I said, “what are we doing? Are we buying or selling?”

“Neither,” Fabian said. “We are simply agents. Honest agents. There is a South American of great wealth, who happens to be an acquaintance of mine …”

“Another acquaintance.”

“Exactly.” Fabian nodded. “I happen to know that he is a lover of Renaissance painting and is willing to pay handsomely for authentic examples. South American countries are noted for their discretion in their handling of the importation of art treasures. There are perhaps thousands of great European pictures that have sailed quietly across the ocean and are now hanging safely on South American walls that no one will even
hear
of for the next hundred years.”

“You said we weren’t taking anything out of Switzerland,” I said. “The last time I looked at a map, Switzerland was not in South America.”

“Don’t be witty, Douglas, please,” Fabian said. “It ill becomes you. The particular South American I have in mind is at present in St. Moritz, where all good things abound. He is a dear friend of his country’s ambassador, and the diplomatic pouch is always available for his use. He hinted that he is willing to go as high as one hundred thousand dollars. And I believe that Herr Steubel could be influenced to pay a fair percentage of that as our commission.”

“What’s a fair percentage in this kind of deal?” I said.

“Twenty-five percent,” Fabian said promptly. “Twenty-five thousand dollars for merely taking a five-hour, absolutely legal drive through the picturesque scenery of beautiful Switzerland. Now do you understand why I told you in Zurich that Gstaad could wait?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Don’t say it so glumly,” Fabian said. “Oh—incidentally—the painting that we are going to see is a Tintoretto. As a professor of art you should be able to recognize it. You will remember the name, won’t you?”

“Tintoretto,” I said.

“Excellent.” He beamed at me. He drained his glass. “This wine is delicious.” He poured for both of us.

It was dark when we reached the villa of Herr Steubel. It was a squat, two-story house built of stone, perched high on an unlit, narrow road overlooking the lake. No lights could be seen through the closed shutters on the windows.

“Are you sure this is the place?” I asked Fabian. It did not look like the mansion of a man who was in the process of breaking up a family collection of old masters.

“Positive,” Fabian said, as he turned off the ignition of the car. “He gave me explicit instructions.”

We got out of the car and walked on a path through a small overgrown garden to the front door. Fabian pushed the bell. I heard nothing from within. I had the feeling that we were being watched from somewhere. Fabian pushed the bell again and the door finally creaked open. A tiny old lady in a lace cap and an apron said, “
Buona sera
.”

“
Buona sera
, signora,” Fabian said, as we went in. The old lady led the way, limping, down a dimly lit hall. There were no pictures on the walls.

The old lady opened a heavy oak door and we went into a dining room lit by a heavy crystal chandelier over the table. A huge bald man with a heavy paunch and a beard like a New Bedford whaling captain’s was standing waiting for us, dressed in a creased corduroy suit that included a pair of short knickers, under which the man’s massive calves were brilliant in red wool stockings. Behind him, unframed, lit by the chandelier, hung a dark painting pinned by artist’s tacks to the plain, yellowish wall. The painting was of a madonna and child, perhaps thirty inches wide and a yard long.

The man greeted us in German, with a little bow, as the old lady went out, closing the door behind her.

“Unfortunately, Herr Steubel,” Fabian said, “Professor Grimes does not understand German.”

“In that case, we will speak English, of course,” Herr Steubel said. He spoke with an accent, but it was not heavy. “I am happy you could come. Could I offer you gentlemen some refreshment?”

“It’s good of you, Herr Steubel,” Fabian said, “but I’m afraid we haven’t the time. Professor Grimes has a call to make at seven o’clock to Italy. And after that to America.”

Herr Steubel blinked and rubbed the palms of his hands together, as though they were sweating. “I trust the professor can get through to Italy promptly,” he said. “The telephone system in that misguided country …” He didn’t finish his sentence. I had the distinct impression that he didn’t want anybody to call anywhere.

“If I may,” I said, taking a step toward the painting on the wall.

“Please.” Herr Steubel stepped out of the way.

“You have the documents, of course?” I said.

He rubbed his hands together again, only harder this time. “Of course. But not with me. They are in my … my home in … in Florence.”

“I see,” I said coldly.

“It would be a matter of a few days,” Steubel said. “And I understood from Herr Fabian that there is a time element …”

He turned toward Fabian. “Didn’t you tell me the gentleman in question was scheduled to leave by the end of the week?”

“I may have,” Fabian said. “I honestly don’t remember.”

“In any case,” Herr Steubel said, “here is the painting. I am sure I do not have to tell the professor that it speaks very eloquently for itself.”

I could hear him breathing heavily as I stepped up to the painting and stared at it. If it was Fabian’s plan to make the man nervous, he was succeeding admirably.

After about a minute of silent scrutiny, I shook my head and turned around. “Of course I may be wrong,” I said, “but after the most superficial inspection, I would have to say that it is not a Tintoretto. It may be the
school
of Tintoretto, but I doubt even that.”

“Professor Grimes!” Fabian said, his voice pained. “Surely you can’t believe—in one minute—in artificial light …”

Herr Steubel’s breath was coming in short, labored gasps and he was leaning against the dining-room table for support.

“Mr. Fabian,” I said crisply, “you brought me along to give my opinion. I’ve given it.”

“But we owe it to Herr Steubel …” Fabian was hunting for words and pulling furiously at his moustache. “Out of common courtesy … I mean … give it a few hours’ thought. Come back tomorrow. In daylight. Why … why … this is frivolous. Frivolous. Herr Steubel says he has documents …”