The Palace Guard (8 page)

So this was Bill Jones, the hot painting expert. Sarah wondered how soon Bill would approach her with a nice bargain in Vuillards. After the ritual half hour for coffee in the library she went up to her sitting room, rather expecting that Bittersohn and his secret agent would soon follow. They did not. She’d just about decided that they’d gone downstairs to Bittersohn’s room or that Jones had eloped with Miss LaValliere when they appeared, Bittersohn beckoning mysteriously as he eased the door open, Jones sliding along the walls and slipping noiselessly into the room. Sarah waited breathless for one of them to produce the Maltese Falcon.

Bill Jones, however, merely selected the seat farthest from the light, melted into the upholstery, and murmured almost inaudibly, “You called it, pal.”

Bittersohn nodded. “What’s your count?”

“I make it fifty-seven. Most professional job I ever saw.”

“I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me who’s involved.”

Bill shook his head. “Nobody I know.”

“Bill, old buddy, this is Max you’re talking to, remember?”

“Pal, I’m leveling. I don’t know.”

“But, Jesus, Bill, don’t you even have a clue?”

Jones shook his curly black locks. “I even”—he waggled his dainty hands and looked from under his lids as if he were about to utter an impropriety—“like, you know, asked around. All I can tell you is it’s a beautiful job. Clams by the bucket, man!”

Sarah could bear it no longer. “Would you two please tell me precisely what you’re talking about?”

Both men looked at her as if she were somewhat feebleminded. “Bill was explaining,” said Bittersohn, “that he has personal knowledge of fifty-seven originals from the Madam’s that have been sold out of Boston, that he hasn’t the faintest idea who stole them, and that the proceeds from the sales must have run into many millions of dollars unless the thief is an idiot, which doesn’t seem possible. Where did the paintings go, Bill?”

“Around. You know.”

“Any to New York?”

“No, too close. The guy’s an artist,” said Jones with due respect.

“Speaking of artists, who does the copies?”

Bill shrugged. “I don’t know, but it’s all one guy.”

“You sure of that?”

Bill shrugged again.

“Sorry,” Bittersohn apologized. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“But how could one person do so many?” cried Sarah. “I met someone who does that sort of thing and she says it takes ages because one has to be so careful about the details.”

“Practically a life work,” Bill agreed, “but it’s been going on for a long time. That little Giotto hanging to the right of the fireplace in the music room was fenced on October first, 1959, through a sporting goods dealer named Mickey Brannigan down in the old neighborhood.”

“Sporting goods dealer means a person who buys and sells stolen goods, Mrs. Kelling,” Bittersohn explained before she could embarrass him by asking. “Mickey’s dead now, I suppose.”

“Su-ure. Long ago.”

Otherwise Bill wouldn’t have ratted, Sarah thought. She wondered what Brannigan had died of but thought she’d better not ask.

“How many of the Madam’s paintings did Brannigan fence?” said Bittersohn.

“Just the one. Mickey wasn’t an art man. He handled like general merchandise. I can’t find anybody who’s handled more than one or two.”

“Then who makes the contacts? That’s a hell of a job, Bill.”

“You’re telling me, Maxie? I wish I knew. I’d like to shake his hand. Or hers.”

“You sure it’s not theirs?”

“Look, pal, this little caper’s been going on for a lot of years and there hasn’t been a leak yet. Like they say, two people can keep a secret if one of them’s dead, right?”

Bittersohn nodded. “Fifty-seven fakes, eh?”

“I’d say a lot more than fifty-seven, but that’s your department. The Madam probably got stuck with a bunch of old ones in the first place. Fifty-seven originals fenced within the past thirty years and fifty-seven copies all from the same hand hanging in the palazzo now. That’s all I can tell you for sure, Max. Well, I’ve got to blow. Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Kelling. Nice to have met you.” He managed to convey a subtle impression that the meeting had been a great deal more than nice. “If I find out any more, Maxie, I’ll be in touch.”

“Do that. See you, Bill.”

“Su-ure.” Their guest slunk off down the back stairs, keeping in the shadows.

“I suppose he’s on his way to some den of vice,” Sarah observed rather wistfully.

Bittersohn shook his head. “As a matter of fact, he’s going to a poetry reading at Wheelock College. How would you like to invite C. Edwald Palmerston to tea and crumpets or something?”

“You can’t be serious! You have no idea what he’s like.”

“That’s why I think it might be nice to get acquainted.”

“Nice is not the operative word. If you’d said helpful or productive—”

“Okay, helpful or productive, so how about it?”

“If I must, but I’m not having him here without someone to back me up. Would Wednesday be good for you? That’s Mrs. Sorpende’s afternoon off.”

Bittersohn raised an eyebrow. “Mrs. Sorpende’s getting awfully indispensable around here all of a sudden. You wouldn’t have been cutting her rent by any chance?”

“How clever of you! But she’s such a darling and she’s led such a rotten life and she makes so little at that tea shop and she does love it here. And if I let her go, Professor Ormsby would probably leave, too.”

“Ormsby will be leaving in any case. He’s a visiting professor, his year at MIT will be up in May, and he’s got a wife and five kids in Michigan.”

“Good heavens! Should I drop a hint to Mrs. Sorpende, do you think.”

“If she doesn’t already know, she’d better get out of the tea leaf business. Don’t worry, Mrs. Sorpende’s been taking care of herself a lot longer than you have. He hasn’t been having an affair with her or anything, has he?”

“Not around here he hasn’t. As far as I know he just sits and stares.”

“Can’t hang a man for that, can you? So you’ll fix it up with Palmerston for Wednesday afternoon, right?”

“Will you promise faithfully to be here if he comes?”

“That’s the object of the exercise. Not to put too fine a point on it, I want to shock him into hiring me to find out who’s been pinching all the Madam’s paintings. Then I’ll also have a good excuse to keep an eye on your cousin Brooks.”

“Oh, then of course I’ll call him this minute.”

Sarah had at last consented to Bittersohn’s repeated urgings that she have an extension phone in her own room. She called from there and received such a fulsome response that she began to wonder if Lydia Ouspenska had, after all, known whereof she spoke regarding Palmerston and women. Bittersohn then went off on one of his mysterious bits of business and Sarah went downstairs to see if Mrs. Sorpende was still in the library and amenable to helping her entertain Brooks’s new boss.

“I shall be delighted to do anything I can to further Mr. Brooks Kelling’s career,” the lady replied graciously. “He is a most knowledgeable man and a delightful conversationalist. His observations on the water ouzel and the ruby-crowned kinglet were highly educational, didn’t you think? Perhaps you might allow me to make the sandwiches for tea? I do have professional experience in that line, you know, and I did so enjoy my little adventure in the kitchen on Sunday.”

“We all enjoyed the results, and you certainly may. You’d better make plenty, though. Mr. Palmerston eats like a pig. And,” Sarah added reflectively, “perhaps it might be a good idea to add a little ground glass to the fillings.”

U
NDER DIFFERENT CIRCUMSTANCES SARAH
would have gone to considerable lengths to avoid having tea with C. Edwald Palmerston. Even as it was, she felt the need of some fresh air to brace herself for the ordeal. Around four o’clock, while Mrs. Sorpende was puttering happily around the kitchen and Mariposa was downstairs donning her jazzy orange uniform with new yellow and orange checked ribbons on the cap, Sarah put on her coat and strolled down to Charles Street.

Charles Street, the thoroughfare that runs through the bottom of Beacon Hill on the river side before you get to Storrow Drive and the Esplanade, is noted for its shops: florists’ shops, food shops, boutiques of many sorts, and especially for its antique shops. One of these had a collection of china pug dogs in its window, all of whom appeared to be snarling. Sarah paused to snarl back. As she did, a movement inside the shop caught her eye.

What she’d seen were the exquisite little hands of Bill Jones, flying as they’d done at her own dinner table. She peeked in furtively, as she felt Bill would expect her to. His head was close to the antique dealer’s ear. His lips were barely moving. Sarah had seen plenty of sign language while Aunt Caroline was still alive, though, and those eloquent gestures weren’t hard for her to interpret. Bill was talking about paintings. Stolen paintings. Specifically, those paintings that had been taken from Madam Wilkins’s palazzo.

A third man was in the cluttered room, lounging in a Savonarola armchair. Sarah recognized him, too. That was Bernie, the pianist who had done so much on Sunday to save Nick Fieringer’s concert from total disaster. As far as she could see, he was reasonably sober.

Now what, if anything, did all this mean? Sarah knew the antique dealer slightly. In the grim days after Alexander’s death, when she’d discovered she was flat broke and about to be foreclosed on for non-payment of mortgages she didn’t know she’d inherited, she had gone to this Mr. Hayre in desperation with some of the family antiques. Would he have bought a stolen painting? Recalling what Mr. Hayre had paid her for a Canton tea set and what he’d subsequently sold it for, Sarah thought he probably would. She hurried back to the house, hoping to catch a private word with Mr. Bittersohn, but she got there too late. He was already in the library with Mrs. Sorpende and Mariposa was hovering in the wings, ready to do her stuff with the tea tray.

Punctually on the stroke of five, Mariposa showed C. Edwald Palmerston into the house. At two minutes past, he was bowing over the fair hand of Mrs. Sorpende. At three minutes past, Palmerston was still holding the aforesaid hand. At four minutes past, Max Bittersohn coughed menacingly and Mr. Palmerston released his clutch.

“So good of you to invite me, Mrs. Kelling. Ah me, the last time I entered this house was to pay my respects at the time of your tragic loss: You appear to have made a speedy recovery,” he added, looking askance at the flowered print dress Sarah had picked up for next to nothing in Filene’s Basement under Mariposa’s expert guidance because she was sick and tired of wearing her mother’s old clothes.

“I’m trying to cope,” Sarah replied. “Cream or lemon?”

“Milk please, and two lumps of sugar.” Palmerston settled himself as close as he could get to Mrs. Sorpende and inhaled his refreshment with gusto.

“How are things going at the Madam’s?” asked Bittersohn.

“The Madam’s? I deplore that unfortunate nickname, Mr. Bittersohn. The Wilkins Museum merits the respect of our citizenry as one of Boston’s most venerable institutions. I use the word venerable, of course, in the sense of meriting veneration. As to its actual age, I must confess that I myself can recall the opening, though dimly through the eyes of a mere babe. Ah, dear lady”—Palmerston seized this excuse to pat his neighbor’s plump wrist—
“tempus fugit.”

“How right you are,” said Mrs. Sorpende, edging herself ever so deftly out of reach and perhaps not being quite sure what
tempus fugit
meant but knowing it was generally safe to tell a man he was right.

“Would you happen to remember what the contents of the palazzo were appraised for at the time of the opening?” said Bittersohn.

“Madam Wilkins, to employ the title by which she chose to be known, was said to have spent well over ten million dollars on her paintings and other objets d’art. The value would be immeasurably higher now, needless to say.”

“Would you care to bet on that?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“According to a recent independent survey”—Bittersohn had just retrieved a Matisse for the head of a local advertising agency—“there isn’t twenty thousand dollars’ worth of genuine stuff in the whole palazzo.”

C. Edwald nearly bit a chunk out of a Spode teacup. “But—but that’s preposterous! By what right do you—?”

“You might say I’ve had the matter investigated because I’m a concerned citizen interested in preserving Boston’s cultural treasures. I thought you, as chairman of the board of trustees, ought to be aware of the actual situation.”

“Sir, if this is a joke I find it in poor taste. Who made this alleged survey?”

“Mrs. Kelling can testify that it’s no joke, Mr. Palmerston. I happen to have taken my doctorate in art history. As a result of some things I noticed on a visit to the museum with Mrs. Kelling this past Sunday, I got an acquaintance who specializes in stolen paintings to go have a look. He drew up this list.”

Bittersohn drew out a somewhat grubby sheet of expensive writing paper covered with calligraphy that would have passed muster in any medieval monastery. “As you can see, it shows which of your paintings have been replaced by copies within the past thirty years, and when and where each of the stolen originals passed out of the state. Quite an impressive piece of research, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t believe a word,” said Palmerston, who had turned the color of a spoiled cauliflower.

“This morning,” Bittersohn went on, “I gave a Xerox of this list to one of the curators of paintings at the Metropolitan Museum in New York, who happened to be in Boston on some other business. He spent several hours at the Wilkins and is willing to testify that at least twenty-five of the paintings listed here are modern copies. He didn’t have time to go through the whole list, but he said he’d be willing to come back and have another crack at it.”

“But—but, good heavens! Good heavens!”

“You’d better have another cup of tea, Mr. Palmerston,” Sarah said.

“Tea? Good heavens, I—”

“Brandy, perhaps?” Mrs. Sorpende suggested.

“Yes, yes. Brandy by all means. Ordinarily I abstain but—yes, brandy. Please.”