“We are.”
“B-but . . . But everyone says you don’t exist. Everyone believes that the organization known as the Little Group of Powerful Art Dealers is really owned by ‘The Thirty-nine Steps,’ with the controlling interest vested in Cosa Vostro. It is said that—”
“Yes, yes,” De Sica interrupted. “That is what we desire to have believed; hence our cover identity as the sinister trio operating this gambling syndicate. But it is we three who control the art of the world, and that is why you are here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Show him the list,” Miss Garbo growled.
De Sica produced a sheet of paper and handed it to Muni.
“Be good enough to read this list of articles, Professor. Study it carefully. A great deal will depend on the conclusions you draw.”
Automatic grill-waffler
Steam-spray iron
12-speed electric mixer
Automatic 6-cup percolator
Electric aluminum fry pan
4-burner gas heater-range w. griddle
11-cubic-foot refrigerator plus 170-lb. freezer Power sweeper, canister-type, w. vinyl bumper Sewing machine w. bobbins and needles
Maple-finished-pine wagon-wheel chandelier Opal-glass ceiling-fixture lamp
Hobnail-glass provincial-style lamp
Pull-down brass lamp w. beaded glass diffuser Double-bell black-faced alarm clock
50-piece service for 8, mirror-lite flatware 16-piece service for 4, Du Barry-pattern dinnerware All-nylon pile rug, 9x12, spice beige
Colonial rug, oval, 9x12, fern green
Hemp outdoor “Welcome” mat, 18x30
Sofa-bed and chair, sage green
Round foam-rubber hassock
Serofoam recliner chair w. 3-way mechanism Drop-leaf extension table, seats 8
4 captain’s chairs w. scoop seats
Colonial oak bachelor’s chest, 3 drawers
Colonial oak double dresser, 6 drawers
French Provincial canopy bed, 54 in. wide
After studying the list for ten minutes, Professor Muni put the paper down and heaved a deep sigh. “It reads like the most fabulous buried treasure in history,” he said.
“Oh, it is not buried, Professor.”
Muni sat bolt upright. “You mean these objects actually exist?” he exclaimed.
“Most certainly they do. More of that later. First, have you absorbed the items?”
“Yes.”
“You have them in your mind’s eye?”
“I do.”
“Then can you answer this question: Are these treasures all of a kind, of a style, of a taste?”
“You are obscure, Vittorio,” Miss Garbo growled.
“What we want to know,” Edward Everett Horton burst out, “is whether one man could—”
“Gently, my dear Horton. Each question in its proper sequence. Professor, perhaps I have been obscure. What I am asking is this: Do these treasures represent one man’s taste? That is to say, could the man who—let us say—collected the twelve-speed electric mixer also be the man who collected the hemp outdoor ‘Welcome’ mat?”
“If he could afford both,” Muni chuckled.
“We will, for the sake of argument, say that he can afford all the items on that list.”
“A national government couldn’t afford all of them,” Muni replied. “However, let me think....” He leaned back in his chair and squinted at the ceiling, hardly aware that the Little Group of Powerful Art Dealers was watching him intently. After much face-contorting concentration, Muni opened his eyes and looked around. “Well? Well?” Horton demanded anxiously.
“I’ve been visualizing those treasures in one room,” Muni said. “They go remarkably well together. In fact they would make one of the most impressive and beautiful rooms in the world. If one were to walk into such a room, one would immediately want to know who the genius was who decorated it.”
“Then . . . ?”
“Yes. I would say this was the taste of one man.”
“Aha! Then your guess was right, Greta. We are dealing with a lone shark.”
“No, no, no. It’s impossible.” Horton hurled his B&B glass into the fire, and then flinched at the crash. “It can’t be a lone shark. It must be many men, all kinds, operating independently. I tell you—”
“My dear Horton, pour yourself another drink and calm yourself. You are only confusing the good doctor. Professor Muni, I told you that the items on that list exist. They do.
But I did not tell you that we don’t know where they are at present. We do not for a very good reason; they have all been stolen.”
“No! I can’t believe it.”
“But yes, plus perhaps a dozen more rarities, which we have not bothered to itemize because they are rather minor.”
“Surely this was not a single, comprehensive collection of Americana. I would have been aware of its existence.”
“No. Such a single collection never was and never will be.”
“Ve vould not permit it,” Miss Garbo said.
“Then how were they stolen? Where?”
“By crooks,” Horton exclaimed, waving the Brandy & Banana decanter. “By dozens of different thieves. It can’t be one man’s work.”
“The professor has said it is one man’s taste.”
“It’s impossible. Forty daring robberies in fifteen months? I won’t believe it.”
“The rare objects on that list,” De Sica continued to Muni, were stolen over a period of fifteen months from collectors, museums, dealers and importers, all in the Hollywood East area.
If, as you say, the objects represent one man’s taste—”
“I do.”
“Then it is obvious we have on our hands a rara avis, a clever criminal who is also a connoisseur, or, what is perhaps even more dangerous, a connoisseur who has turned criminal.”
“But why particularize?” Muni asked. “Why must he be a connoisseur? Any average art dealer could tell a crook the value of antique objets d’art. The information could even be obtained from a library.”
“I say connoisseur,” De Sica answered, “because none of the stolen objects has ever been seen again. None has been offered for sale anywhere in the four orbits of the world, despite the fact that any one of them would be worth a king’s ransom. Ergo, we are dealing with a man who steals to add to his own collection.”
“Enough, Vittorio,” Miss Garbo growled. “Ask him the next question.”
“Professor, we now assume we are dealing with a man of taste. You have seen the list of what he has stolen thus far. I ask you, as a historian: can you suggest any object of virtu that obviously belongs in his collection? If a rare item were to come to his attention, something that would fit in beautifully with that hypothetical room you visualized—what might it be? What would tempt the connoisseur in the criminal?”
“Or the criminal in the connoisseur,” Muni added. Again he squinted at the ceiling while the others watched breathlessly.
At last he muttered, “Yes . . . Yes. . . That’s it. It must be. It would be the focal point of the entire collection.”
“What?” Horton cried. “What are you talking about?”
“The Flowered Thundermug,” Muni answered solemnly.
The three art dealers looked so perplexed that Muni was forced to elaborate. “It is a blue porcelain jardiniere of uncertain function, decorated with a border of white and gold marguerites. It was discovered over a century ago by a French interpreter in Nigeria. He brought it to Greece, where he offered it for sale, but he was murdered, and the mug disappeared. It next turned up in the possession of an Uzbek prostitute traveling under a Formosan passport who surrendered it to a quack in Civitavecchia in return for an alleged aphrodisiac.
“The quack hired a Swiss, a deserter from the Vatican Guards, to safeguard him to Quebec, where he hoped to sell the mug to a Canadian uranium tycoon, but he disappeared en route. Ten years later a French acrobat with a Korean pass
port and a Swiss accent sold the mug in Paris. It was bought by the ninth Duke of Stratford for one million gold francs, and has remained in the Olivier family ever since.”
“And this,” De Sica asked keenly, “could be the focal point of our connoisseur’s entire collection?”
“Most definitely. I stake my reputation on it.”
“Bravo! Then our plan is simplicity itself. We much publicize a pretended sale of the Flowered Thundermug to a prominent Hollywood East collector. Perhaps Mr. Clifton Webb is best suited to the role. We much publicize the shipment of the rare treasure to Mr. Webb. We bait a trap in the home of Mr. Webb for our criminal and—Mah! we have him.”
“Will the Duke and Mr. Webb cooperate?” Muni asked.
“They will. They must.”
“They must? Why?”
“Because we have sold art treasures to both of them, Professor Muni.”
“I don’t follow.”
“My good doctor, sales today are entirely on the residual basis. From five to fifty percent of ownership control and resale value of all works of art remain in our possession. We own residual rights in all those stolen objects too, which is why they must be recovered. Do you understand now?”
“I do, and I see that I’m in the wrong business.”
“So. Peter has paid you already?”
“And pledged you to secrecy?”
“I gave my word.”
“Grazie. Then if you will excuse us, we have much work to do.”
As De Sica handed Muni the coil of rope, binoculars and snub-nosed gun, Miss Garbo said, “No.”
De Sica gave her an inquiring glance. “Is there something else, cara mia?”
“You and Horton go and do your vork somevhere else,” she growled. “Peter may have paid him, but I have not. Ve vant to be alone.” And she beckoned Professor Muni to the bearskin.
In the ornate library of the Clifton Webb mansion on Skouras Drive, Detective Inspector Edward G. Robinson introduced his assistants to the Little Group of Powerful Art Dealers. His staff was lined up before the exquisitely simulated trompe-l’oeil bookshelves, and were rather trompe-l’oeil themselves in their uniforms of household servants.
“Sergeant Eddie Brophy, footman,” Inspector Robinson announced. “Sergeant Eddie Albert, second footman. Sergeant Ed Begley, chef. Sergeant Eddie Mayhoff, second chef. Detectives Edgar Kennedy, chauffeur, and Edna May Oliver, maid.”
Inspector Robinson himself was in the uniform of a butler.
“Now, ladies and gents, the trap is baited and set, with the invaluable aid of the Police Costume, Prop and Makeup Department, Deputy Commissioner Eddie Fisher in charge, than which there is none better.”
“We congratulate you,” De Sica said.
“As you very well know,” Robinson continued, “everybody believes that Mr. Clifton Webb has bought the Thundermug from Duke Stratford for two million dollars. They are well aware that it was secretly shipped to Hollywood East under armed guard and that at this very moment the art treasure reposes in a concealed safe in Mr. Webb’s library.” The inspector pointed to a wall, where the combination dial of a safe was artfully set in the navel of a nude by Amedeo Modigliani (2381-2431), and highlighted by a concealed pin spot.
“Vhere is Mr. Vebb now?” Miss Garbo asked.
“Having turned over his palatial mansion to us at your request,” Robinson answered, “he is presently on a pleasure cruise of the Carib with his family and servants. As you very well know, this is a closely guarded secret.”
“And the Thundermug?” Horton asked nervously. “Where is it?”
“Why, sir, in that safe.”
“You mean—you mean you actually brought it over from Stratford? It’s here? Oh, my God! Why? Why?”
“We had to have the art treasure transported, Mr. Horton. How else could we have leaked the closely guarded secret to Associated Press, United Television, Reuters News and the Satellite Syndicate, thus enabling them to take sneak photographs?”
“B-but ... But if it’s actually stolen.... Oh, my God! This is awful.”
“Ladies and gents,” Robinson said. “Me and my associates, the best cops on the Hollywood East force, the Honorable Edmund Kean, Commissioner, will be here, nominally going through the duties of the household staff, actually keeping our eyes peeled, leaving no stone unturned, up to every trick and dodge known in the annals of crime. If anything’s taken, it will not be the Flowered Thundermug; it will be the Artsy-Craftsy Kid.”
“The who?” De Sica asked.
“Your crooked connoisseur, sir. That’s our nickname for him on the Bunco Squad. And now, if you will be good enough to slip out under cover of darkness, using a little-known door in the back garden, me and my associates will begin our simulated domestic duties. We have a hot tip from the underworld that the Artsy-Craftsy Kid will strike—tonight.”
The Little Group of Powerful Art Dealers departed under cover of darkness; the Bunco Squad began the evening household routine to reassure any suspicious observer that life was proceeding normally in the Webb pleasance. Inspector Robinson was to be seen, gravely pacing back and forth before the living room windows, carrying a silver salver on which was glued a wineglass, its interior ingeniously painted red to simulate claret.
Sergeants Brophy and Albert, the footmen, alternately opened the front door for each other with much elaborate formality as they took turns going out to mail letters.
Detective Kennedy painted the garage. Detective Edna May Oliver hung the bedding out the upstairs windows to air. And at frequent intervals Sergeant Begley (chef) chased Sergeant Mayhoff (second chef) through the house with a meat cleaver.
At 2300 hours, Inspector Robinson put the salver down and yawned prodigiously. The cue was picked up by his staff, and the entire mansion echoed with yawns. In the living room, Inspector Robinson undressed, put on a nightgown and nightcap, lit a candle and extinguished the lights. He put out the library lights, leaving only the pin spot focused on the safe dial. Then he trudged upstairs. In other parts of the house his staff also changed to nightgowns, and then joined him. The Webb home was dark and silent.
An hour passed; a clock chimed twenty-four. A loud clank sounded from the direction of Skouras Drive.
“The front gate,” Ed whispered.
“Someone’s coming in,” Ed said.
“It’s the Artsy-Craftsy Kid,” Ed added.
“Keep your voices down!”
“Right, Chief.”
There was a crunch-crunch-crunch of gravel.
“Coming up the front drive,” Ed muttered.
“Oh, he’s a deep one,” Ed said.
The gravel noises changed to mushy sounds.
“Crossing the flower border,” Ed said.
“You got to hand it to him,” Ed said.
There was a dull thud, a stumble and an imprecation.
“Stepped into a flowerpot,” Ed said.
There came a series of thuddy noises at irregular intervals.
“Can’t get it off,” Ed said.
A crack and a clatter.
“Got it off now,” Ed said.
“Oh, he’s slick all right,” Ed said.
There came exploratory taps on glass.
“At the library window,” Ed said.
“Did you unlock it?”
“I thought Ed was going to do that, Chief.”
“Did you, Ed?”
“No, Chief. I thought Ed was supposed to.”
“He’ll never get in. Ed, see if you can unlock it without him seeing—”
A crash of glass.
“Never mind, he’s got it open. You can always trust a pro.”
The window creaked up; there were scrapes and grunts as the midnight intruder climbed through. When he finally stood upright in the library, his silhouette against the beam of the pin spot was apelike. He looked around uncertainly for some time, and at last began searching aimlessly through drawers and cupboards.
“He’ll never find it,” Ed
whispered. “I told you we should have put a sign under the dial, Chief.”
“No, trust an old pro. See? What’d I tell you? He’s spotted it. All set now?”
“Don’t you want to wait for him to crack it, Chief?”
“Catch him red-handed.”
“For God’s sake, that safe’s burglar proof. Come on now. Ready? Go!”
The library was flooded with light. The thief started back from the concealed safe in consternation, to find himself surrounded by seven grim detectives, all leveling guns at his head. The fact that they were wearing nightshirts did not make them look any less resolute. For their part, the detectives saw a broad-shouldered, bullnecked burglar with a lantern jaw. The fact that he had not altogether shaken off the contents of the flowerpot and wore a Parma violet (Viola pallida plena) on his night shoe, did not make him look any less vicious.
“And now, Kid, if you please,” Inspector Robinson said with the exaggerated courtesy that made his admirers call him the Beau Brummel of the Bunco Squad.
They bore the malefactor off to headquarters in triumph.
Five minutes after the detectives departed with their captive, a gentleman in full evening cloak sauntered up to the front door of the Webb mansion. He rang the doorbell. Prom within came the music of the first eight bars of Ravel’s Bolero played on full carillon orchestra in waltz tempo. While the gentleman appeared to wait carelessly, his right hand slid through a slit in his cloak and rapidly tried a series of keys in the lock. The gentleman rang the bell again. Midway through the second rendition of the Bolero, he found a key that fitted.
He turned the lock, thrust the door open a few inches with a twist of his toe, and spoke pleasantly, as to an invisible servant inside.
“Good evening. I’m afraid I’m rather late. Is everybody asleep, or am I still expected? Oh, good. Thank you.” The gentleman entered the house, shut the door behind him softly, looked around at the dark, empty foyer, and grinned. “Like taking candy from kids,” he murmured. “I ought to be ashamed of myself.
He located the library, entered and turned on all the lights. He removed his cloak, lit a cigarette, noticed the bar and then poured himself a drink from one of the more appealing decanters. He tried it and gagged. “Ack! A new horror, and I thought I knew them all. What the hell is it?” He dipped his tongue into the glass. “Scotch, yes; but Scotch and what?” He sampled again. “My God, it’s broccoli juice.”
Selected Stories of Alfred Bester Page 44
