Julie thought of O’Grady instantly. Only two people had been in the shop since her return—and one dog. “I think I know the other member of the gang. I’m almost sure of it, an Irish-American merchant seaman, an I.R.A. man named Sean O’Grady. Mrs. Ryan brought him in. And of course! That’s how Rubinoff could know I’m Mrs. Geoffrey Hayes!”
Romano watched her with a bemused expression as though he sensed the associations banging around in her head. Then: “Mrs. Ryan—do I need to know who she is?”
“I don’t think so. But you do know: she lives at the Willoughby, where Laura Gibson lived…” Julie stopped.
Romano lifted one finger to his lips. “I have her placed now,” he said of Mrs. Ryan. “And may we suppose of this I.R.A. man that he is one of Ginni’s radical political associates?”
“That figures.”
“Then we must assume he is fanatical—and dangerous.”
“He reads poetry.”
“My dear, some of my best friends read bedtime stories to their children.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
O’GRADY KEPT LOOKING DOWN the street, watching every cab for Ginni’s return. Hour climbed upon hour, and where he had been hurt at being left out of the meeting between her and Rubinoff, he was now getting angrier by the minute. “The boys” were settled in. It had taken them no time at all, given the signal by Ginni. She had gone in and snatched the coverlet from the double bed, and whatever she had said to them, the boys had crossed themselves, bowed their heads, and O’Grady supposed, said a prayer for the repose of Ma’s soul. After that, they lugged their suitcases into the bedroom and began to unpack. After trying to convey something to him which he understood only after the fact, they removed his winter woolens from the bottom drawers of the chiffonier, replaced them with their clothes, and stored his in their suitcases which they then shoved under the bed. Stripped down to their shorts, they were as lean and muscled as young colts. He wondered if Ginni was sleeping with both of them, and maybe at the same time: there was nothing in that line he’d put past her.
O’Grady told himself over and over the one thing he should not do and finally did it: he called Rubinoff’s office. The secretary told him Mr. Rubinoff was in conference.
“Ask him to call O’Grady.”
“Mr. O’Grady, I have a message for you. Miss Bordonelli said to tell you she would call you later from her mother’s house.”
“And how was I to get the message, miss, if I hadn’t called?”
“She said you would call.”
He could have choked on his rage. Mostly because he had called. “Well, thank you,” he managed. Then: “Miss? Do you mind telling me the hour of Mr. Rubinoff’s flight?”
“The trip has been postponed.”
He put the phone down gently, a kind of masochism, and turned to discover the boys hovering behind him, wanting to know, by sign or signal, what was happening.
“No comprenez!” he shouted at them.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“THE TIME WE ARE given, Miss Julie, depends entirely on their confidence in you. They must somehow be persuaded that you have the painting at home, that you in no way suspect what is between the canvases, and that you will surrender it to Rubinoff at a time satisfactory to everyone.”
“That’s a lot of persuasion,” Julie said.
“I hate to spend time on this concern, but we must. The fact that your shop was broken into last night conveys their anxiety. It also tells us that they are unable to reach the artist, and are themselves pressed for time. We may be quite certain that Rubinoff will not confide this misfortune to his collector. But from their having broken into the shop and learned that the painting was not there, we must assume they may attempt a break-in of your home. And that, my dear, simply must not happen. It would be an utter tragedy if they were caught.”
Julie laughed.
“Oh, I’m quite serious. They are doing badly enough with all their members. I should hate them to be deprived at this point. The whole mission might come apart.”
Julie said, “Mr. Romano, I don’t think they will attempt a break-in on Sixteenth Street. The shop was easy. And then there’s Jeff to deal with, not just me. If only we could get a message to them accidentally.”
“You may well be right,” Romano said on reconsidering.
“I could probably get next to Sean O’Grady through Mrs. Ryan and the Irish patriot and poetry bit—but what would I say to him?”
“Nothing. I don’t want you approaching him at all. I believe him to be dangerous. If he tries to see you in this period, I hope you will insist on this Mrs. Ryan’s being present—or else meeting him in a public place.”
It was curious, Julie thought, his feeling about O’Grady, and he had never seen him. “If I were going to pick out the dangerous one, I’d bet on Ginni. Hey, if she’s coming over, they’re not going to make another move till she gets here, not after last night.”
“So, shall we also wait for Ginni?”
Julie nodded. “Or until they make another move.”
Romano beamed. “This is going to be an absolutely stunning collaboration. Let us proceed and allow ourselves no more than two days to discover the name of the collector.”
He took a folder from his desk which contained several pages from a legal pad covered with notations. “This is on tape, by the way, if you should want to refer to it. Alberto will help you until we have the tapes transcribed. I have someone coming to work on that tonight. Now:
“Starting from the Leonardo—male nude running. It is a study for a larger work, the Battle of Anghiari. Leonardo was under the influence of Michelangelo here. I mention this because it raises the question of why this particular Leonardo when Michelangelo who is at least somewhat available does the same thing—if not better, more dramatically. The question remains: is our collector interested simply in adding a Leonardo to his cabinet? Any Leonardo? Or something in this particular drawing?
“Is he interested in, One, Renaissance drawings—or, Two, Italian Renaissance drawings—or, Three, sketches or studies for masterpieces? Or possibly he collects on a theme: Four, the nude in art—or, Five, the male nude—or, Six, athletics, the athlete in art—or, Seven, war?
“If you can think of any category to add, please do. This is only a point of departure for us. It may turn out to be irrelevant.”
“I like the number seven,” Julie said. She had opened her notebook when he took the folder from his desk. She jotted down the themes.
“May I go on? You must forgive me if I repeat myself: there are few private collections of master drawings today. Most of them have gone to museums, and new collections are not being made simply because too many people are interested in art. The unattributed find that turns out to be a master is most rare. The bins in London, Rome, Paris conceal few treasures, and sadder still, there are very few scholars poking through them. They are waiting in comfortable offices for people to bring in their inheritances.
“It is natural, with this diminishing supply of available masters, that a watch within the marketplace be set up. An international gallery with whom I have had the good fortune to do a small business has a virtual network of informants on the whereabouts of art. If we can arrive at one likely work of art in the collection, I may be able to get a lead from them to the collector.
“There is information to be got from the practices and clientele of Edmund Schoen, but our quest is too diffuse to go there yet…
“Our immediate and vital source has to be Rubinoff himself, and I have had someone working on that for several hours. He must call me by two o’clock no matter what his information.” It was ten minutes before the hour.
“Mr. Romano, suppose this collector lives in Los Angeles or Las Vegas or Texas somewhere?”
“It could be managed, but without us. We must pray.”
All right. But Julie didn’t say anything.
Romano smiled wickedly. “The devil is permitted to quote scripture.”
One of the ext
ension buttons on the phone lit up. Romano wrote down the number given to him by the person monitoring his phone. It was eerie to watch the process from this end.
Before he started to dial, he bade Julie go to the phone in the studio. “We shall have it on tape, but better you hear it for yourself as it develops. The man is Andrew Davis. He is a dealer who hustles more than most of his colleagues would admit to approving. He knows more people’s business than anyone else in the art arena. The information he gives me will be reliable and confidential.”
He started to dial and Julie hurried.
After the amenities, the man said: “I’ll answer your questions in the order you gave them to me, Mr. Romano. No, I don’t know any of Rubinoff’s clients, not even by name. Very close to the chest. His hobbies: he’s gone in for sports in the last few years…”
“What kind of sports, Andy? It may be important.”
“Boxing, horse-racing, football.”
“Spectator sports. Any personal performance?”
“He’s homosexual.”
“Go on to my next question, Andy.”
“Any connection with the dealer Schoen: not that I’ve been able to ascertain. Like most of us he spends a good deal of time abroad, and it would be surprising if he didn’t have contact with Schoen.”
“Do you deal with Schoen?”
“No. Frankly, I’m scared of him. I have the feeling he sells what you want to buy: in other words he can fit a square peg into a round hole. Do you know what I mean?”
“I think so. He deals in attributions.”
“Right.”
“I want to go back to something you said earlier about Rubinoff. You said his interest in sports is recent. Is there any way you can fill that in for me? How do you know that? I’m not asking your source, Andy. What I want to know is with whom does he attend these spectaculars?”
“I’ll try, Mr. Romano. You’re outside the art game now.”
“I know.”
“You asked what his field was mainly. It used to be the Impressionists, and that ties in with your next question, his European connections. He took his master’s at Columbia University, then he went abroad and studied in Amsterdam and London, but he wound up working for Jean Dufayard in Paris. Dufayard was an old man—he had known the great ones and bought some of them. For a while Rubinoff represented Dufayard in New York. Then the old man retired. About ten years ago Rubinoff went over and bought several things from him for a song. The old man died within the year and the Estate went after Rubinoff. They took him to court. You ought to be able to track down that story. If the paintings were legit, and they probably were, there’d have been a stink in the newspapers if they got out of France.”
“You are a treasure, Andy.”
“Mr. Romano, I may have a picture for you—a Harnett I’ve got a line on.”
“Believe me, I am interested.”
“Impeccable credentials.”
“Any time. Let me ask you one more question, Andy. I am such a recluse. Do you entertain your clients, or do they entertain you?”
“They entertain me. I save my entertaining for the folks who can get me next to something I want to buy. Or who come to me on behalf of their clients.”
“Andy, I’m going to buy the Harnett from you sight unseen. You must admit that’s an act of faith.”
“It won’t be charity. It’s going to come high, Mr. Romano.”
“I understand, but I want you to do something underhanded, shall we call it. Whether you say yes or no, and whether or not you are able to do this favor for me, will not affect our Harnett transaction, I give you my word.”
“You’re a disarming bastard,” the man said and laughed.
“You go to the auction galleries with some regularity?”
“Yes.”
“Do you make an appointment?”
“Generally. Always, if I have a client going with me.”
“Rubinoff would do the same. I want to run a check on a major auction gallery to find out when he was there. It should be in the appointment books. Understand, Andy, I’m not asking you to find out what he was interested in—or whom he brought in, but if such information becomes available, it will be useful to me. Five auction seasons, let us say.”
“Mr. Romano, why don’t you hire a private detective? He could go in and say he’s Internal Revenue, get next to one of the girls. Rubinoff’s not the most popular dealer on the street.”
“Andy, it’s a lovely idea. Do you know such a detective?”
“It happens that I do.”
“Front for me, Andy. I want the information not later than tomorrow afternoon.”
TWENTY-NINE
“THERE’S ONE GREAT THING about trying out for a lot of different careers,” Julie said. “You really get to know the New York Public Library.” She had just phoned the Newspaper Annex on West Forty-third Street. “Le Monde—it’s the only French paper that’s indexed for the period. I’d better move. The library closes at five.”
Romano trotted ahead of her through the apartment, opening doors. “You will keep Michael. I have no need for the car until later tonight.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Romano. It’s a very conspicuous vehicle, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“You have all the information you need?”
“Jean Dufayard. I’ll get a starting date from his obituary.”
It was twenty minutes to five when Julie found the story she was looking for. A librarian was already disconnecting the microfilm and photocopying machines and tucking them under hoods for the night. There was time only for a rapid reading in her nonguaranteed French. She noted the pictures under question: Seurat, Musicians (painting); Picasso, Child’s Head (litho); Maillol, Blacksmith (litho); Gauguin, Breton Child (drawing); Degas (attrib.), Sketch of Young Athletes.
At that point the librarian rewound the microfilm for her so that they could “get the show on the road.”
Julie walked the few blocks to the shop, a kind of discipline because she would have preferred to go almost anywhere else. She supposed the only way she was going to overcome this distaste was to keep going to the shop until it wore off. Like getting back on a horse after it had thrown you. For once she was glad to see Juanita outside.
“What’s new, little friend?”
She hadn’t expected an answer, but Juanita had something to say. She pointed to a wet spot near the bottom of the door. “Dog.”
“Fritzie?”
Juanita nodded and grinned. She’d lost a front tooth between smiles. “Bad dog.”
Julie brushed the youngster’s hair out of her eyes. “Don’t be a tattletale.”
Along with the throwaways beneath the mail slot was a white envelope with “Julie” written in a large, childlike hand. A lament no doubt from Mrs. Ryan. She stuck it in her purse until she’d made her phone call. She wondered, washing her hands, if Romano would follow the call-back routine this time. The water kept rising in the toilet bowl until this time it overflowed. Not much, but a damned nuisance. She stood for a few seconds trying to visualize the big Irishman squeezing through the small window; it was easy to see him throwing the paper towel into the bowl after he’d mopped up his fingerprints.
She dialed Romano. The same routine, instant call-back. She read the list slowly of the Dufayard paintings acquired by Rubinoff.
“If he obtained that lot for a song,” Romano said, “the old man was in his dotage. No, no. Even buying at a bargain, he would have had to raise cash, even knowing where they were to go.”
Julie said, “Let’s not be too sure of this part till I get the whole story tomorrow, but I think this is how it went. By the time the Dufayard estate brought suit, Rubinoff had disposed of the pictures and the courts refused to intervene. The French government permitted three of them to leave the country. The blow-up was over why the bureaucracy had been able to move so fast in this case.”
“Which three?”
“I’m not dead sure, but I don’t
think the article said.”
“You have done splendidly, Miss Julie. Now we must try to find out where they went, especially the three. I wonder if I shall have as good luck with the bureaucracy as Mr. Rubinoff. I too must wait till morning, but it will come six hours sooner, Paris time. I must say I find the Degas most intriguing. I should suppose if it is Degas, it was done in preparation for his Jeunes Filles Spartiates, and think about that in terms of our seven subjects. Eh? Wouldn’t it be lovely if it turned out that Schoen obligingly authenticated the sketch, and that it now resides in the collection of our Mr. X?”
“I can think of something even lovelier: suppose Mr. X loaned it for some exhibition and his name is in the catalogue.”
“Oh, my dear girl!”
“I’ll be going home in about an hour, Mr. Romano.”
“Do not hesitate to call me at any hour. And if you are at all uneasy about your personal safety, I shall provide protection.”
“I’m not really.”
“What time will you come tomorrow? And do you want the limousine?”
“I don’t, thank you. And I’ll have to call you.”
“Speak with Alberto if I’m not available, and tomorrow you must meet the rest of the staff.”
The rest of the staff. She thought of a friend, a nightclub comic, who called Romano The Little King. He was right: that fit him better than “the little caesar.” She had a feeling Romano wouldn’t be caught dead with a cigar in his mouth.
It wasn’t until she was in the deli on the way home waiting for them to wrap up a barbecued chicken that she remembered the letter from Mrs. Ryan. She opened it and read:
Dear Julie:
Mr. O’Grady asked me to find out if by any chance he left his pocketknife at your place that day we both stopped in. He cant remember having it since then. It is valuable for sentimental reasons. He thought he should ask before starting to question the pawn brokers in the neighborhood.
I miss you.
Scarlet Night Page 12
