Irwin Shaw - Nightwork

“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 II. 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 you 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 will 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-storey 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?”