Irwin Shaw - Nightwork

“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 mustache. “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…”

“Documents,” Herr Steubel moaned. “Berenson himself has attested to this painting. Berenson…”

I had no notion who Berenson was, but I took a chance. “Berenson is dead, Herr Steubel,” I said.

“Ven he wass alife,” Herr Steubel said. The chance had paid off. My credentials as an art expert had been confirmed.

“Of course, you could seek other opinions,” I said. “I could give a list of certain colleagues of mine.”

“I haff no need of any damned colleagues of yours. Professor.” Herr Steubel shouted. His accent had thickened considerably. He loomed over me. For a moment I thought he was going to hit me with one of his huge, club-like hands. “I know what I know. I don’t need any damned small-time, barbaric Americans to tell me about Tintoretto.”

“I’m afraid I must leave now,” I said. “As you remarked, it is difficult to put calls through to Italy and there may be delays. Are you coming with me, Mr.Fabian?”

“Yes, I’m coming with you.” Fabian made it sound like a curse. “I’ll call you later. Herr Steubel. We’ll arrange something for tomorrow, when we can speak more calmly.”

“Come alone,” was all that Herr Steubel said as we opened the dining-room door and went out into the dark hall. The little old lady in the lace cap was standing just a few feet away, as though she had been trying to listen to what had been said in the dining room. She let us out of the house without a word. Even if she couldn’t have understood what had been spoken in the dining room, the tones she had overheard and the brevity of the conference must have made an impression on her.

Fabian slammed the car door behind him when he got behind the wheel of the Jaguar. I closed my door gently as I slid into my seat. Fabian didn’t say anything as he started the engine and revved it savagely. He had to back into a driveway to make the turn to go down the hill toward the lake. I heard the tinkling of glass as he slammed the rear light into a low stone fence. I said nothing. He didn’t say a word either until we reached the lake. Then he parked the car and turned the motor off. “Now,” he said, keeping his voice even with an obvious effort, “what was all that about?”

“What was what about?” I asked innocently.

“How the hell do you know whether a Tintoretto is a fake or not?”

“I don’t,” I said. “But I was getting bad vibes from that fat Herr Steubel.”

“Vibes! We risk losing twenty-five thousand dollars and you talk about vibes ! ” Fabian snorted.

“He’s a crook, Herr Steubel.”

“What’re you and I? Trappist monks?”

“If we’ve turned out to be crooks, it’s by accident,” I said, not completely honestly. “Herr Steubel’s a crook by birth, by inclination, and by training.”

“You say that.” Fabian was on the defensive now. “You see a man for three minutes and you invent a whole history for him. I’ve done business with him before and he’s always fulfilled his obligations. If we’d gone through with the deal, I guarantee you he would have come across with our money.”

“Probably,” I admitted. “We might also have wound up in jail.”

“For what? Transporting a Tintoretto, even a fake one, across Switzerland, isn’t a criminal offense. One thing I can’t stand in a man, Douglas, and I must tell you to your face, is timidity. And if you want to know, I happen to believe the man’s telling the truth. It is a Tintoretto, Professor Grimes, of the University of Missouri.”

“You through, Miles?” I asked.

“For the moment. I’m not guaranteeing the future.”

“Transporting a Tintoretto, even a fake one, isn’t, as you say, a criminal offense,” I said. “But arranging for the sale of a stolen Tintoretto is. And I’m not having any of it.”

“How do you know it’s stolen?” Fabian was sullen now.

“In my bones. You do, too.”

“I don’t know anything,” Fabian said defensively.

“Did you ask?”

“Of course not. That doesn’t concern me. And it shouldn’t concern you. What we don’t know can’t hurt us. If you’ve decided to back out, back out now. I’m going into the hotel and I’m calling Herr Steubel and I’m telling him I’ll be there tomorrow morning to pick up the painting.”

“You do that,” I said levelly, “and I’ll have the police waiting for you and that old art lover, Herr Steubel, at his ancestral mansion when you arrive.”

“You’re kidding, Douglas,” Fabian said incredulously.

“Try me and see. Look – everything I’ve done since I left the Hotel St Augustine has been legal, or approximately legal. Including everything I’ve done with you. If I’m a criminal, I’m a one-time criminal. If they ever can pin anything on me, it will only be evasion of income tax and nobody takes that seriously. I’m not going to jail for anybody or anything. Get that absolutely straight.”

“If I can prove to you that the picture is legitimate and that it isn’t stolen…”

“You can’t and you know you can’t”

Fabian sighed, started the motor. “I’m calling Steubel and I’m telling him I’d be at his house at ten am.”

“The police will be there,” I said.

“I don’t believe you,” Fabian said, staring ahead at the road.

“Believe me, Miles.” I said. “Believe me.”

When we got to the hotel, we didn’t say a word to each other. Fabian went off to the telephone and I went to the bar. I knew he would finally have to join me. I was on my second whiskey when he came into the bar. He looked more sober than I had ever seen him. He sat down on a stool next to mine at the bar. “A bottle of Moët & Chandon,” he said to the barman. “And two glasses.” He still didn’t say anything to me. When the barman poured the champagne for us, he turned to me, lifting his glass. “To us,” he said. He was smiling broadly. “I didn’t talk to Herr Steubel,” he said.

“That’s good,” I said. “I haven’t called the police yet.”

“I spoke to the old lady in Italian,” he said. “She was crying. Ten minutes after we left, the police came and arrested her boss. They took the painting. It was a Tintoretto, all right. It-was stolen sixteen months ago from a private collection outside Winterthur.” He laughed wildly. “I knew there had to be some reason I took you with me to Lugano, Professor Grimes.”

We clinked glasses and again Fabian’s maniacal laughter rang out, making everyone in the bar stare at him curiously.