Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

Tony cried out and would have jumped forward if D’ls had not stopped him.

Robl jammed the blade into the corner of the priceless pai* then with a swift motion accompanied by the rip of canvas, cut a ragged triangle out of one corner. With more heart-stopping ripping sounds he tore it free at the edges and dropped the fragment into Tony’s hand.

“Here. Examine that.”

D’Isernia nodded at Tony’s shocked stare.

“I understand your feelings, Signore Hawkin, and do commiserate. Friend Robl is a bit impetuous and, perhaps, slig coarse as well. But he is right. Skilled craftsmen can repair this little act of destruction so that the vandalism will never be seen. And it does give us something solid to base our negotiations on. Submit this to all examinations, and if you are satisfied and have the money the exchange will take place. Inform Mr. Sones that I will telephone you at four this afternoon to discuss the matter. Here, let us wrap this piece of canvas and protect it from further damage.”

He took his handkerchief from his breast pocket, shook it out and draped it across his palm. Tony put the piece of the painting on it gently, then folded the handkerchief around it. D’Isernia nodded approvingly.

“So. Preliminaries finished, we can go. But before you do, perhaps you would take some pleasure in meeting our principal, the man who owns this painting. When you meet him you will perhaps understand why, at least for Robl and myself, this morning’s ceremony had certain overtones of humor.”

The circle of light from the flash moved across the floor to an alcove, following the narrow tracks to the wheels that had made it. The wheel chair that stood there, the dark figure seated in it, gray blanket draped over legs and feet, old, clawlike hands clasped together on the blanket. Slowly upward the light moved, over the baggy brown jacket and yellowed shirt, the badly knotted black tie in the too-loose collar about the scrawny neck.

An old man’s face. A wrinkled, dewlapped face that despite its age seemed familiar, the face of someone younger.

The lock of hair now thin and white that hung over the forehead. The toothbrush mustache, white as well—had they both once been dark?—on that thin upper lip.

“Is it ... ?” Tony asked, choking out the words. The head nodded.

“I am.”

“How do you do?” Tony managed to say after a considerable time had passed during which he considered saying Pleased to ? you, but he wasn’t, really. The man in the wheel chair nodded happily, and proceeded to take Tony’s greeting literally, answering him in English with a thick German accent.

“I do quite well, really, all things considered, my age, I’ll be eighty-three years old soon, just think of that. My appetite is not good, too much wind in Mexican food, and I have trouble walking, as you see. The old trouble coming back, paresis they call this stage, the folly of youth. But you did not come here to talk about me. The painting, the best in my collection, you like it. Jar

“Excellent, the finest of its kind, Da Vinci never did another like it.”

“The horse filled with the battle lust, you see. The heroic killing and dying. But it is obvious why. Research has proved that Da Vinci is a corruption of da Von Giesel, that is of the family of Von Giesel, a Gothic family from Germany, so the man is proven of good Aryan stock.”

“I hadn’t heard that—”

“You doubt what I am saying? You think I He!” The old man’s hand pounded the arm of the chair; spittle dribbled unnoticed down his chin. “What do you, a mongrel Amerikaner dog, know about great art?”

“I know enough about it to pay a million dollars for it!”

The thought of this money had a quieting effect. He sat back in his chair, rubbing at his mouth, then almost smiled. “Quite right, a million dollars. No less for this, the pride of my collection. In fact, finish this deal and I might just offer you a bargain of equal worth. Look at this.” He fumbled under the blanket and brought up a creased roll of heavy paper which he flattened on his lap to disclose a watercolor painting. “I have been dabbling a bit, still. An original of mine, quite valuable in certain circles, I can assure.”

Robl held the flashlight and Tony looked at the painting. It was a badly executed view of a Bavarian or Austrian village, done in the worst possible taste, the perspective haphazard, the washes muddy. The initials in the corner, A.H., were picked out daintily in brown.

“We cannot stay any longer,” D’Isernia said. “It is not wise.”

The watercolor vanished back under the blanket, and with Robl’s firm guiding hand under his elbow, Tony was moved quickly out of the room and rushed back up the aisle of the church. The Packard was waiting at the portal as ordered, rear doors open and motor muttering, and it moved swiftly away as soon as they were inside.

“You are a very lucky young man,” Robl said, giving Tony a comradely pat on the knee at the same time. “He usually never sees strangers, you can understand why.”

“Yes, sure.” There was very little else he could say. Holding the wrapped fragment of painting carefully in both hands, Tony stared out unseeingly at the mountainous landscape moving by, the twisting road that crossed and recrossed the narrow gauge railroad tracks. He blinked at it, then glanced back over his shoulder with apprehension.

“Aren’t we going in the wrong direction?”

“That might be said,” D’Isernia answered. “What we are doing, if you do not mind, is going for a little drive toward Amecameca so that our mutual acquaintance can leave safely. A little precaution. As I am sure you can understand, he does not go out much, and when he does it is with trepidation and the utmost caution. He Could not resist attending the ceremonies today, so with a single stone we killed two birds, enabling you to meet him as well.”

The car pulled off the road under the giant pines and they smoked cigarettes while they waited. An occasional car passed on the road behind them, the only sound other than the wind stirring the pine needles high above. Across the valley below the lower slopes of the dormant volcano Popocatepetl rose up to the distant summit with a banner of cloud flying from it. Robl consulted his watch and the return trip began. There was no conversation. D’Isernia looked out at the scenery and whistled an aria from Madama Butterfly, Robl stared sternly ahead, Tony guarded the sundered piece of painting. They halted finally a block from the Hotel Vasco.

“Emerge now,” Robl ordered. “Have the examination made. The money is here?”

“It should be here this afternoon.”

“It had better be. Remember, you will be contacted at four this afternoon. If all is well the exchange will be made tonight.”

They were all waiting in Sones’s room when Tony returned, all except Stocker that is, who was undoubtedly still sitting insomniacly over his charge.

“Report,” Sones ordered.

“I saw the painting, it looked authentic enough.” Tony opened the folded handkerchief while he talked. “I was going to scrapings but Robl thought some kind of butchery was more in order. He cut a corner from the painting.”

Lizveta Zlotnikova looked at the fragment as at a fresh-slain corpse and screamed shrilly. “Beasts, swine,” she snarled through her teeth as she gently took up the canvas, adding even more insulting-sounding terms in richly throbbing Russian. Bearing the sundered canvas like a newborn, she left the room.

“They will be contacting me at four this afternoon to make sure that the money is here by then, I didn’t let them know it had already arrived. If the painting checks out the exchange will be made tonight. And there is one other thing ...” He hesitated,