Keith Laumer: The Star-Sent Knaves

Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied, with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shouldered in a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane’s travel-stained six-foot-one.

“Kelly here tells me you’ve been demanding to see me.” He nodded toward the florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like something that needed oiling. “Something about important information regarding my paintings.”

“That’s right, Mr. Snithian,” Dan said. “I believe I can be of great help to you.”

“Help how? If you’ve got ideas of bilking me…” The red eyes bored into Dan like hot pokers.

“Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of guards here—the papers are full of it—”

“Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn’t for the press, I’d have no concern for my paintings today!”

“Yes, sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been left unguarded.”

“Now, wait a minute—” Kelly started.

“What’s that?” Snithian cut in.

“You have a hundred and fifty men guarding the house and grounds day and night—”

“Two hundred and twenty-five,” Kelly snapped.

“—but no one at all in the vault with the paintings,” Slane finished.

“Of course not,” Snithian shrilled. “Why should I post a man in the vault? It’s under constant surveillance from the corridor outside.”

“The Harriman paintings were removed from a locked vault,” Dan said. “There was a special seal on the door. It wasn’t broken.”

“By the saints, he’s right,” Kelly exclaimed. “Maybe we ought to have a man in that vault.”

“Another idiotic scheme to waste my money,” Snithian snapped. “I’ve made you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let’s have no more nonsense. And throw this nincompoop out!” Snithian turned and stalked away, his cloak flapping at his knees.

“I’ll work cheap,” Dan called after the tycoon as Kelly took his arm. “I’m an art lover.”

“Never mind that,” Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. He turned in at an office and closed the door.

“Now, as the old buzzard said, I’m responsible for security here. If those pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea’s not bad. Just how cheap would you work?”

“A hundred dollars a week,” Dan said promptly. “Plus expenses,” he added.

Kelly nodded. “I’ll fingerprint you and run a fast agency check. If you’re clean, I’ll put you on, starting tonight. But keep it quiet.”

Dan looked around at the gray walls, with shelves stacked to the low ceiling with wrapped paintings. Two three-hundred-watt bulbs shed a white glare over the tile floor, a neat white refrigerator, a bunk, an armchair, a bookshelf and a small table set with paper plates, plastic utensils and a portable radio—all hastily installed at Kelly’s order. Dan opened the refrigerator, looked over the stock of salami, liverwurst, cheese and beer. He took out a loaf of bread, built up a well-filled sandwich, opened a can of beer.

It wasn’t fancy, but it would do. Phase one of the plan had gone off without a hitch.

Basically, his idea was simple. Art collections had been disappearing from closely guarded galleries and homes all over the world. It was obvious that no one could enter a locked vault, remove a stack of large canvases and leave, unnoticed by watchful guards—and leaving the lock undamaged.

Yet the paintings were gone. Someone had been in those vaults—someone who hadn’t entered in the usual way.

Theory failed at that point; that left the experimental method. The Snithian collection was the largest west of the Mississippi. With such a target, the thieves were bound to show up. If Dan sat in the vault—day and night—waiting—he would see for himself how they operated.

He finished his sandwich, went to the shelves and pulled down one of the brown-paper bundles. Loosening the string binding the package, he slid a painting into view. It was a gaily colored view of an open-air café, with a group of men and women in gay-ninetyish costumes gathered at a table. He seemed to remember reading something about it in a magazine. It was a cheerful scene; Dan liked it. Still, it hardly seemed worth all the effort…

He went to the wall switch and turned off the lights. The orange glow of the filaments died, leaving only a faint illumination from the nightlight over the door. When the thieves arrived, it might give a momentary advantage if his eyes were adjusted to the dark. He groped his way to the bunk.

So far, so good, he reflected, stretching out. When they showed up, he’d have to handle everything just right. If he scared them off there’d be no second chance. He would have lost his crack at—whatever his discovery might mean to him.

But he was ready. Let them come.

Eight hours, three sandwiches and six beers later, Dan roused suddenly from a light doze and sat up on the cot. Between him and the crowded shelving, a palely luminous framework was materializing in mid-air.

The apparition was an open-work cage—about the size and shape of an outhouse minus the sheathing, Dan estimated breathlessly. Two figures were visible within the structure, sitting stiffly in contoured chairs. They glowed, if anything, more brightly than the framework.

A faint sound cut into the stillness—a descending whine. The cage moved jerkily, settling toward the floor. Long pink sparks jumped, crackling, to span the closing gap; with a grate of metal, the cage settled against the floor. The spectral men reached for ghostly switches…

The glow died.

Dan was aware of his heart thumping painfully under his ribs. His mouth was dry. This was the moment he’d been planning for, but now that it was here—

Never mind. He took a deep breath, ran over the speeches he had prepared for the occasion:

Greetings, visitors from the future …

No good; it lacked spontaneity. The men were rising, their backs to Dan, stepping out of the skeletal frame. In the dim light it now looked like nothing more than a rough box built of steel pipe, with a cluster of levers in a console before the two seats. And the thieves looked ordinary enough: two men in gray coveralls, one slender and balding, the other shorter and round-faced. Neither of them noticed Dan, sitting rigid on the cot. The thin man placed a lantern on the table, twiddled a knob. A warm light sprang up. The visitors looked at the stacked shelves.

“Looks like the old boy’s been doing all right,” the shorter man said. “Fathead’s gonna be pleased.”

“A very gratifying consignment,” his companion said. “However, we’d best hurry, Percy. How much time have we left on the dial?”

“Plenty,” Percy grunted. “Fifteen minutes anyway.”

The thin man opened a package, glanced at a painting.

“Ah, a Plotz. Magnificent. Almost the equal of Picasso in his puce period.”

Percy shuffled through the other pictures in the stack.

“Like always,” he grumbled. “No nood dames. I like nood dames.”

“Look at this, Percy! The textures alone—”

Percy looked. “Yeah, nice use of values,” he conceded. “But I still prefer nood dames, Fiorello.”

“And this!” Fiorello lifted the next painting. “Look at that gay play of rich browns!”

“I seen richer browns on Thirty-third Street,” Percy said. “They was popular with the sparrows.”

“Percy, sometimes I think your aspirations—”

“Whatta ya talkin’? I use a roll-on.” Percy, turning to place a painting in the cage, stopped dead as he caught sight of Dan. The painting clattered to the floor. Dan stood, cleared his throat. “Uh…”