Elizabeth Peters - Borrower of the Night

‘Not the government; the editor of Der Stern .’

‘Shut up,’ Myers said, glaring at Tony. ‘Twenty-five thousand ransom. That’s a lot of money. Yeah, sure, I remember the case. Nothing wrong with my memory. You just stop interrupting me, Tony.’

George, for one, had no intention of interrupting. He sat tapping his fingers gently on the table, a faint, knowing smile on his face. But the smile didn’t fool me. I couldn’t expose his ignorance now; foxy Grandpa had already told him what he needed to know. Myers really did have a fabulous memory. His enthusiasm was genuine, even if it was amplified by the old acquisitive instinct.

‘Tony,’ I said gently, ‘do you think you ought – ’

Jake leaned forwards, elbows planted squarely on the table, and squinted at me.

‘So you’re in on this.’ His voice was unexpectedly genial. It made a chill run up my spine. ‘Well, well. That makes it even more interesting. Now don’t you interrupt me again, young woman! Let me talk. Let me think. Sure, I know Riemenschneider. I also know it would be virtually impossible to get hold of a major piece. Most of his stuff is in churches or museums. And you wouldn’t dangle a minor work in front of my nose . . .’

He wasn’t talking to us. He was thinking aloud. His squinty little black eyes shone like jet. Another chill explored my backbone. The old devil was smart, smart and hard as nails. With one half-hearted question Tony had set a bloodhound on the trail.

Tony, who knew him better than I did, was thinking the same thing. His mouth had dropped open, and there were two parallel lines between his eyebrows. He caught my eye, and his mouth tightened. He looked away.

‘You’re not a dealer,’ Myers went on. ‘Private collectors wouldn’t approach you. Which one are you planning to steal, and how do you propose to go about it?’

George laughed. My jaw dropped, in its turn. I shouldn’t have been taken aback. I know enough about rabid collectors to realize they will stop at nothing, including homicide, to get what they want. A little matter of robbery doesn’t bother them a bit. It’s common knowledge that dozens of ‘lost’ art treasures, stolen from the world’s great museums, now repose cosily in locked and hidden vaults, where the millionaire owners can gloat over them in secret.

‘Damn it, Tony,’ I burst out. ‘Why can’t you keep your big mouth shut?’

George laughed again, and Jake grinned at me. He looked more like a shark than ever.

‘Don’t blame him, honey. If you hadn’t stuck your two cents in, I wouldn’t have paid any attention to Tony. I know he goes off half-cocked all the time. But if there are two of you in this deal – and one of them is a girl like you – ’

‘Oh – ’ I began; but before I could get the dear old Anglo-Saxon word out, George interrupted. His face was purple with amusement.

‘You’re the one who’s going off half-cocked, Jake. You know our moral laddy here; he isn’t going to steal anything. He’s a good boy. No; if I were to hazard a guess – and I always do hazard – I would say that our two experts have stumbled on an unknown work. Or,’ he added; watching my face, ‘on a clue to such a work. Isn’t there a story . . . ?’

He let the word trail off suggestively.

I was torn between self-reproach and admiration at the guy’s technique. He didn’t know a bloody thing about the legend of the shrine. He was guessing; but it was inspired guessing, the method of a skilled fortune-teller who uses his victim’s facial expressions as a guide to the accuracy of his surmises. And heaven knows my big, round, candid face was as readable as print.

I tried to freeze the face, and I watched Jake, who had responded to the hint as a fish to the lure. His brow wrinkled as he searched his capacious memory. My heart sank. I didn’t realize until then how deeply my emotions were involved. It was my discovery, damn it, and nobody was going to take it away from me.

‘Nope,’ Jake said finally. ‘Seems to me I did read something, once . . . But I’ve forgotten. Can’t remember everything. Is that it, Tony? Found yourself a clue, boy?’

I felt like sagging with relief. Jake had accepted George’s reasoning, and, as a result, he was less excited. A robbery made sense to him. A vague, unspecified clue to an unknown work was not in his line.

His tone maddened Tony, as did George’s superior smile. He sat up straight in his chair and looked directly at Jake. His hair was hanging down over one eyebrow, but I must admit he had a kind of dignity.

‘Are you interested?’ he said. ‘Yes or no.’

‘Sure I’m interested.’

‘That doesn’t mean you’re going to get it,’ George said gently. He smiled at me. ‘It’s a matter of pride not to let Jake get things away from me.’

‘Now wait a minute,’ I said indignantly. ‘Who’s offering what to whom? It’s just as much my idea as Tony’s, more so, because I saw the book first, and furthermore – ’

Tony let out a yelp, but I didn’t need that to know what I had done. I shut up, thankful I hadn’t said more. Jake, who was shaking all over, let out a loud ‘haw-haw.’

‘I should let you two go on arguing,’ he said, when he had gotten his mirth under control. ‘It’s not only funny, it could be informative. But the information is apt to help Nolan more than it does me. So shut up, the pair of you. Tell you what I’ll do. I don’t know what you’ve got on your minds, or what your plans are, but if either of you turns up with a Riemenschneider, I’ll buy it. Fair price, no questions asked. I’ll even stake you, if you need money.’

‘No,’ Tony said.

‘No, thanks,’ I snapped.

We glared at each other.

The rest of the evening was not notable for the wit and intellectuality of the conversation. I had taken Jake’s warning to heart, and so had Tony; since neither of us could control our mouths, it was better not to discuss the subject at all. But it was impossible to think about anything else. By the time we got into the car to go home, I had been suppressing my thoughts long enough. Tony was fumbling with the key and the ignition when I exploded.

‘Of all the stupid, conceited, dumb . . . One indefinite comment in an old letter, and you promise him a Riemenschneider! The chances are a thousand to one that it’s been destroyed. And even if it hasn’t – ’

Tony dropped the key. Turning, he grabbed me by the shoulders. He shook me. Then he kissed me. Then he shook me again. Taking unfair advantage of my temporary lack of breath, he said, ‘It’s all your fault. You got me into this, and by God, I’ll get myself out with no help from you. I can read your sneaky underhanded female mind. I know what you’re planning. Go ahead. I’ll beat you to it. We’re starting out fair and square, with the same information.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘A challenge. Is that it?’

‘That’s it.’

‘It’s the dumbest thing I ever heard of. The chances of success for either of us are infinitesimal. Even if we found the thing, it doesn’t belong to us. You can’t promise Jake – ’

‘I don’t give a damn about Jake. I’m going to find the shrine just to prove to you that you aren’t as smart as you think you are.’

Tony and I continued to meet socially, but neither of us mentioned any subject that had the remotest bearing on late Gothic sculpture. This tacit restriction limited conversation considerably. It also cast a pall over our non-vocal activities. I finally figured out why Tony was behaving like a desert anchorite harassed by voluptuous female demons, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or sneer. He thought he might babble, under the softening influence of sex. And he might have, at that. I never got the chance to find out. We were both busy.