All spy stuff was removed from both buildings and stashed any which way in Grijk's Hyundai, which Grijk then drove off, headed for New York.
Stan, with Jim O'Hara riding shotgun, steered the truck up an dover and out of there. Fred, with Thelma at the wheel, drove Ralph Winslow and Gus Brock away in the same car they'd come up in. And Kelp, back at the wheel of the doctor's van, had for his passengers Dortmunder, Tiny, Wally Whistler, Harry Matlock, and Ralph Demrovsky.
Real dawn painted the sky in faint pastels as the four vehicles fled away from the mountain, leaving a temporary peace in their wake.
Now all that was left was the anonymous phone call.
'ilver legs, silver legs. No, loud noises. Bright lights, crashing around, heavy feet on stairs. What stairs? Headache. Mouth dry, nose clogged. Silver legs?
Rising reluctantly from blissful sleep, Hradec frowned; he frowned against the noise and the aches and the light pressing insistently on his eyelids; he frowned against consciousness entirely. Straining to dive back down into dear oblivion, he snuggled against Krystal, nose moving against her hairy shoulder, arm around her-- What?
As horrified as any Stephen King character, Hradec jolted awake, to stare at Karver Zorn's unlovely sleeping profile, four inches away.
Mouth open, small snores emerging. I'm naked, Hradec thought, I'm in bed with Karver and I'm naked. And so is he!
"Agh!" Hradec recoiled to a sitting position, arms protectively about himself, just as the room filled with uniformed men pointing guns. At him.
Horror on horror! Which horror to be appalled by first?
"Hold it right there!" said a lot of the uniformed men.
Hold it! Right here› In this bed, with this, this person) Memory swooped back, like a giant hawk with poisoned talons. Diddums! What is this place? What has he done to me? Somewhere, a girl screamed.
Gluy Claverack usually started his day with the New York Times, but this Monday morning was different. Having seen the early reports of the Hochman art collection robbery on the television news last night, and having understood immediately that this was the job his carpenters had been planning, he wanted to know more about what had actually happened.
Much more. He wanted to know everything there was to know, in fact, and somehow it seemed to him that with this particular kind of story the tabloids would be far likelier to squeeze out of it all the juice it might contain. Lack of journalistic restraint, that's what he craved this morning, and so he sent his secretary out first thing for the Daily News, the Post, and Newsday, and they did not disappoint. The Post:
MIL ART
The Daily News:
THROUGH ART HEIST
Following an anonymous phone tip, Vermont State Police and Windham County Sheriff's Department deputies yesterday morning searched the supposedly empty mountain retreat of multimillionaire hotelier Harry Hochman, to find a scene described by Deputy Buell Rondike as "like nothing I ever seen before in my life."
Downstairs in the plush chateaulike building, police found that the Hochmans's world-renowned art collection, valued at more than $6 million, had been cleaned out, down to the bare walls. Upstairs, police and deputies discovered an Eastern European diplomat, Hradec Kralowc, ambassador to the United States from the recently formed nation of Votskojek, asleep in bed with another Votskojek national, a United Nations Famine Relief researcher, Dr. Karver Zorn. The two men claimed to have no knowledge of the robbery, and to have slept through it.
In another part of the building, police found Broadway actress Krystal Kerrin (see accompanying photo), currently featured in Ncmn: The Musical at the Mark Time Theater. Miss Kerrin's claim to have been forcibly abducted and drugged by a large group of homosexual men has been hotly denied by the two Eastern Europeans.
As to their own version of events, Ambassador Kralowc is said by police sources to be claiming dip lomatic privilege, although, "I don't believe there is any such thing as diplomatic privilege in a situation like this," said State Department spokesman Rondike Buell in Washington last night.
Guy was still wallowing through this stuff--the Post gave greatest emphasis to the homosexual angle and Newsday to the value of the stolen art, while the Daily News went with Hoch man's wealth, {Crystal's show biz link, and Kralowc's upper-crust social standing (posh, posh, and posh)--when his secretary buzzed him to say, "The carpenter's calling."
"I thought he might." Guy switched over to the outside line and said.
"That's some letter of recommendation."
"We stand behind our work," said the phlegmatic voice on the phone, though with an understandable hint of pride. "We thought we'd come by today, show you some pictures of stuff we've done."
"Come ahead," Guy urged him. "I'm looking forward to seeing them."
Dortmunder and Kelp let Claverack drool over the pictures as long as he wanted. They were back in the basement storage cubicle with all the imprisoned Victorian sofas, and they spent the time looking the place over for a possible future visit.
At last, Claverack sighed, and the eye he turned on his guests was shiny with emotion. "Beautiful," he said. "Beautiful objects. Beautiful work.
Beautiful documentation." 'Thanks," Dortmunder said.
"We aim to please," Kelp added.
"And these other photos, as the truck is being loaded," Claverack said, fanning out the pictures in his hands. "Is that where the material is now? Still in this truck? Or did you move it somewhere else?"
"It's safe," Dortmunder said.
"Yes, of course."
Safe? Dortmunder certainly hoped so. He didn't see any reason why it wouldn't be safe, given the decision they'd made. Keep the goods in the truck so they're easily movable, and keep the truck where nobody will pay any attention to it.
Therefore, when they'd left the scene of the crime early Sun day morning, Stan and Murch and Jim O'Hara had run at first along back roads eastward to Interstate 91, then took that south past Brattleboro and out of Vermont into Massachusetts. They'd dropped through Massachusetts from north to south, on into Connecticut, and finally left 91 at Hartford, taking Route 2 southeast to the Connecticut Turnpike, then south on the Pike to the coast at New London in plenty of time for the noon ferry across Long Island Sound to Orient Point, the eastern tip of Long Island's more expensive and more residential north shore. Then at last they'd turned west toward New York but angled down along local streets to the island's less expensive and more industrial south shore.
Finding a commercial area full of parked trucks, within walking distance of a Long Island Railroad station, Stan had parked their truck in among all the others on a warehouse block, and he and Jim had taken the train to New York, calling Dortmunder at home a little after six to report the job was done. Every couple of days, until the deal was complete with the insurance company, Stan would take the train back out to the island and move the truck a town or two, to keep it from becoming noticeable. Being a big, boxy, gray-bodied, green-cabbed, anonymous International Harvester of a certain age, with j l carting hand-stenciled in black on both doors, it would take a lot to make that truck noticeable. Safe?
Yeah.
"I should think," Claverack said at last, "there shouldn't be too much difficulty with the insurance company. These photos pretty well establish you people as the perpetrators, the ones with actual possession of the collection. We'll simply dicker a bit, I think. How will I get in touch with you?" he finished, and started to put the thick stack of photos into his inside jacket pocket.
"Hold it," Dortmunder said, pointing at the pictures. "You don't get those yet."
"I don't?" Confused, Claverack stopped putting the pictures away.
Instead, he looked down at them, looked up at Dortmunder, and said, "I can hardly negotiate without them, you know."
"I know that," Dortmunder agreed. "Give em here."
"Whatever you say."
A bit miffed, Claverack handed back the pictures, and Dort munder put them away in his own inside jacket pocket, saying, "The thing is, it took a bunch of us to do this, and we're out certain expenses here."
Claverack looked wary. Carefully, he said, "I don't see what that has to do with me."
"What we estimated, when we talked about this before, you remember that time--"
"Of course I remember."
"What we estimated, we estimated twenty percent of value from the insurance company, right?"
"That's correct."
"Half for you," Dortmunder said, "and half for us."
"That's what we agreed, yes."
"Now, normally," Dortmunder reminded him, "you'd get maybe a quarter, maybe a little more than that. But this time, you're getting half, on accounta you're doing it exactly like we want you to do it, right?"
"Certainly," Claverack said. "We've already agreed to that. I show those photos to no one but the insurance company--or companies, I suppose, unlikely to be just one of them at this level of valuation--the companies involved."
"And you give us an advance," Dortmunder said. Beside him, Kelp smiled.
Claverack didn't smile. "You never said this before."
"There was nothing to talk about before," Dortmunder pointed out.
Patting the pocket with the pictures, he said, "Now it's real, now we got something, now we can talk it over. So far, we're out all these expenses and travel and trouble and all this, and we're taking half. So far, all we get from you is you nod and smile and say that sounds nice, and you're getting half. So what we figure, we need you to contribute."
Claverack nodded, but he didn't smile and he didn't say that sounds nice. Instead, he said, "How much?"
"We figure," Dortmunder said, "five percent. Our piece ought to be, minimum, six hundred grand, though we'd like more, you know."
"I'll do my best, for both of us," Claverack said rather stiffly.
"I know you will," Dortmunder agreed. "And five percent of six hundred grand is thirty."
Claverack gazed at him, absorbing that. "Thirty thousand dollars? Is that what you want?"
"An advance," Dortmunder repeated. "You take it outta our half when the insurance people pay."
"Thirty thousand dollars is, well, uh…"
"Nonnegotiable."
"Mm." Claverack shook his head. "Do you expect me," he said, "to have thirty thousand dollars in cash, just lying around? I presume you wouldn't take a check."
"What I expect," Dortmunder said, "I'll call you tomorrow, unless that's too soon, you tell me, and if you got the thirty we'll come back and we'll give you the pictures and you'll give us the cash."
Kelp had been quiet up till now, letting Dortmunder do the haggling, but now he played good cop a little, saying, "If tomorrow's too soon, that's okay. We don't want to rush you."
Claverack brooded. He chewed a bit on a thumb knuckle. He sighed. He said, "Tomorrow's not too soon."
Horjme at last, in a false beard and turban, surrounded by blue-uniformed Continental rent-a-cops, all to avoid the ravening press.
Reporters squealed and squirmed around the Pride of Votskojek like dogs around carrion, the landward contingent buttressed by seagoing journalists in every kind of boat they could rent or steal; and a helicopter from the Star hovered overhead.
But the press wasn't Hradec's main concern, and he knew it; though they were certainly pestiferous. And the blow to his manly reputation wasn't his main concern, either, though the newspaper accounts had wounded him deeply, where he lived. Since Harry Hochman's lightning trip to Vermont, verifying Hradec's hastily concocted claim to have been a legitimately invited house guest-- "Hradec, do you know where my shit is?" cNo!33 "Your word's good enough for me"--neither legal action nor Harry's mistrust was anymore an overriding consideration. As to the faxes and telegrams and telephone messages that were surely awaiting him aboard the embassy from his wife back home in Novi Glad, wanting to know who and what is this Krystal Kerrin (because she would have no doubt as to his sexual orientation), they were a mere dermatitis in the array of his afflictions. No, his main concern, his main problem, the main disaster he knew still faced him was… the relic. The sacred femur of St. Ferghana. Somehow, some way, it was gone. Hradec knew that as well as he knew that Votskojek's future, Harry Hochman's future, and his own future depended on the relic's presence. But it was not going to be present; he knew that. There wasn't a chance of it, despite the assurances of the Continental security people that Saturday night had passed without an incident of any kind aboard the Pride of Votskojek. Well. Here he was aboard at last, though hardly alone. A helicopter loudly coughed overhead, zoom lenses were aimed at every porthole, and reporters were being repulsed in every direction. (Oh, for the days of boiling oil!) Tearing off the turban, flinging it at the useless Terment, beaning Lusk with the beard, Hradec strode to the lab, used his keys, threw open the door, and… "You fainted, sir," Lusk said. "What? Of course I did!" Hradec sat up. Lusk and Terment stooped with concern at the foot of his bed. They had carried him here to his bedroom, where the iron storm panels had been closed over every window and every light had been switched on. Midnight at noon, the perfect metaphor. Hradec's dark midnight. I can't report the theft, not with seven guards, my own employees, who insist that nothing went wrong. A simple wiretap won't get the relic back to me like last time; the Tsergovians aren't that stupid. Where is it? Can I get it back without the outer world being the wiser? Can I get it back at #//? There isn't a clue, a hint, a single thread to follow. Like Harry's art collection, and just as impossibly, the relic has simply vanished into thin air. That fiend Diddums! He's my Moriarty, Hradec thought, but Hradec had never particularly wanted a foeman worthy of his steel. All he'd ever wanted was a life of ease and comfort, that's all, to be his nation's representative at the United Nations and in Washington, to be Harry Hochman's friend, to be escort of an endless supply of sweet young things. Was that too much to ask? Apparently. The revenge of Diddums; the phrase ought to have more of a ring to it. Think, Hradec, think. It isn't over. What's Diddums up to? What happens next? "Sir?" He glowered at his faithful servants. The only thing in the world he had to rely on, and it was them. "Leave me," he said. "I must think." "Sir," they murmured, and bowed themselves from the room, snicking the door shut after themselves. "And no phone calls!" he screamed at the door. "No, sir," wafted the faint reply. Hradec adjusted the pillows and reclined to muse. The theft of the relic and the theft of Harry Hochman's art, it was all connected somehow. And Diddums's revenge isn't complete yet, is it? Of course not. What next? 'hat I think you ought to do," Dortmunder said to Zara Kotor, back in their upstairs living room over the embassy, "if you don't mind me giving you a little advice--" "I don't mind," Zara said, though brusquely. "I see these pictures of the sacred relic, I see you've apparently done what you set out to do, and even more, so I don't mind at all if you give me advice. What I wish you'd give me, though, is the relic." Present for this meeting, in addition to Dortmunder and Zara, were Grijk and Andy Kelp. (Once again, Tiny had been unavoidably tied up elsewhere, though Zara had asked specifically that he be along, and some of her present bad temper was probably a result of his absence. Dortmunder didn't know what Tiny's problem was with these people--they were his relatives, after all, and nobody else's--but he was sorry the big man wasn't here, if only so Dortmunder didn't have to keep repeating himself to the mulish Zara all the time.) "If I give you the bone," he said, demonstrating a patience he didn't feel, "what are you gonna do with it? You can't show it to anybody or admit you got it, or they're gonna ask you where you got it from, how long you had it, how come you never showed it before, how'd it get to the States, all these questions. The main thing about this bone is, when you claim it, your hands have got to be clean, or this archbishop's gonna take against you. Am I right?" "Conceivably," Zara admitted. "Good," Dortmunder said. "So conceive it. Now, here's my advice. Today, this afternoon, you do a press release or a press conference or however you work it, and you announce you've privately had tests done on your own St. Ferghana bone, the one you've been claiming all along you've got, the one that made Votskojek have to test theirs all this time, and the tests you did on your own prove conclusively it's a fake. You apologize to Votskojek--" "Never!" Zara cried, and Grijk actually jumped to his feet and looked around for a pike or a halberd. "Just wait for it, okay?" Dortmunder said. "Sit down, Grijk, it comes out okay at the end." Frowning like an avalanche, Grijk resumed his seat while Zara said, "I will never apologize to Votskojek for anything." "Okay, fine," Dortmunder said. "Apologize to the UN instead; that's even better. You apologize to the world, okay? Sorry to cause this delay and trouble, but you always believed you had the right bone, but now you have to admit Votskojek has it, so all they have to do is show it in public and you'll withdraw your application to join the UN." Zara stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief. "And what do I get out of that?" "Your seat at the UN," Dortmunder told her. Well, well," said the archbishop. Having come here to his office at the United Nations building on New York's First Avenue directly from yet another memorial service, the archbishop was outfitted in full funereal vestments, with the purple cassock and purple cope piping nicely setting off the dazzling white linen of the stole and cope, the whole ensemble belted and sashed with an array of cinctures. The lacy rochet below the stole contrasted with the massive, dark--and heavy-- mahogany pectoral cross lying on his sunken chest like the stone before the grave at Gethsemane. He had removed the tall white miter from his head and placed it on a corner of his desk, and had then dropped like last year's leaf into his swivel chair, just to get a few minutes rest. And he was no sooner settled, a scrawny little old guy gasping for air inside all the panoply, when one of his clerical clerks brought in a fax, uncurled it like the scroll it was, and held it up for the archbishop to read. Which was when the archbishop said, "Well, well." "Yes, Your Grace," said the clerk. "Call, um, er, umm, that fellow, you know, the fellow we don't call." The clerk nodded, looking thoughtful. After the briefest of pauses, he said, "Would you mean the Votskojek embassy, Your Grace?" "Can't call them," the archbishop said, laying a scrawny finger aside his scrawny nose to indicate slyness. "Can't indicate bias. Not a hint of bias." "Of course not, Your Grace." "Not an issue now, eh? Get him for me, that, uh, umm…" "I believe, Your Grace, his name is Ambassador Kralowc." "That's the fellow. Ring him up." "At once, Your Grace." As the clerk turned away, still holding the fax in both hands, the archbishop waggled bony fingers at him. "And leave that." "Yes, Your Grace." The clerk let go of the fax with one hand, and it flexed shut like a clam. He handed this tube to the archbishop, then retired to his outer office while the archbishop spread the fax faceup on the desk, weighing the corners with a stapler, a Scotch tape dispenser, a pocket calculator, and a small plaster statue of the Infant Jesus of Prague. Making these moves, grunting with the effort of shifting around inside all his vestments as he reached out across the gleaming teak surface of his desk, he looked like some major chess player of mythology, losing another big one to the devil. The archbishop read the fax again, savoring it, and then the phone at his right elbow rang, and he disrupted the whole construct in his effort to swivel around and pick the damn thing up. "What? "Ambassador Kralowc, Your Grace." "What? Here?" "On line one, Your Grace. I rang him for you." "Oh! Right!" The archbishop punched a button and then another button and said, "Hello?" "Archbishop?" "Yes, of course. What did you want?" "Archbishop, this is Hradec Kralowc, from Votskojek, you remember me, your clerk said you wanted to--" "Yes! Yes, of course! Well, my boy, are you relishing the good news?" "Good news, Archbishop?" Kralowc didn't sound like a man who believed in good news. "The press release. Didn't those people send you the press release?" 'Who, Archbishop?" "Who? Them! Those upstart pretenders at the, over there in the, you know, the competition." "Tsergovia?" "Thafs the place. They didn't send you the press release?" "No one has sent me anything, Archbishop," the ambassador said, but the tone of self-pity in his voice was lost on the archbishop, who was distracted at that moment by his struggle to recapture all the corners of the fax without losing the telephone. Slamming the Infant Jesus of Prague onto the final corner, he said, 'There! Now stay there!" "Archbishop?" "Wait, I'll read it to you," the archbishop said. "Are you there?" "Yes." "Good. Listen. Are you listening?" "Yes, Archbishop. I'm here, and I'm listening." "Good. Listen, now." Squinting through his wire-framed spectacles and down past his pale, old, narrow hawk nose, the archbishop read, "'Immediate release. Major General Zara Kotor, Ambassadress to the United States from the free and sovereign state of Tsergovia, has received today permission from her government at Osigreb to announce the result of certain tests made at Osigreb Polytechnic, in Osigreb, Tsergovia, in an effort to authenticate a certain relic, known as the Relic of St. Ferghana, consisting of a thighbone purporting to be the thighbone of the martyred St. Ferghana of Carpathia. Knowing that a similar relic has existed for some time at the Rivers of Blood Cathedral in Novi Glad in our sister republic of Votskojek, and knowing further that the question of the authenticity of these two supposed relics has served to complicate and exacerbate the relations between these two sister republics, and to further complicate and exacerbate the question of the successor seat available to one but not to the other of our nations at the United Nations in New York City, United States of America, it is our sad duty to announce that the result of our scientific investigation of the Relic of St. Ferghana in our possession at Osigreb is that it is, in fact, false. We no longer--'" "What?" "There, now, you see, my boy?" the archbishop said, chortling and wheezing over the fax. "Good news comes unexpectedly, does it not? Let me go on," he said, and, not hearing the long, low moan that then emanated from the throat of Ambassador Kralowc into the telephone system known as NYNEX because it is run by Venusians, he continued to read: " We no longer make any claim toward the authenticity of the relic in our possession, nor do we demand of Votskojek that she produce any evidence, scientific or historical or otherwise, in support of the claim that the relic in her possession is the true relic. It is our understanding that the true relic is currently in New York City, under the protection and in the care of the government of Votskojek on behalf of the people of Votskojek. When the government of Votskojek, or its representatives, shall present this relic to the General Assembly at the United Nations in New York City, United States of America, we, the sovereign state of Tsergovia, will give up, cede, and relinquish for all time from this moment until the end of the world any and all claims we might have had to the successor seat at the United Nations. We would pray to that august body that we be considered for a new seat, at the earliest opportunity. By the grace of God and the order of the freely elected and democratic government seated at Osigreb, sovereign state of Tsergovia. Signed, Zara Kotor, Major General.'" Chuckling and panting, the archbishop said, "Well, Ambassador, what do you think of that?" He waited. "Ambassador? Ambassador?" Very faintly came the voice of the ambassador: "It's wonderful, Archbishop." "Overcome, are you? Well, I don't blame you, my boy; it's been a long struggle and those Tsergovians didn't mind fighting dirty, I can tell you that, and I can tell you now it's a great relief to me to have this matter resolved, because it was, I'll admit it now, it was difficult not to show bias toward those sneaking, underhanded, sacrilegious--" "Archbishop?" "Yes?" "Was that release sent to anyone else?" "Anyone else? My boy, it was faxed to everyone. Down at the bottom here, wait just a minute, here's a list, it's--Yes, every United Nations member--" "Every one?" "Every one. All major news media, the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of New York--Ambassador? Was that a moan?" "No, no, Archbishop, I was merely clearing my throat. Uh, this if wonderful news, as you say. I can hardly wait to tell my superiors back in Novi Glad. Archbishop, uh, would you mind faxing me that fax?" "Not at all," the archbishop said. "Delighted to be the bearer of good tidings. I'll fax the fax at once. I have your fax number?" "Your people have my fax number." "As long as they have your fax number, there's no problem. We'll fax the fax in just a moment." "Fax you--uh, I mean, thank you, Archbishop." "My pleasure," the archbishop said; which was more accurate than he knew. radec had barely hung up from talking with Archbishop Minkokus, that doddering old fool, when Lusk came in to say, "Sir, the president is on the phone." "The president?" As weighed down by worry and care as he was, it took a few seconds to work that one out. "My president?" "Our president, yes, sir," Lusk agreed. "On the phone from Novi Glad." "Oh, God." Bad news travels fast. Or, that is, good news travels fast. Whatever. That damn helicopter; why wasn't this ship equipped with antiaircraft weapons? That's Votskojek airspace you're violating up there, pal, I'd have every legal right to shoot you down, blow you away, knock you out of the sky. "Sir?"
Reality calls; that is to say, the president calls. "What time is it in Novi Glad?" Lusk consulted a wristwatch, made a calculation, said, "Quarter after six, sir. p.m." "Did he sound drunk?" "No, sir." More's the pity. What to do? Impossible to tell the president the truth; that would lead to immediate recall, dismissal, public shame, and possible dismemberment. Was there still a way out of this mess? Temporize, Hradec, temporize. "Leave me," he said. "Sir." Lusk bowed, departed, and Hradec painted a huge smile on his face, breathed rapidly three times, picked up the phone, and said into it, at top speed, "Isn't that wonderful news? I just heard it myself this minute from the arch--" "What? What? What's all that?" It was only when he heard the president's gravelly voice yelling Magyar-Croat in his ear that Hradec realized he'd been speaking in English. Will nothing go right? Switching at once to his native tongue, Hradec said, "Oh, Your Excellency, I'm sorry, I thought I was speaking to the New York Times. The entire city is agog at the news." "Of course they are," said His Excellency. "What sort of ceremony do you plan for the occasion?" "Ceremony, Your Excellency?" "Of course, ceremony," grated the voice that used to bring a chill to many a heart and a confession to many a lip in the old days when His Excellency was a hands-on head of the VIA, the Votskojek Intelligence Agency. (From leading the nation's spies to leading the nation is a rather common route to power these days; Andropov in the former Soviet Union, for instance. Other examples come to mind.) "You'll want to give the relic a first-rate ceremony at the United Nations," this terror-striking voice went on. "Votskojek expects it of you. The world expects it of you. I expect it of you." "Yes, Your Excellency, of course." "You aren't going to just walk over there and flash it at them like a ticket of admission to a film show." "No, of course not, Your Excellency. But," as a ray of hope seemed to gleam before him, a tiny ray, a temporary ray, but still a ray, "a ceremony will take a little while to organize, Your Excellency, to arrange. This won't be immediate." "No one expects it to be immediate," His Excellency snarled. "Let them wait a little." "Your wish is my command, Excellency." "The waiting game, Kralowc," that voice purred, heavy with awful memories, "it has its uses in many departments of life." If he ever finds out, Hradec thought, if this brute of a president ever finds out, he'll restore flaying to the Votskojek code of justice, just for me. "I'll let them wait, Your Excellency," he promised, his voice hardly trembling at all. "I'll drag it out, I promise you, just as long as I can." Somehow, Guy just didn't like having these carpenters in his house. They kept looking around all the time; it was unnerving. That may be why he didn't bargain with them, haggle them down from their arbitrary thirty thou. Not that he didn't have the money, or the reasonable assurance he would get it back and tenfold, but merely that it wasn't his nature, under any circumstances, to accept the first number he heard. But with these two, playing the game was somehow just not worth it. Get them in, get them out, get it over with. And so he did, early Tuesday morning. They went away from his basement with thirty thousand dollars in cash tucked away in their pockets, looking around at everything on their way out, heads turning back and forth, eyes glancing off locks, windows, electric outlets, who knew what. Guy, in relief, shut and locked the basement door on them, hurried upstairs to his office, and phoned Perly. Jacques Perly was an old associate, a known quantity. A private investigator by trade, his specialty was art theft and his employers usually insurance companies or banks--those who had to pay for insured losses, those who had to absorb uninsured losses. As Guy had supposed, there was more than one insurance company involved in the Harry Hochman art collection; there were three, and Jacques Perly represented them all. Guy had phoned him yesterday to say he might be of use in the present instance--"I rather thought you might," Perly had answered, a bit too dryly for Guy's taste--and now today Guy phoned to say he'd made contact with the thieves and was prepared to be the go-between. "Fine," Perly said. "Lunch? Or are you doing one of your own today?" "Not today, or at all this week. I've cleared the decks for this, Jacques." "Lunch, then," Perly decided, and they met at one o'clock at Tre Mafiosi on Park Avenue, a smooth, hushed place in white and green and gold, with yellow flowers. Perly had arrived first, and he rose with a smile and an outstretched hand when Tony the maitre d' escorted Guy to the table. A round, stuffed Cornish game hen of a man, Jacques Perly retained a slight hint of his original Parisian accent. A onetime art student, a failed artist, he viewed the world with a benign pessimism, the mournful good humor of a rich, unmarried uncle, who expects nothing and accepts everything. "Good afternoon," Guy said as Tony seated him and Angelo distributed menus and Kwa Hong Yo brought rolls, butter, and water. "You're looking well." "And you." Menus were consulted, food and wine were ordered, and then Guy took the bulky envelope from his inner pocket and, without a word, handed it over. Perly raised an eyebrow, removed the photos from the envelope, leafed through them, and smiled dolefully as he said, "A well-documented felony." 'These are professionals," Guy assured him. "We don't have to worry about any of the works being harmed." "No, I suppose not. May I keep these?" "Of course." Food and wine arrived and were consumed, with small talk about the city, the weather, the disappointing Broadway season-- "Although Nana: The Musical isn't bad," Perly suggested--and one's plans for the summer. Then, over espresso and raspberries, Perly said, "Honestly, Guy, the extreme professionalism of these people, with all these Polaroid prints, gives me pause. Are we creating this monster, you and I?" Guy looked askance. "Which monster is that, Jacques?" "These thieves," Perly explained. "If they were to steal a loaf of bread, it would be to eat. If they steal money, it's to spend; jewelry, to pawn. But when they steal an art collection like this"--tap tap on the envelope of photos--"it is only to sell it back. And how could they do that, if it were not for you and me? We are certainly collaborators in their crimes, but are we more? Do we encourage the commission of these crimes, by our very existence? Do we instigate them?" "Nonsense," Guy said in automatic disagreement. "People will steal anything; you know that as well as I do. We don't encourage the theft; we encourage the recovery." "Without the punishment of the perpetrators." "With or without," Guy said, dismissing that. "Capturing is the police's job. Recovery is ours." "But if we didn't exist, Guy, you and I, what would these very professional thieves do with all these paintings and sculptures they've just loaded so precisely into their truck? Would they present their demands direct to Harry Hochman? He'd set the dogs on them." Guy smiled faintly. "Or the shotguns, more likely." "Exactly. We are the go-betweens, and necessary, if anything useful is to be done. But in this instance, don't the go-betweens create the very condition they're supposed to be alleviating?" Guy shook his head, irritated by this conversation and surprised that a man like Jacques Perly would demonstrate such compunction. "The thieves will sell Hochman's art to the insurance companies, through us. You want to know what they would do without us? Or without the insurance companies, who, after all, put up the money, so maybe they create the monster." "Very possible," Perly said, nodding. Guy didn't need that particular agreement. "Without any of us," he said, "the thieves would find a way to make contact with art dealers in Europe. Switzerland, for instance, or Holland. Or maybe South America. The dealers would buy, no questions asked. The dealers--some of the dealers, anyway, and you know a number of them yourself, Jacques--those dealers would be happy to cobble together brand-new authentication and sell the works to collectors anywhere. There's a market beyond us, Jacques, and you're just being provocative to suggest there isn't, and you know it. What we do is keep the collection together, no small consideration, and in the rightful owner's hands." Eyes twinkling, Perly sipped espresso, bit delicately into a raspberry, and said, "So, Guy. You mean we are without guilt?" "Absolutely," Guy said. Blotches of red stood on his cheeks. "Such a relief," Perly murmured. then Dortmunder walked into the OJ Bar Grill, the regulars were discussing why cable television needs wires. "It's because of the vibrations," one of them was saying. "They send these vibrations down the wire, and that tells the TV what to show." "How?" asked a second regular. The first regular stared at him. "Whadaya mean, how? I just told you how. With vibrations." A third regular weighed in. "That's a load of crap," he announced, and gestured forcefully with his beer glass. The second regular adapted his question to the new circumstances: "How come?" "If a TV's gotta have vibrations to tell it what to show," the third regular belligerently reasoned, "how come regular TV don't need it?" Here came a fourth regular, saying, "That's easy, pal. Regular TV works like radio, without wires." "How?" asked the second regular, but the first regular overrode him, saying, "Without wires? Radio works without wires? Whadaya think that dark brown cord is, comes outta the back, goes into the wall?" "It ain't cable," said the fourth regular with supreme confidence. The first regular glared at him. "It's a wirel" The second regular, building strongly on his original base, said, "How about portables?" The third regular banged his beer glass on the table. "I can't stand them," he announced. "Boom boxes. The only stations you can get on those things is brain damage." "They cause brain damage," said the fourth regular, being positive on a whole new subject. "How?" asked the second regular, returning to the basics. "Vibrations," said the first regular, also returning to basics. But the third regular rounded on the fourth and said, "How can you be sure it isn't the other way around?" "What isn't the other way around?" "They were already brain-damaged to begin with; that's why they bought the boom boxes." "No no no," said the positive fourth regular. 'They used to have enough brains to walk into a store, hand over the money, walk out with the radio." "Can't stand those things." "But you look at them now," the fourth regular persisted, "walking around with those boxes, you can see they don't have enough brain left to close their mouths." The others, establishing a certain level of brainpower, closed their mouths to mull that one over, while Dortmunder approached Rollo the bartender, snoozing against the cash register, and said, "Anybody back there?" Rollo's eyes focused. "I would say," he answered, "everybody's back there. The other bourbon's got your glass." "Thanks." Dortmunder nodded to Rollo, who'd drifted off again, then he walked past the regulars, who were all blinking and frowning, trying to remember what they'd been talking about, and headed for the back room. Which, as Rollo had suggested, was full. With Dortmunder, all eleven from the caper were here: Kelp, Tiny, Stan Murch, Gus Brock, Fred Lartz, Harry Matlock, Ralph Demrovsky, Ralph Winslow, Jim O'Hara, and Wally Whistler. All of the chairs were occupied except the one with its back to the door, and a few of the guys were sitting around on upended wooden liquor cases. Dortmunder upended a liquor case, sat on it, and Gus Brock said, "Dortmunder, we got three cents left over." Dortmunder wasn't ready for this. "How come?" Gus said, "We got eleven guys, we got thirty grand. That comes out twenty-seven hundred bucks a man, but with three hundred bucks left over. So we split that, and it's twenty-seven bucks a man, but with three bucks left over. So we split that, and it's twenty-seven cents a man, but with three cents left over, for eleven guys." Dortmunder nodded. Somehow, he felt as though he were still out front with the regulars. He said, "We'll give it to Tiny; he didn't get anything the first time around." Everybody agreed that was fair, especially Tiny, and then everybody wanted to know what was going to happen next. "Nothing," Dortmunder said. "We'll give this guy Guy Claverack, this guy Clav--Guy--Him. We'll give him two days to meet some people, talk it over, start the negotiation. Thursday we'll give him a call. Meanwhile," turning to Stan, "how's the truck doing?" "Fine," Stan said. "I went out there today and moved it to a different town. Every six blocks out there, it's a different town with different cops, so all I have to do is keep it moving; no police force is gonna notice they got this same truck all the time." Gus Brock said, "How long is this two thousand seven hundred twenty-seven dollars and twenty-seven cents supposed to last us? In other words, when can we expect something from your guy?" "You mean Guy?" But then Dortmunder waved a hand in the air, saying, "No, forget that, I know who you mean. And the way I figure, it's going to have to be at least a week, so they can all negotiate, and maybe a month, but it can't be any longer than that." Stan said, "I'm gonna take the train out to Long Island and bop that truck around every other day for a month*" "I hope not that long," Dortmunder said. Harry Matlock said, "Me and Ralph got a suggestion." Meaning his partner, Ralph Demrovsky. Dortmunder wasn't sure he was in the market for suggestions --they were already moving forward on the agreed-upon plan here, after all--but he said, "Sure. What is it?" "Just in case there's a problem with your guy," Harry said, "in case it looks like there's a problem, or there could be a problem, or whatever, Ralph and me a few years ago made contact with a couple people that move art to Europe. First to Canada, and then to Europe. We could slip that truck into Canada, get some people in Europe that buy that kind of stuff. Dealers, you know." "That's a possibility," Dortmunder agreed. "Ifs less money, because they pay less, and you got more people along the route with their hand out that they got to have a little piece, but if the first plan falls through, that's good you've got those contacts." "When?" Harry said. "You mean, when do you call your contact? When do we figure things aren't working out? Is that what you mean?" "Yes," Harry said. Stan said, "I don't feature taking that train every other day for a month, I'll tell you that." Dortmunder considered. The essence of leadership is compromise. That, and sensing the needs of your people. That, and remaining confident on the surface. And some other stuff. "Two weeks," he said. "How's