Frame-Up (17 page)

“How do I know—?”

“You don't. You've got my word. If I get the painting, I'll give it to you. That's worth a hell of a lot more than anything else you've got going.”

Thirty more seconds, and he leaned over the table.

“You take Benny Ignola with you. I need some insurance.”

“For what it's worth, okay.”

I figured I could loose Benny at any point in the journey. It was a small price to pay.

“And while we're at it, Mr. Aiello, I want this card up on the table. If I ever find out that you were responsible for John's death, I'll take it to the D.A. to save Peter.”

He put on a half-grin and shook his head.

“I said it before. You got big ones. You talk to me like this.”

“It's better you know now. I won't go back on my word.”

I think it was a new concept to Aiello — keeping one's word for the honor of it rather than fear for one's kneecaps. He was struggling with it, but it was probably his last option.

“How you gonna do it? The picher.”

“You've got to give me someplace to start. Give me a name. Something. Do you know anyone connected with the deal?”

He thought. I could see that John let him in on as little as possible. Finally he leaned closer and whispered.

“There's this guy at Harvard. McKedrick knew him. He's a professor. Teaches art or somethin'. Name sounds Russian. like something-ovitch.”

“Was it Denisovitch? Leopold Denisovitch?”

“Yeah. McKedrick said he could tell if it was real or a phony. He's the one said it was real.”

I knew the name because Professor Denisovitch had taught the course that both John McKedrick and I had taken in History of Art 102.

I looked at my watch. It was quarter of two. I badly needed to touch base with Mr. Devlin. I needed fifteen minutes to fill him in on what I'd been up to in the past hour, and half an hour to talk him out of having me committed to McLean's.

I left Aiello with the promise that I'd let him know when I was ready to make a move.

When I walked down the carpeted staircase that led to School Street, I recalled that just two weeks week ago, I had an interesting but ordinary law practice. This week I'd survived two assassination attempts, I was up to my targeted posterior in the business of the archenemy of all that's holy, Dominic Santangelo, and to ice the cake, I was the commissioned emissary of Santangelo's personal Judas, Fat Tony Aiello. Go figure.

As soon as the elevator ding signaled that I'd reached our office floor, it hit me that I hadn't seen my secretary, Julie, in a spell. She being the long-suffering fire wall between me and those who vent their frustration at trying to reach me at times like this, I had an idea I'd hear about it.

“Michael, what precisely could I threaten you with to get you to return some of these calls? Some of these people want to barbecue me, and I'm not even the lawyer.”

“Give me a list of the top five. I'll do it before I leave.”

“Here's a list of the eight who are forming a lynch mob.”

I had one parting request.

“Julie, would you get the number for Professor Leopold Denisovitch at Harvard? See if you can get him on the phone.”

“No.”

Julie always knew how to stop me in mid-step.

“Why not?”

“Because if I do, you won't return those calls.”

“How's this? Give me twenty minutes to go through this list, and then you have Professor Denisovitch on the line.”

I consumed the next twenty minutes soothing feathers and arranging postponements in the sincere hope that Devlin & Knight would have a practice left when this Santangelo business was finally put in the “closed” file. I buzzed Julie's line.

“I have fulfilled all commitments, My Lady. I can only assume that Professor Denisovitch is pacing while waiting on hold.”

“Not quite, Michael. He's not in his office.”

“Where is he?”

“That's as much as I could pry out of his assistant or secretary or whatever she is. Do you want me to get her back on the line?”

I thought about it. This was the last thin thread that I had to follow. It had to be done delicately.

“No. Would you see if his office is still in the Fogg Art Museum? It's on Quincy Street in Cambridge. I'll be with Mr. Devlin for a while.”

My first five minutes with Mr. D. were spent filling him in on my exploits with Benny Ignola and Tony Aiello. The Benny story amused him, given his passing acquaintance with the ineffable Mr. Ignola. The part about the two in the taxi on Charles Street brought scowls and the kind of grumblings that I knew were founded on a deep concern for his junior partner. The Fat Tony story got us into deeper water.

“You know I don't like this, Michael. What the hell are you planning on doing? And this time give me all of it.”

In a burst of honest disclosure, I told him that I planned on getting in touch with Professor Denisovitch to try to get a lead to the painting in the coded vault. We shared the feeling that John's involvement with that painting had some connection to his death. I also told him about my commitment to get the painting for Tony Aiello. That was a mistake.

“How do you plan to get into that vault even if you find out where it is? The chances are there's another half of the code in the hands of whoever's on the other side of that painting business.”

“I'm going to do what I learned from my senior partner. I'm going to follow one step till it leads to the next one in the hope the steps don't run out. I learned that from my master mentor.”

“You also picked up some of the Irish blarney. I forgot to tell you. It doesn't work on another Irishman.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“I mean it, Michael. You're playing with the worst sort.”

“Worse than Dominic Santangelo?”

“Yes. Dominic is at least predictable. And there are limits to what he'll do.”

“As long as murder is within his limits, can this be much worse?”

“Yes, Michael. This Professor Denisovitch. Do you know him?”

“He was my professor at Harvard in an art history course. But I was just one of forty names on a class roster. On the other hand, it's an entrée.”

“All right, Michael. Here are your marching orders. See what you can learn from the professor. That's it. We'll talk about it when you get back.”

“Okay, Mr. Devlin.”

I was halfway to the door when he froze me.

“Michael. Look at me.”

I put on a blank expression, and faced the penetration of his glare.

“That was too damn easy, Michael. What have you really got in mind?”

“I committed myself to Aiello to get that painting in exchange for the only lead I could get. That means that I have to go wherever this vault is and tangle with whatever emissaries from hell also want that damn painting. It's like walking a tightrope with one leg. I have no idea how I can possibly get out of this thing alive. I know I'm over my head. I hate this at least three times as much as you do. But I know I have to give it my best shot in spite of your welcome concern. Maybe I'll see you Wednesday, or in the next life.”

Needless to say, those words never got past my lips. What did was simply: “I'll see the professor and let you know what I get. You're the boss.”

“And don't you forget it.”

By early afternoon, I was cruising the back streets of Cambridge around Harvard to find one of the elusive parking spaces around the Fogg Art Museum. The Fogg is a piece of Harvard that goes back to 1895. It houses one of the world's greatest university collections of fine art from the Middle Ages to the present. It also houses the Straus
Center for Conservation and Technical Studies, with facilities for testing the physical materials of paintings for authentication. Most importantly, it housed the office of one of its luminaries, Professor Leopold Denisovitch.

I found the door with the stenciling on frosted glass that boasted the professor's name, with the legend beneath it, Helga Swenson, Ph.D., assistant.

I rapped on the glass and heard from the inside “COME” in a voice low enough to be on either side of the male/female divide. I opened the door to a large room that would have made any art connoisseur gasp. Every inch of the walls was covered with paintings so closely packed that it seemed to form one breathtaking mural. A wild guess was that they were being warehoused on the walls until Professor Denisovitch could authenticate them.

A voice seemed to come from the massive desk against the far wall. It came from an elongated figure bent double over my side of the desk, so that it was only visible from the rump down.

Whatever was absorbing her attention did not release her for the amenities of a formal introduction. The baritone voice, tinted with what I recognized from my undergraduate days as a “Harvard accent,” bounced off the rear wall.

“Place the examinations on the chair and depart. That will be all, young man.”

I almost wished I had some examinations to drop and run. I closed the door, partly for privacy and partly to send a signal.

“Ms. Swenson?”

The head came up slightly but made no move to rotate.

“Are you conversant with the English tongue, young man? You may depart. There will be no tipping.”

“Not even to cover my parking meter and maybe lunch?”

I thought maybe impertinence would be a surefire grabber. It was. She slowly rose to full stature and turned to face, or rather face down, this insolent pup. When totally unfolded, she exceeded six feet by at least two inches more than I did. I assumed from the name that her now white hair was once Norwegian blonde. It was baled into a
utilitarian bun and fastened with some kind of a claw, consistent with the earth-toned frock and the sensible shoes.

I jumped in with a preemptive introduction. “Ms. Swenson, my name is Michael Knight. I was a student of Professor Denisovitch. That was some years ago. In any event, it's rather important that I speak with the professor.”

In the same baritone, “Concerning?”

“Concerning a painting.”

“Yes. I didn't imagine you was getting up a touch football game. What about this painting?”

“Actually that's rather a delicate subject. Could I speak with the professor?”

She stiffened somewhat, if that was possible, and gained another inch in height. From that higher ground, she considered me for a second or two before dismissing me with two words and turned back to her former position.

The two words were, “No. Depart.”

There was a door to the right of the desk that I strongly suspected led to Professor Denisovitch's office. The problem was getting through it. I knew it meant either physically overcoming this Viking, or winning her over. The law of possibilities indicated the latter.

“Ms. Swenson, I don't want to spar with you. You've got intelligence and height on your side. On the other hand, I can't leave this office without seeing Professor Denisovitch. I hate to dredge up an old cliché, but this is quite definitely a matter of life or death.”

I thought sure she'd dismiss that pathetic speech and shoot me another “Depart.” I was surprised when she turned around and simply said, “Yours or Professor Denisovitch's.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Whose life?”

If I said “mine,” it would probably be a matter of enormous indifference to Brunhilde. If I said “the professor's,” it would sound like a melodramatic trick. On the other hand, I wondered why she even suggested the latter possibility?

“Probably both. At the moment, it's very possible that the professor is in serious danger. I'm a lawyer. I've become involved with people who lead me to believe he needs someone on his side.”

She seemed to soften and actually sat back against the front of the desk.

“He's not here.”

“Do you know where he is?”

The pause indicated the answer was yes.

“Who are you, Mr.—?”

“Knight, Michael Knight.”

I gave her a very brief explanation of what brought me to the professor's door, leaving out the sensitive details, but giving her enough to conclude that I was one of the good guys.

“He's in London. He had a call two days ago from a man with a Russian accent. He practically demanded that the professor meet him in London. I thought that the professor would ignore the message, but he cancelled his classes for the week and left that evening.”

“Do you have any idea where he might be staying in London?”

“He's gone to London several times before this year. He always stays at the Grisham Hotel. It's a few blocks from Tottenham Court Station. I'm not sure of the address.”

“No problem. If I get that close, I can find it. Did he say how long he'd be there?”

“No. He has classes next week.”

I started to “depart,” when she stopped me.

“Mr. Knight, there's another thing. Just after the professor left for the airport, there was a call from a second man with a Slavic accent. I'd say this one was from Belarus.”

“How do you know?”

“Good ear for dialect. My mother was from Minsk. In any event, this one demanded to know how to find the professor.”

“And you said?”

“The Grisham Hotel, London. I didn't realize at the time—”

“Did either of these Russians call before?”

“Yes. The man from Belarus called twice during the past term. He never left a name. Each time, the professor asked me to make arrangements for him to fly to Amsterdam.”

“Did he say what for?”

“No. But each time the professor seemed to be under a great strain. Particularly the last time. The other man, the one he's meeting in London now, is an art historian, Alexei Samnov. The professor's known him for years.”

I knew there were more questions to ask, but they didn't occur to me.