The New Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction (108 page)

They passed the girl at the gate, each calling his name as he filed through: Greenleaf . . . Burnes . . . Stettanus . . . Leiderkrantz . . .

He was a short, stocky man of about thirty-four, with rust-colored hair and a carefully trimmed mustache. He wore his clothes jauntily, almost flashily, and was not what you would expect of an art connoisseur. He appeared nervous, shifting his eyes as he gave his name curtly to the girl in the blue uniform. In his hand was tightly clasped the handle of a small black bag which he seemed to protect with an almost fierce intensity. I was pretty certain that the Dionysus was inside that bag. I began to feel a little nervous myself.

I tagged behind him as he hurried through the gate. When we were a little way from the crowd, I palmed the shield from my pocket so he could see it, dropped it back and said, “I have a cab waiting outside, Mr Leiderkrantz.”

He stopped short, looking confusedly at me, pulling the bag back possessively so that it pressed hard against his legs. Then his blue eyes narrowed defiantly; and when he spoke, his voice was unexpectedly harsh. “Police?” he asked quickly. The deep crease between his eyes drew his brows together.

I smiled reassuringly, said, “Private detective. Max Schweingurt sent me to make sure you got in all right.”

He studied me thoughtfully, then nodded slowly. “I see.”

“Do you want me to carry the bag?” I asked and reached for it.

He pulled the bag away quickly, holding the handle with both hands, and pressed it against his legs again. “No,” he cried sharply. Then he smiled and lowered his voice. “No, thank you. I . . . I am quite able to carry it.”

His manner irritated me a little but I decided it would be better anyway to be free to use my hands in case anything happened, rather than be hampered by a heavy bag. On the hunch, I transferred my gun from its shoulder holster to the side pocket of my coat, as I waited for Leiderkrantz to clear through Customs.

I didn’t know what he did about the Dionysus, whether he declared it or not. All I know is that I stood by, keeping my eyes open, and he cleared through in about fifteen minutes less than the usual hour and a half. When he finished we went upstairs and climbed into the cab I had waiting.

I gave the address of Max Schweingurt’s place on Fifty-third Street, and we swung out on the Cross-Island Parkway to the Triborough Bridge. Leiderkrantz was still nervous and he fidgeted in the corner of the cab, smoking cigarettes chain-fashion. The small black bag he kept on the floor between his feet. He didn’t say anything and kept eyeing me suspiciously, as if for some reason he didn’t trust me. I tried to start a conversation to pass the time, asking him about the situation in Europe and about the trip across in the Constellation; but he cut me off short every time. So I quit and leaned back in the seat and lighted a cigarette myself, watching the quaint pattern of buildings that edged the East River as we crossed the Bridge.

Suddenly, Leiderkrantz leaned across me and snapped a cigarette butt out of my open window. It struck the frame and blew back, scattering hot red sparks and ashes into my face, fiinally landing on the seat between my leg and the side of the cab. Frantically, I rubbed the ashes from my eyes. At the same time I turned to remove the burning cigarette from the cab, purely reflex action. I was muttering savagely beneath my breath when suddenly it seemed as if the roof had caved in on my head!

I started to turn, instantly on the alert in spite of the pain from the blow. But I was too slow. He hit me again, and I slumped down off the seat, grabbing for the coat that moved in a blur above me. I yanked down with one hand, my other hand going for my shoulder holster; then I remembered that I had transferred the gun to my coat pocket back there in the Air Terminal. My hand started for the coat pocket, but it never got there. The roof did cave in! With one final blow, Leiderkrantz finished me. I didn’t remember anything after that.

I raced into Max Schweingurt’s art galleries with a peach of a headache, a sick feeling in my stomach and mayhem in my heart. There were a couple of old ladies studying a Michaelangelo out front and a group of college students in the Grecian Court listening to the droning monotone of a guide. I passed a young black-haired fellow in a gray smock who was busy cleaning a large statue, and went into Schweingurt’s ornate office at the rear of the room.

He looked up at me as I banged the door behind me, and his mouth dropped open. I didn’t give him time to say anything and snapped, “The next time you want me to meet one of your buddies, make sure it’s a woman. Either that, or I’ll put him in a straitjacket before I start.”

He still looked at me incredulously, and his eyes got scared. His thick lips moved wordlessly and weakly, he pushed himself from his chair and stood with his white hands resting on the desk. “What are you talking about?” he asked finally. Then, his voice almost choking him. “Where . . . where’s Leiderkrantz?”

It struck me suddenly that Leiderkrantz was not here; had not been here. I stared at Schweingurt and dropped limply into a chair alongside his desk. “You . . . haven’t heard from him?” I asked slowly, and the words sounded silly the way I said them.

He shook his head and asked again, “What happened?”

I fumbled in my pocket for a cigarette, felt the gun there, drew out a cigarette and lighted it. I offered one to Schweingurt and he refused. He leaned forward intently. I took a couple of long drags, blowing out the smoke noisily and trying to pull myself together, before I told him what had happened.

“Did he have the Dionysus?” he whispered.

“I don’t know definitely. I didn’t see it. But he had a small black bag that he wouldn’t let me touch. How large is this Dionysus thing?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen an original. Forgeries are about . . .” Schweingurt leveled his hand about eighteen inches above the desk . . . “that high. I imagine the original would be the same.”

I nodded. “It would fit in the black bag,” I said.

Schweingurt pinched the end of a cigar, shoved it between his heavy lips and paced the floor behind his desk. He was a big muscular man with dark, graying hair and red-flecked brown eyes. His somber clothes were immaculate and well made. He flamed a match, watched it glow, and said before lighting his cigar, “You don’t know what happened to Leiderkrantz? I mean, after he slugged you?”

I shook my head slowly. It hurt. “The cabbie said he dropped him with his luggage at a hotel in the East Forties. I figured that was just a dodge; that he’d hop another hack and come straight here. He wouldn’t know one hotel from another, unless he’s been in New York before.”

“I don’t know whether he’s ever been here before or not,” Schweingurt explained. “He’s been representing me in Europe only since the war.” He blew out a cloud of smoke. “How long ago was this?”

“I don’t know. The cab driver said he had a time bringing me round after we pulled up out front here. I must have been out quite a while.” I touched the bump on the side of my head gingerly, and winced. “Do you think this Leiderkrantz guy took a powder on you with the Dionysus gadget?”

Schweingurt puffed heavily on his cigar and stared out the window. “He wouldn’t have done that. He wouldn’t have made the trip if he had intended to run out on me. What I’m worried about is – was the man you met Leiderkrantz?”

I had thought of this, but dismissed it. The little man had flown in from Lisbon as Leiderkrantz and had cleared through Customs; so his passport must have been issued under that name and borne his photo. The passport could have been forged, of course, and the switch could have been pulled in Lisbon; but the chances that this had been done were slim.

Schweingurt said, “I’ll cable the representative in Europe and find out if Leiderkrantz made the trip.”

This wouldn’t help, I decided, if the switch had been made in Lisbon, shortly before the Constellation took off. “Get a description of this Leiderkrantz,” I suggested, “and see if it fits our man.”

Schweingurt nodded and picked up the telephone.

The door opened and the dark-haired employee in the gray smock stuck his head in. “A gentleman to see you,” he told Schweingurt. “A Mr Leiderkrantz from the European representative’s office.”

Schweingurt glanced quickly at me, his red-flecked eyes overbright. I tensed in my chair and clenched my hands unconsciously.

“Send him in,” Schweingurt told the attendant. He put the phone down.

I don’t know why I was surprised when Leiderkrantz walked into the office with his small black bag, because I really didn’t expect anyone else. But I was surprised enough in that scant moment to become suddenly suspicious of him; though I can’t explain that, either. He seemed a bit taken aback at seeing me, then he smiled quickly and put out his hand to Schweingurt.

“Leiderkrantz,” he introduced himself sharply. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Schweingurt.” His voice was flat and unpleasant; and there wasn’t a trace of the accent you would expect from a European.

Schweingurt smiled pleasantly and shook hands. He went back and sat down at his desk, knocked the ash from his cigar carefully into a crystal ashtray and looked up brightly. “You have the Dionysus?” he asked.

Leiderkrantz nodded and placed the bag on the desk. He turned to me and said blandly, “I owe you an apology, I imagine. You are a detective after all?”

I gestured with a flourish of my hand. “Think nothing of it,” I replied with a touch of sarcasm that I didn’t bother to hide. “What’s a sock on the head, or two. You didn’t believe I was a detective?” I asked him.

“I was warned before I left,” he explained, “that there might be an attempt made to steal the Dionysus. I couldn’t take any chances. I couldn’t be sure of your honesty because I had no way of being
absolutely
sure. So as long as I couldn’t trust you, I decided to escape from you and come here independently.”

“Where did you go after you left the cab?” I asked him. “You didn’t come straight here.”

“No,” he answered willingly. “I checked into the Pittsfield Hotel on East Forty-seventh Street, and left my bags.”

The Pittsfield was about where the cab driver told me he had dropped Leiderkrantz. I was a little disappointed that I couldn’t find a hole in his story.

Schweingurt had tried to open the small bag on the desk and found it locked. He sat drumming his fingers nervously on the arm of his chair. He said impatiently to Leiderkrantz, “May I see the Dionysus?”

The man turned swiftly, apologizing for the locked bag, but again explaining his need for the utmost care. He opened the bag by rotating a miniature combination lock and removed a tubular, blue-velvet sack with a drawstring at the top. This he placed carefully in front of Schweingurt, who cautiously withdrew the velvet sack from around the statuette. Schweingurt leaned back in his chair and admired the statuette where it stood on the desk. It was a sculpture about eighteen inches high of a scantily clad boy holding a small cask in his right hand, a staff in his left. From its color, it appeared very old; not the color that comes from dirt or dust, but the tinge of age that seems to have substance.

Schweingurt said, “An original Baccus by Orinaldi!”

I glanced at him perplexedly, and Leiderkrantz, who must have had the same thought, corrected him, “An original
Dionysus
by Orinaldi!” He spoke deprecatingly, but rubbed at his small mustache with a supercilious gesture.

Schweingurt nodded slowly but didn’t say anything. He continued to stare entranced at the statuette on the desk, and his smile reflected his appreciation. But there was something in his eyes that had changed, some vague disturbance that made the red flecks seem brighter. I watched him closely, trying to fathom his faint change of mood.

Leiderkrantz’s bland voice broke the sudden tension that seemed to fill the room when he said, “I must be going now,” and put out his hand. “I’ll be in New York a day or two; so I’ll see you again before I return to the Continent.”

Schweingurt looked up quickly, blinking, as if he had been in a trance. He grasped Leiderkrantz’s hand mechanically – and not too warmly – and said simply, “Yes, yes. Fine!” He immediately returned to his studied appraisal of the Dionysus.

Leiderkrantz glanced at him, nodded to me and went out the door.

I sighed deeply, lighted another cigarette and relaxed in the chair.

When the door closed, Schweingurt looked up slowly, his brown eyes narrowing and a dark frown etching his forehead. He watched the door for a long, silent minute; then, not taking his eyes away from it, he said to me in a brittle, decisive voice. “You better run over to the Pittsfield Hotel. See what you can find out about him. That man is not Leiderkrantz!”

I jumped out of my chair, spilling ashes from my cigarette on the thick maroon rug. “What . . .”

He stopped me with a flourish of his hand. “Take it easy. I think we have plenty of time. Whoever he is, he is not aware we know he is
not
Leiderkrantz. He must have had some inside information to know that I don’t know Leiderkrantz by sight. But the Dionysus is worth a lot of money that I haven’t paid yet – sixty-five thousand dollars – and he’s bound to make a play for that. That’s why I say we have plenty of time. I don’t think he would turn the statuette over to me, and let me send the money to the European representative. That’s the procedure, of course, but if the guy’s a phony, he’ll make a play for the money, or part of it, anyway.”

“Unless the Dionysus is a phony,” I stated.

“A forgery?” he said and shrugged. “I don’t think so. It appears to be the original, though I can’t be positive by just looking at it. I’ll make tests and call in Dr Homer Bramble from the Lexington Foundation Museum. He’s an expert on this period of art. I wouldn’t want to judge the work solely on my own experience, though I do have an Athena outside by the same sculptor. In fact, it was the only one in the country until I got this Dionysus. If the two don’t compare, I’ll know the Dionysus is a forgery.”

I stepped over and rubbed out my cigarette on the ashtray, wondering above all else how Schweingurt was so certain that the man who had brought him the statuette was not Leiderkrantz. I took my gun from the pocket of my coat and put it back in its shoulder holster, ready to leave. But I wanted the full story before I started.