"He might already be there," Anne said.
"Yes, I guess I'll go see. It's been a good day, Anne."
"For me too, Chris."
She didn't invite me up to her suite for a warm-up cup of coffee or a drink, and I didn't suggest it. The day was right, perfect, just the way it was, and neither of us wanted to risk spoiling it. Hormones be damned.
Chapter 13
I had already gotten a bottle of Lowenbrau at the bar before I saw Harry at a table near the back. Gadney was with him.
"Hiya, Chris, come on over. Egad and I are just shooting the breeze."
"So he pretends," Gadney said. "In fact, I'm suffering a merciless interrogation. I advise you to find another table if you don't want some of the same."
Harry laughed, scratching at the side of his scruffy beard, and pushed out a chair for me. He was slumped in a cardigan I hadn't seen before, with faded geometric Northwest Indian designs on it.
"I understand your mission to Florence was a great success," Gadney said.
I nodded. "Lorenzo asked me to be sure and say hello for him."
"Lorenzo?"
"Lorenzo Bolzano."
"Of course," he said impatiently. "But I don't understand. I barely know him."
"Really? He gave me the impression that you'd spent a day down there."
"Only to attend to the shipping of the paintings to Naples. I don't know why Lorenzo would remember me kindly. I'm afraid I was rather cross."
"Why?"
"Oh, Peter and Earl had left without completing the paperwork. My fault, really. I shouldn't have expected them to know about it. And certainly not Lorenzo."
"Is the paperwork pretty complicated, then?"
"Complicated? Not really; it's just a matter of following procedures. It's nothing compared to the difficulties of commissary logistics, I can tell you." He finished the sherry in his glass, pressed his lips together, and allowed himself an appreciative smack. "Consider, for example," he said with a fine, dusty enthusiasm, "how you would go about getting fifty thousand quarts of fresh Belgian strawberries onto the shelves of ninety commissaries from Bremerhaven to Izmir. With a permissible lag time of four days, I might add. There's excitement for you."
"I can imagine. But what about getting all those crates open and closed again in a single day? That must have been pretty harrowing too, considering how careful you have to be."
"Crates? Do you mean the paintings? What makes you think I did?"
"Didn't you say so a moment ago?"
"No, I didn't."
"You didn't? I thought you did. Didn't you hear him say that, Harry?"
Harry, who had been listening with interest, as he listened to everything, tugged at the hair behind his ear. "Well, yeah, I thought you said that, Egad."
"No," Gadney said again, his pale blue eyes looking levelly into mine, "I didn't say that. But as a matter of fact, as it happened, I did have to have the crates opened. Each one had to have its own bill of lading and a copy of my travel orders from Florence to Naples, since I was the authorizing officer. And no, it was not exciting. When we move from Berlin to London," he added stiffly, "I assure you it will be done properly in the first place. You needn't concern yourself."
"I'm sure it will, Egad. I didn't mean any criticism."
"Yes. Well, I really must run. Is that all right with you, Major?"
"Me? Sure. Enjoyed talking to you."
We both watched him stalk out. "What's up, Harry?" I asked.
"I thought we ought to touch base on next week."
"What's happening next week?"
"The El Greco pickup in Frankfurt. What, did you forget about it?"
I had. Fortunately, though, it appeared that Robey had remembered to alert Harry after all.
"Here's the way it'll work," he said, and rolled the rubber band off the limp little notebook. "Eleven hundred hours, you show up at the museum to verify the picture's OK when they crate it. Twelve-fifteen, you leave on the truck with it, along with a couple of museum guards. Thirteen hundred hours, the truck arrives at the Rhein-Main MAC terminal, VIP parking area. My people will meet you there and take over. Fourteen hundred hours, you come back with them on a special MAC flight. When you get to Berlin, there'll be a truck to meet you; then straight to Tempelhof and the back of Columbia House."
"Very impressive. Herr Traben will be pleased."
"Yeah," he said doubtfully. "Look, you've done this kind of thing before. Do you usually go through all this hassle to get a painting from one place to another?"
'That picture's worth two million dollars, Harry. And it's literally irreplaceable. All the same, Traben's overdoing it a little, if you ask me."
"Yeah," he said again. He put down his orange juice. "You want another beer?"
"No thanks."
"How about some food? You hungry?"
"A little. They've got a steak special upstairs tonight."
He made a face. "I don't eat meat."
I don't know why, but it didn't surprise me. "Health or ethical grounds?" I asked.
"Both. Why eat all that cholesterol, and why slaughter cows or pigs or sheep when there are a lot of other ways to get protein?" He gave me the kind of look civilized beings reserve for carnivores, then said abruptly, "Hey, how about some fried chicken? There's a Wienerwald a couple of blocks from here."
I laughed. "Sure, but what have you got against chickens?"
He looked at me as if he couldn't believe I'd ask so self-evident a question. "They're ugly."
In a comer booth at Germany's answer to Colonel Sanders, he grimaced at the menu. "Jesus, isn't that awful?"
I looked down at my own and saw nothing objectionable. "What?"
"The picture, the picture. Uch."
I still didn't know what was bothering him. The only picture I could see was a cartoon of a friendly and inoffensive chicken in a chef's hat, with a checkered kerchief around it's neck. "What's wrong with it?"
"Are you kidding? I hate this kind of picture. Look at it.
He's holding a knife and fork, he's got an apron on. I mean, the implication is that he's gonna eat himself-or at least another chicken-and he's laughing like crazy. It's horrible. You're telling me that doesn't bother you?"
"Harry," I said, "you're weird."
But not so weird that he didn't order half a sauteed chicken.
I wasn't very hungry, and asked for a small chicken salad.
"Oh, by the way," he said, when the waitress had brought apple juice for him and a glass of Mosel for me, "speaking of pictures…" He unfolded a poorly photocopied sheet with four photographs on it: two men, each photographed from front and side, with names and numbers beneath. "Would these possibly be friends of yours?"
They were like faces from a nightmare. No-neck, the gorilla man and his sidekick Skull-face. "You got them!" I cried. "The guys from the storage room! Harry-"
"Ah," he said with satisfaction, "good. But don't get too excited. We don't have them; we just know who they are."
"Who?"
He took back the sheet and spread it out on the table in front of him, smoothing down the creases. "Just a couple of particularly nasty rent-a-thugs. The Polizei has records a mile long on them. They call the one with the forty-inch neck the Beast."
"Gee, I wonder why that is," I said, remembering with a shudder how it felt to be lobbed six feet into a concrete wall.
"Got a little more news for you, Chris," he said, watching me over the rim of his glass. "We also know the guys who killed van Cortlandt-that is, the ones who walked him through those bars that night."
I slowly put down my wine. "Why didn't you tell me that before? Who are they?"