First, the Titian: Venus and the Lute Player, a lush, reclining nude being serenaded by a black lutenist, the earliest of several versions. It wasn't that it was a bad painting by any means. And it wasn't that it was uncharacteristic of Titian; it wasn't-but it was the wrong Titian, the Titian of his seventies or eighties, done with quick, slashing thrusts of color, intuitive and unrestrained.
It is a piece of conventional wisdom that you can't verify a late Titian by comparing it with early ones, or vice versa, because his approach changed so radically. Venus was supposed to have been painted in 1538, when he was in his late forties, still using a careful, linear style. (Some authorities think that his later approach was less a matter of artistic growth than of an old man's farsightedness.) But perhaps the painting had been misdated some time in the last 450 years. Or perhaps he was experimenting with the style he would later adopt. Either could easily be true. Still, it was something to think about.
And then there was the Vermeer. The more I looked at it, the more I liked it. I could find nothing questionable- nothing except Peter's "down-your-alley" remark. On that basis alone, I held off final judgment. I had some research I wanted to do, and I was probably going to have to go to London to do it.
Finally, the last of the three from the cache, Rubens's fleshy Rape of the Sabines. Once again, there was nothing particularly wrong with it. But any sensible curator is queasy about giving his unqualified blessing to a Rubens. Lorenzo had remarked that Rubens ran a workshop. "Factory" was more like it. Not only did he sign works that had been painted mainly by his students, but he (or they) executed signed copies of the originals to order, and the number of canvases and panels issuing from the beautiful house just off Antwerp's Meir (it's still there) was prodigious.
What this adds up to is that telling a mostly real Rubens from a hardly real Rubens from a good fake Rubens isn't easy. On this one too, there was some research I would have to do.
So, for the first time, I felt as if I were really getting someplace; not twenty possibles anymore, but four: Rubens, Vermeer, Titian, and Piero. That was fine. But what was taking me so long to pin it down to one? Peter had clearly expected it to jump out at me as soon as I had a casual look at the paintings. Well, I'd had a lot more than a casual look, and nothing was jumping. What was I missing?
Monday I spent catching up on "other duties as required." Yes, I actually did have some duties, although in this case they were no more than calling the luminaries of the Berlin art scene to ask them to the spiffy preview reception at Columbia House on the following Saturday. They had already received printed invitations, as had civic and military dignitaries, but Robey had thought, laughably, that my personal touch would add some ton.
At about two o'clock I hung up the telephone, made my final check mark on the list, and stretched, very nearly tipping over the old straight-backed wooden chair at my desk. Carrying my empty coffee mug, I left the bedroom-converted-to-office that had been Peter's and was now mine, and walked into the living room of Suite 2100, which was Corporal Jessick's permanent domain, and also offered workspace for any senior staff members who needed it.
The coffeepot was on a cleared corner of a table otherwise overflowing with lighting plans, flow charts, and critical-path diagrams.
"Conrad-" I said, pouring the dingy fluid.
A respectful sort, he jerked upright. "Sir!"
"There's going to be a Dr. Kohler from the Technical University here tomorrow to look at a painting in the Clipper Room. I won't be here; I'm going to Berchtesgaden and then London for a couple of days. Does he need a pass or something?"
"You know, he'll need a pass, sir. That's going to be hard to get."
"Well, who do I talk to, Harry Gucci?"
"You know who you ought to see about that, sir?"
Let me guess.
"I'd recommend you talk to Major Gucci about it." He smiled, happy to be of service. "He's in Frankfurt. You want me to try to get a, hold of him?"
"Please." I stirred some powdered creamer into the coffee and frowned down at it while it coagulated into a gummy clump. "Conrad, I think you forgot to turn on the pot again."
"I did? Gosh, I'm sorry." Jessick was actually a pretty good clerk, but it made him nervous to leave electrical appliances on while he was at lunch, so he turned the coffee off when he left, and since he didn't drink it himself in the afternoon, he was likely to forget about it. He leaped up to turn on the switch.
"That's OK," I said quickly-the same pot had been on since 8:00 a.m. "Never mind. Kohler's going to have to be paid. What do I do about that?"
"Requisition for consultive services."
"Do I need Robey's signature?"
"You'll have to get Robey's signature, though" was the predictable reply. "He's probably back by now. He was supposed to fly in from Heidelberg this morning."
"That's fine." I went back through my office to the bathroom and dumped the cold coffee into the sink. While I was holding the mug under the tap and swabbing it out with two fingers, I remembered something. I walked quickly back to the outer office.
"Conrad-"
"Sir!"
"Do you remember, a couple of weeks ago, right after I got out of the hospital, you talked to me on the telephone to tell me about the staff meeting that Robey'd called? You said he'd just flown in from somewhere. Where was it?"
If he found anything unusual about the question, he didn't show it. "Heidelberg."
That's what I'd remembered. "Are you sure?"
"Well, sure. I mean, that's where he said he was. He said he had to see somebody at USAREUR headquarters."
Now that was interesting. Harry had already told me that Robey had flown to Frankfurt the day Peter was killed, and had returned just before the meeting several days later. He'd also told me that Robey hadn't admitted it. But that was after Peter's murder, when he might have been afraid of being implicated in something he didn't do. Now I'd found out he'd lied about it even before the telephone call that brought the shocking news from Frankfurt. Why?
Well, there wasn't anything for me to do about it except pass it on to Harry. His affair, not mine, right?
I ran into Robey himself a few minutes later when I was coming back from the dining-room kitchen with a mug of fresh coffee I'd managed to beg even though it was between mealtimes. The moment I saw that muzzy, amiable countenance, my suspicions evaporated. Surely murderers didn't look like that.
"Why, hello, Chris. Congratulations on your session with Bolzano."
"Thanks, Mark. It wasn't too tough."
"Oh, now, now," he said vaguely. "Everything going along all right?"
"Yes. I've asked Max Kohler to look at one of the paintings, though, and I guess I'll need your signature to get him paid."
"OK, sure. Have Conrad type up the req and I'll sign it."
"Kohler's kind of expensive, but he's the best-"
"No problem. Don't worry about it."
"Great. And there's one other thing. I still have some questions about a few of the paintings, and the only place I'm going to find the answers is the Witt Library, and that's in London. I'd like to spend a day or two in their stacks."
He was nodding in rhythm with my words, his eyes cloudy, Archaic smile comfortably in place. "Fine, sure."
"I know it doesn't really have anything to do with the show, so if the budget can't afford the trip, I'll be glad to-"