"I don't believe it," I said flatly.
"Why not?"
"Because it's all too weird, that's why. Every time I turn around there's another update on the story that's more bizarre than the one before. I don't know what kind of scam Blusher is pulling, but there's something."
"Chris, he just pledged the museum $150,000," Tony said reproachfully.
"Well, I'd spend it pretty fast if I were you."
"I'm working on it. Look, it's weird, all right, but it's true all the same. Neuhaus and Boden agree with her."
I relented slightly. "What's it look like?"
"Half-length portrait of a young man playing a lute, seen three-quarters from behind; very Caravaggist. You know the type; Terbrugghen's done a bunch of them. This one's monogrammed and dated 1621. I haven't seen the X rays yet myself, but Eleanor tells me even the brush strokes and the construction are right. She says if it's not by Terbrugghen it's by the world's greatest Terbrugghen scholar."
No, I thought stubbornly, not necessarily the greatest, just a Terbrugghen scholar. Eleanor knew the Old Masters' methods; so did a lot of other people, including forgers. You can check books on the subject out of the library.
"Any craquelure?"
"Yeah, and this time it runs the right way. And of course, as you pointed out, the thing is done on a Utrecht guild panel, complete with logo, from the first third of the seventeenth century—which isn't exactly easy to lay your hands on. So if what you're thinking is that it's a forgery, I don't see it."
I relented some more. "It sounds authentic," I allowed, "but I still—"
"Chris, listen. Would someone paint a first-class forgery, then cover it up with another one so nobody could see it? That's crazy. Look, tell me, just what is it you think the guy's pulling?"
"I don't know. How much reward money's involved?"
"None, as far as anybody knows. There aren't any missing Terbrugghens in the Interpol list or the carabinieri bulletin. It may never have been stolen. For all anybody knows, somebody painted over it a hundred years ago because he didn't know it was worth anything."
I still wasn't satisfied. "Tony, have they done any physical tests for age, any pigment analysis, any—"
"No, apparently Blusher jumped three feet off the ground when he heard the X-ray results, and he didn't want anyone fooling with it anymore. He had a truck there for it inside of an hour. I hear it's in a bank vault now."
"So what's going to happen to it?"
"Who knows? It's up to him."
"You mean he gets to keep it?"
"I don't see why not. Who else has a claim? The shippers say they don't know how it got into the shipment or where it came from, and nobody knows who owned it."
“What about the Italian government? There's a law about taking art out of Italy."
"Wrong, there's a law about taking genuine art out of Italy. You can take out all the fakes you want to. Blusher's saying that when it left Italy it was a forged van Eyck, not a genuine Terbrugghen, so Italy has no claim. Personally, I think he's right, and from what I hear so far, they're not going to contest it.
"There you are, Tony," I said excitedly, "that's the scam! It's genuine, all right, and he had it painted over to get it out of Italy. Then, once it's here he sets up this elaborate routine that winds up with the supposedly amazing discovery that there's a valuable work of art underneath—and he gets to keep it. "
"Oh, sure, nice and simple. All it leaves is one or two inconsequential little questions."
"Like what?"
"Like where did it come from in the first place? Nobody's reported it missing."
"Maybe it wasn't stolen. Maybe he bought it from somebody but couldn't get it legally out. Maybe—"
"And what was that business with the Rubens all about? How did he get hold of that? And if this is all a scam, how do you explain his giving us the $150,000? I wish we'd get taken in by a scam like that every week."
"Okay," I said wearily, "you're right. I don't know what the answers are. I can't figure out what's going on."
"Nothing's going on, at least not the way you mean. When will you be back in Seattle?"
"Monday. I'm all wrapped up here, but I'm catching a noon plane to Sicily tomorrow to pin things down with Ugo Scoccimarro."
"Fine, good. See you then."
"Don't spend that whole hundred and fifty thousand in Japan, Tony. Remember, we're buying that Boursse from Ugo. Sixty thousand."
"Absolutely. A deal's a deal. And Chris—I can still hear those gears spinning in your head. Forget about scams, will you, and just concentrate on business. All right?"
"Right," I said. "See you next week."
The coffee had already been delivered and begun to cool by the time I hung up. I drank mine and ate a couple of the orange-flavored biscotti that had come with it, while I filled Calvin in on the parts of the conversation he'd missed.
"I thought you said," he told me, "that there couldn't be any big-time artist's work underneath."
"Well, Terbrugghen's only recently gotten to be a big name Until lately he hardly got any attention. You don't find him in the standard art history texts until the sixties or even the seventies. Whoever forged the van Eyck could easily have painted over it back then, just wanting the panel itself, and an authentic old ground to work on. The Terbrugghen itself would have been next to worthless."
"Is that what you think happened?"
"I don't know. I've been instructed twice today, by two authority figures on two continents, to mind my own business. I think maybe that's what I'd better do."
Calvin leaned back and stretched. "Fascinating. Well, I guess I'll call it a night."
"Early for you, isn't it?"
"Yeah, but I have to get up early. This girl I met at the museum is driving me up to the Riviera for the weekend. Her folks have a beach house in Portofino. Hey, have fun in Sicily, and I'll see you back in Seattle."
Chapter 14
This girl I met at the museum is driving me up to the Riviera for the weekend.
How, I wondered glumly, did the guy do it? I'd been at the museum most of the afternoon myself and nobody'd invited me on any weekend jaunts. I hadn't even spoken to a woman. I didn't remember even seeing a woman But Calvin had seen, spoken, and conquered (had he used his nifty little pocket translator?), and tomorrow he was off to the Riviera with her.
Life was like that for him back home, too. In Seattle I'd attributed it to his Porsche, but he didn't have his Porsche here, so it wasn't that. I don't mean to say there's anything wrong with Calvin; looks and brains aren't everything and he's a nice enough guy in his own way, but I just couldn't understand why he seemed to turn up at every show reception with a new woman, while I came alone. And left alone.
Since Anne and I had broken up I'd been in a funk as far as females were concerned. Oh, there'd been a few, but I just didn't seem to have the energy anymore, or maybe it was the patience, for the get-acquainted routine: the games, the goofy questions, the tedious self-histories ("So—now tell me about you"). I suppose if I'd stuck with it I might have met somebody, but the chances were so slim—the number of normal- looking, superficially rational screwballs wandering around had astonished me—that it just didn't seem worth the effort.
With Anne it had been different: no games, no goofy conversations. I still had no idea what her sign was. There had just been a sweet, growing appreciation and attachment, a sense when I was with her that the world was a pretty fine place after all. Until that miserable episode in San Francisco had turned everything sour.