“The Daghestan in question here is a beautifully preserved specimen, finished in 1709. We know the exact date because it is woven into the carpet in Arabic numerals from the Mohammedan calendar, which begins with Mohammed's journey from Mecca to Medina on the sixteenth of July, 622 A.D. -I'm not giving you too much academic history, am I? I tend to get carried away on the subject.”
“No, I'm with you,” I said.
“Well, my client obtained it in the late fifties through a dealer in Europe, who had gotten it from the family of an eighteenth-century British colonialist; until it was stolen, it was one of the few of its kind owned by a private individual in the Western Hemisphere. It measures eight feet three inches by ten feet seven inches and is dark red in color, with fringed edges. The center field is decorated by three beige rectilinear medallions; around the borders are mihrabs — niches of the type built into mosques to indicate the direction of Mecca-and agrabs, or scorpions, done in beige and dark blue. Can you visualize it from that description?”
“Yes.”
“As I said, it is in remarkably fine condition. Quality Orientals become more beautiful with age and gentle wear; they acquire an almost silken sheen. This one has the most brilliant sheen I've ever seen on a carpet or rug outside a museum. It must be treated with the utmost care. Exposure to direct sunlight or rain or fog, even careless folding or storage, would damage it irreparably. This is just another cause for concern by my client, as you can imagine.”
I said I could.
Kayabalian built a pyramid with his fingers and laid his chin on it. He had the look of an art connoisseur outraged by injustices which he took personally, rather than of an attorney expressing impersonal anger on behalf of a client. He said, “I think that's all I can tell you about the Daghestan. Unless you have questions?”
“Just a few related questions.”
“Yes?”
“How sure are you that Terzian actually had possession of it?”
“Reasonably sure. The modus operandi of the thieves who robbed my client is the same as that of the gang who have robbed other dealers and collectors in the Bay Area over the past three years; carpets and prayer rugs from those previous thefts have turned up more than once in the hands of individuals suspected of dealing with Terzian.”
“So you think Terzian was the regular fence for this gang?”
“I do, yes.”
“These individuals he dealt with-where are they located?”
“There are half a dozen we're fairly certain about in New York, Houston, Milwaukee, Atlanta and Los Angeles. And two probables in Fresno and San Diego.”
“Sounds like a pretty large-scale operation.”
“It was, on a one-man basis.”
“Weren't the police able to get anything on him?”
“Nothing concrete. He was arrested twice as a receiver of stolen goods, once in 1970 and once in 1972, but the charges were dropped in both instances for lack of evidence.”
“Do you have any idea at all who he might have been dealing with here in Tuolumne?”
“None at all. I was amazed, in fact, when I learned this was where he had gone from San Jose on Saturday. This hardly seems like the place where someone wealthy enough to afford the Daghestan would be located.”
“Is there any chance he kept records of these transactions of his? That would be the easiest way to get a line on his contact in this area.”
“I doubt it,” Kayabalian said. “Terzian was not the type of man to put anything incriminating on paper. It would be my assumption that he kept it all inside his head, including telephone numbers.”
“Did he have any employees-anybody he might have confided in or let something slip to?”
“He had two people working for him, a clerk and a boy who cleaned rugs, but as far as we've been able to learn, neither of them was involved in his illegal activities. He wasn't married and he had no immediate family.”
“Those employees might still be a place to start.”
“Perhaps. Does that mean you're reconsidering my offer?”
I did not answer immediately, but I was working it around in my head again. He seemed honest and forthright enough, and I had already decided that I liked his manner. And what he had said about observing legal and ethical restrictions made sense. And I damned well could use the job, even if I doubted a realistic shot at the reward he had dangled in front of me. There was still my commitment to Harry to consider, but then, that would end with the leaving-tonight or tomorrow, if everything went all right-of Ray and Angela Jerrold.
What about Dr. White, I thought, and the goddamn lesion on my lung? Suppose I have to have additional tests? Suppose I have to go into the bloody hospital? Suppose The hell with that, you can't start turning down jobs on the basis of intangibles. For Christ's sake, man, your work is the one thing keeping your head together.
I said finally, “I'd have to clear it with Cloudman first.”
“Of course.”
“There's another thing too. I probably wouldn't be able to get on it until Wednesday. There are a couple of things that have to be attended to first.”
He worried his lower lip. “You couldn't possibly begin sooner than that?”
“Late tomorrow, maybe, but I can't make any promises right now. I won't know for sure until tomorrow morning.”
“That's acceptable, I think. Do you want to call Cloudman now?”
“Okay.”
Kayabalian nodded and lit another cigarette for himself. So I left him and went out to the lobby and found a pay telephone booth against one of the walls. Cloudman was still in; he came on ten seconds after I told the desk officer who was calling.
I said, “I've just been having a talk with Charles Kayabalian.”
“Have you?” He sounded pleased to hear from me. “What about?”
I told him, skipping some of the details but none of the meat.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “Well, I sort of had the idea he was going to ask you to do some work for him. Like I told you before, he was pretty interested.”
“How do you feel about my taking the job?”
“Oh, I don't have any objections, long as everybody understands his position. The more good men you have working on something, the better your chances of finding what you're looking for.”
“I won't step on your toes,” I said.
“I didn't think you would,” he said mildly. “I guess I'll be the first to hear if you find out anything interesting.”
I said he would be. Then I passed along, for what it was worth, the guesswork I had done about the old woman's peacocks, and we rang off, and I went back into the Gold Rush Room and slid in opposite Kayabalian again.
“Okay,” I said.
“No problems or reservations?”
“None.”
He gave me a wan smile. “Welcome to the hunt.”
“Thanks. How long will you be here at the hotel?”
“Until tomorrow morning; I don't have any reason or inclination to drive back to San Francisco tonight.”
“Will you be leaving before ten, say?”
“I can stay as long as necessary.”
“Well, suppose I come in and see you again around ten-thirty? I should know by then how things stand with my time.”