Shayne took one backward stride and placed the envelope in his pocket. “That,” he said, “should satisfy you, Montrose.”
The maid stuck her head in and said, “A Mr. Gordon and two other gentlemen.”
While Mr. Montrose craned his head around, Shayne exclaimed, “My client. He’s a trifle late but he’s bringing his expert to be sure the painting is genuine and he isn’t cheating you. Bring them in,” he directed the maid.
He moved toward the door and grinned at Gordon as the square-faced man strode in. Dick was a pace behind, his eyes queasy as they rested on Shayne’s face. Pelham Joyce came last, holding himself stiffly erect, his shrunken body swathed in a frock coat which might have fitted him when he was young.
Shayne said, “Mr. Montrose and Mr. Henderson-D. Q. Henderson. My client, Mr. Gordon.”
Gordon strode to the table and looked down at the painting suspiciously.
“And this,” Shayne went on, taking Joyce’s arm, “is the well-known artist and art critic, Mr. Pelham Joyce.”
Joyce nodded stiffly. Henderson held out his hand with a smile of genuine warmth.
“Pelham Joyce? Gad, sir, I’m indeed pleased to make the acquaintance of so eminent a connoisseur.”
“You honor me,” Joyce told him precisely. “What is this falderal about a hitherto undiscovered Raphael?”
“There you are, sir.” Henderson stood aside to give Joyce access to the painting. Dick lounged in the background, his gaze interlocking antagonistically with Oscar’s.
Joyce stood by the table and peered at the canvas as though he had never seen it before. His lips moved, and one word came worshipfully from them. “Raphael.”
“I smuggled it in by painting the signature of Robertson over the master’s mark,” Henderson explained importantly. “I’ve just now scraped off the bogus name.”
Joyce’s voice shook with emotion as he turned to Gordon and assured him, “A genuine Raphael.”
Gordon asked hoarsely, “Do you guarantee it?”
“There is not a shade of doubt concerning its authenticity.” Joyce spoke sincerely and confidently.
“Very well.” Gordon’s lips were twisted in a snarl as he turned to Michael Shayne. “Much as I hate to do business with you-”
Shayne stopped him with upheld hand, jerked his head toward the door significantly. Gordon hesitated, then followed him out into the hall.
Beads of sweat stood on Shayne’s forehead as he held out his hand. This was the crucial moment. If Gordon paid without being noticed by Montrose-
There was no difficulty. Guessing that Shayne was planning on a piece of private profit, but unwilling to forego the bargain, Gordon sullenly counted out ten one-thousand-dollar bills into the detective’s outstretched hand.
Shayne thrust them into his pocket and went back into the library to lean over Joyce’s shoulder and peer at the painting. In the presence of the two experts, he muttered, “I don’t pretend to know a damned thing about art but the thought just struck me-in connection with that bogus signature painted over Raphael. How do you know positively this is an original signature? Why couldn’t someone have cleverly painted Raphael’s name over that of an imitator?”
D. Q. Henderson swelled up like a pouter pigeon and began on a lengthy tale of how his eagle eye had detected the masterpiece in a ruined French chateau. There could be no possible doubt.
But Pelham Joyce frowned as he leaned over the signature and studied it keenly. He exclaimed, “Henderson, I do believe this is a slovenly imitation of Raphael’s authentic signature. Good God, man! You’ve let your imagination run away with your better judgment. I must admit that I was taken in by my first cursory examination. But, my dear fellow,” he went on patronizingly, “you certainly should be familiar enough with the master’s signature to realize that this is not at all characteristic.”
He pointed out certain minor discrepancies while Henderson choked and sputtered and rubbed his eyes, while Mr. Montrose pawed at him frantically, bleating, “What is it? What is it?”
Gordon moved up behind Pelham Joyce and swung him about with a heavy hand on the artist’s withered shoulder. “Caught them trying to put something over on us, eh?”
Joyce wriggled away without loss of dignity. “Let us have no more hasty judgments, gentlemen. I’m sure all of us wish to ascertain the exact truth. Suppose we stand aside while Mr. Henderson again applies his penknife and discovers whether an unworthy imitator has superimposed the master’s mark upon his own signature.”
D. Q. Henderson was dazedly moaning, “It can’t be. I tell you it’s impossible.”
Gordon was glaring at Montrose, and he remarked acidly, “I certainly intend to know before I leave here.”
“And I,” Mr. Montrose returned with equal acidity, “also intend to know before you leave here.” Each of them, thinking the other was the seller, glared with complete animosity and distrust.
Mr. Montrose wet his lips, and his eyes flashed a signal to Oscar.
Gordon moved slightly toward Dick as Henderson tremblingly opened his penknife again. Shayne stood in the background with a sardonic grin on his gaunt face, his left hand gripping the slack of Joyce’s coat behind the shoulders, his gaze mentally calculating the distance behind him to the hall.
There was only the sound of nervous breathing as Henderson unhappily bent forward and scraped away paint to reveal a bold R M Robertson.
He could not believe his eyes and he could not meet the accusing gazes fixed upon him as he straightened up and faltered, “By heavens, gentlemen-” His voice broke and he backed away as Montrose and Gordon took a simultaneous step toward him.
“I’ve been duped,” he cried hoarsely. “This is nothing-a rank imitation.”
Mr. Montrose screeched a shrill epithet at Gordon and jerked a table drawer open, fumbling for a pistol inside. Gordon threw a curse back at him as a Luger and a. 45 came out of hiding.
Shayne’s long leg shot out and neatly knocked Henderson’s feet from under him as his left arm jerked Pelham Joyce backward into the hallway.
Inside the library a Luger barked murderously, and Oscar’s. 45 thundered in reply.
CHAPTER 17
Peter Painter came headlong through the front door as the reverberations died away in the library. There was the whimpering of an art critic, unwounded but too frightened to get up off the floor. Shayne grunted with pain as he gathered himself together in the hallway where he had tumbled with Joyce. His shoulder cast had broken, and his side was one numbing sheet of pain.
Painter ran past him with a. 38 in his hand, flinging questions and curses indiscriminately until he reached the doorway and cautiously peered into the library. He drew back and turned to Shayne with a subdued air. “What-happened?”
Shayne was helping Pelham Joyce to his feet. Assuring himself that the artist was only shaken up, he went toward Painter, asking grimly, “Did they all cash in?”
“It looks like it.” Painter followed him into the death chamber, exclaiming bitterly, “And you promised me there’d be no more deaths.”
“Justifiable homicide,” Shayne told him cheerfully. “Save the state plenty of money.”
D. Q. Henderson came slithering out of the library on hands and knees.
Painter jumped for him, but Shayne said, “Let him go. He was an innocent bystander. Better have your men watch the stairs and let no one down.”
Painter issued the order to his men who were crowding in, then he and Shayne surveyed the shambles in the library.
Dick was the only one of the quartet still alive. He was shot through the groin, and his body thrashed about on the floor while his eyes were like those of a cornered rat.
Gordon had died easily with a. 45 slug through his head.
Mr. Montrose was crumpled grotesquely over the table with his hands spread out toward the canvas as though he sought to clutch it to him in death.
Oscar had taken a lot of killing. The Luger had drilled him four times through the belly before it stopped him.