Laffont stood blinking dumbly at Julia as he processed this information. Once it finally sank in, a look of defeat passed over his eyes and his soft, round face deflated just as if a soufflé had fallen.
“We have an understanding,” he acknowledged glumly.
Much later that night Julia broke into the Saint-Eustache Church, and without too much trouble found a one-and-a-half-foot-long piece of cardboard tubing in a hiding spot that was described by the decoded inscription. Later, when she was alone in her apartment, I couldn’t help whistling — or at least setting my voice synthesizer to simulate a whistle — when I saw what had been stored inside the tubing.
“That’s a Pieter de Berge, I’m sure of it,” I said, referring to the oil painting that she had unrolled onto her kitchen table, which showed a redheaded woman decked out in a yellow gown and wearing a thick pearl choker. After a little less than two hundred milliseconds of searching Dutch art websites, I was able to verify that I was right. “The name of the painting is The Dame. As with Laffont’s supposed family heirloom, history has it disappearing sometime during World War II. A conservative estimate of its value would be ninety million U.S. dollars. Even if you wanted to sell it on the black market without its provenance, I should be able to find you a buyer willing to pay forty million without any questions.”
“Archie, can you find its rightful owner?”
“If that’s what you want.”
Without too much trouble I discovered that the only known heir of the painting’s last owners lived in Brussels. By this time it was 4:53 in the morning, and I was somewhat surprised when Julia repacked the painting and left her apartment with it. When she arrived at the train station and bought a ticket for Brussels, I held off saying anything, at least until she got off at the Brussels station and hailed a cab.
“How about I call the heir and arrange a finder’s fee? Five percent would be standard, and in this case more than fair.”
She took out her smartphone so it wouldn’t look to the driver as if she were a crazy woman talking to herself.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said.
“Four and a half million dollars would buy you a nice retirement.”
She laughed at that. “Archie, I’m only thirty-three. I’m far too young for retirement.”
I wanted to argue with her. Not about her age or being too young, but for not arranging a fee. The problem was, I discovered that I didn’t really have a good argument against what she was doing, so I watched in stunned amazement as she handed over the painting to the equally stunned heir. When he wanted to pay Julia a reward, and Julia refused, I couldn’t help myself from commenting that Julius would be having conniptions if he knew what she was doing, but all I got for my trouble was a thin smile.
During the trip back to Paris, Julia told me that she no longer thought of me as some sort of whiz-bang hacking and code-breaking piece of technology, but more along the same lines of how Julius thought of me.
“Archie, I’ve rather enjoyed your company,” she said. “And of course, you’re very good at what you do. Back in Boston I was only trying to tweak Julius by suggesting that you might not want to return to him when we were done, but now I’d like to make my offer official. If you ever decide you’re tired of being a detective’s assistant and would rather live the life of an international spy, I’d love to have you join me on a permanent basis.”
“I’m flattered, of course,” I said. “I know all I have is a virtual heart, but you know the saying Home is where the heart is? What can I tell you, my home is in Boston with Julius. Besides, if I weren’t there pestering him to occasionally take on a case, his funds would dwindle to the point where he’d be unable to eat at the four-star joints he frequents, and he’d have to settle for more common fare, which would be a disaster for him.”
Julia was astute enough to know that she wouldn’t be able to change my mind, so instead of trying she booked a Paris-to-Boston flight for later that afternoon, and afterwards, without her asking me to do so, I hacked into the airline reservation system and once again upgraded her to first-class at no additional charge.
It was the least I could do. After all, thanks to Julia I was able to travel to Europe, solve a murder, uncover a lost masterpiece, and experience my first kiss, even if it was only a virtual one.
The Specialty of the House
by Stanley Ellin
The writer called “the unsurpassed master of the short story in crime fiction” by Marcel Berlins in The Times (London), Stanley Ellin first saw print in 1948, in EQMM, with this story. It would become one of the most famous crime stories ever published — achieving iconic status. Ellin, who died in 1986, was a Grand Master of the MWA. He authored more than a dozen novels and his work was adapted for both film and TV, but he remains best known for his short fiction, most of which first appeared in EQMM.
“And this,” said Laffler, “is Sbirro’s.” Costain saw a square brownstone façade identical with the others that extended from either side into the clammy darkness of the deserted street. From the barred windows of the basement at his feet, a glimmer of light showed behind heavy curtains.
“Lord,” he observed, “it’s a dismal hole, isn’t it?”
“I beg you to understand,” said Laffler stiffly, “that Sbirro’s is the restaurant without pretensions. Besieged by these ghastly, neurotic times, it has refused to compromise. It is perhaps the last important establishment in this city lit by gas jets. Here you will find the same honest furnishings, the same magnificent Sheffield service, and possibly, in a far corner, the very same spider webs that were remarked by the patrons of a half-century ago!”
“A doubtful recommendation,” said Costain, “and hardly sanitary.”
“When you enter,” Laffler continued, “you leave the insanity of this year, this day, and this hour, and you find yourself for a brief span restored in spirit, not by opulence, but by dignity, which is the lost quality of our time.”
Costain laughed uncomfortably. “You make it sound more like a cathedral than a restaurant,” he said.
In the pale reflection of the streetlamp overhead, Laffler peered at his companion’s face. “I wonder,” he said abruptly, “whether I have not made a mistake in extending this invitation to you.”
Costain was hurt. Despite an impressive title and large salary, he was no more than clerk to this pompous little man, but he was impelled to make some display of his feelings. “If you wish,” he said coldly, “I can make other plans for my evening with no trouble.”
With his large, cowlike eyes turned up to Costain, the mist drifting into the ruddy, full moon of his face, Laffler seemed strangely ill at ease. Then “No, no,” he said at last, “absolutely not. It’s important that you dine at Sbirro’s with me.” He grasped Costain’s arm firmly and led the way to the wrought-iron gate of the basement. “You see, you’re the sole person in my office who seems to know anything at all about good food. And on my part, knowing about Sbirro’s but not having some appreciative friend to share it, is like having a unique piece of art locked in a room where no one else can enjoy it.” Costain was considerably mollified by this. “I understand there are a great many people who relish that situation.”