“The radio signal has gone dead,” he called out. “Completely dead. I think we have lost them.”
Fifteen
Tony went in alone, carrying the forged painting, while the others waited outside in the car. The waiter, who had been indifferently sweeping the floor when he entered, took one look at him and instantly vanished into the kitchen. Very quickly a number of men, in shirtsleeves and bearing guns, rushed in and took up various positions of vantage around the dining room, behind chairs and tables, one to each side of the entrance, all of them giving him dark angry looks. When they were in position, Timberio himself appeared, unshaven and angry, his suspenders hanging from his waist, his collarless striped shirt looking as though it had been slept in. He placed his knuckles on the table and looked over Tony.
“You are in very bad trouble now, you know that,” he said, his breath rich with overtones of garlic and last evening’s meal.
“I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble, Timberio, and I admit that I was wrong—”
“Trouble and money, stealing Italian national treasures.”
“Let me talk, please. You’ll get the money back, and let us not forget as well that you have my wallet with all my papers, as well as my airline ticket.”
“They are being held to insure your good faith, and will be returned when the thousand pesos is returned.”
“All right, fine, you’ll get the money, I promise, I just don’t have it on me at the moment. But there is something more important. Here is the Da Vinci ‘Battle of Anghiari.’ It’s a forgery.”
“What is this all about?” Timberio examined the painting, eyes wide, fingering the cut corner. “A fake.”
“Absolutely. I have an expert to prove it if you are in any doubt. I don’t know where the real painting is, but the men who do know are right here in Acapulco now. And they have the Cellini ‘San’ Sebastiano’ with them as well. Now will you listen?”
“I listen, I listen. But the story should better be better than last time.”
“I give you my word, and my boss’s word too, and I had some job convincing him that we should let you in on this. But it’s either you or the police!”
“No police!”
“That’s just what he said, in the same tone of voice too. We’re on the same side now, working together to get the paintings back for Italy, that he agreed on. You can have them. These people have something else of ours, a little bit of money in a bag, ha-ha.”
“Start from the beginning, tell everything, you are confusing me.”
“The beginning you know. A man by the name of D’Isernia offered to sell the two paintings.”
“Carlo D’Isernia? He is wanted in Italy on a number of charges.”
“Look, if you are going to interrupt, how can I tell it? And do you think I could get a cup of coffee? Something spooked D’Isernia and he moved the operation to Mexico. Then it turns out that a Kurt Robl is involved. I was given the Cellini painting—as yon know—to test for authenticity. It’s real. But we had to return it to finalize the arrangements. Then came the exchange when we paid over a small deposit in cash for the Da Vinci. By the time we found out this was a fake the others were gone, but we traced them here by the hidden transmitter that was attached to their car.”
“Someone was showing good sense.”
Tony refrained from telling just whose good sense it was and sipped at the bitter brew of the black cup of espresso that had been placed by his elbow; grimaced and poured a number of spoonfuls of sugar into it. “It made sense all right and we followed them this far, but the transmitter conked out. Not an hour ago. That’s why we need help. We’re short of manpower and people who know the city.”
“And just who, might I ask, are the ive you talk about?”
“Well, the FBI, and then there’s the U. S. Treasury Department.”
“No CIA?”
“Not now. They were in the deal but there was trouble along the line and they sort of vanished. But the Israelis are helping.”
“Not Jacob Goldstein and his bunch?”
“Yes, do you know them?”
“You should have told me this earlier. Jacob and I have a number of interests in common. Where are all these people?”
“In the car, outside.”
“Get them in and we’ll talk.”
He shouted something very fast in Italian and the guns vanished. Tony went for the others and in a few minutes they were sitting around the table drinking the powerful coffee and were watching Timberio and Goldstein embracing and slapping each other on the back.
“Now to work,” Timberio said, joining the Americans at the table. “How many people you looking for, who are they, what kind of a car?”
“A black Packard,” Sones said. “Three men. Carlo D’Isernia, Kurt Robl, Adolf Hitler.”
Timberio’s eyebrows climbed up higher and higher and his hand dropped casually toward his pocket; Sones and Stocker dropped theirs as well.
“Patience,” Goldstein said. “Before we get started let’s not finish. This fake Hitler is a real Jakob Platz whom we know about. So let’s continue. We followed them here, then lost them. My man Nahum is at the airport in case they are thinking of leaving that way. He’s a good boy and he can stop them, so we have plugged one hole. How else can they get out of town?”
“Back the way you came?”
“The truck and driver are there keeping an eye on that. We’re in touch by radio.”
“South on the coast road to nowhere, a couple of villages and the road ends. North, there’s a good road to Zihuatanejo and there’s an airfield there where I happen to have a man working. He’ll be alerted. And then, of course, you got the port and the whole Pacific Ocean waiting outside of it.”
“My thought exactly,” Sones said, sipping at the coffee and grimacing. “If it was just an airfield they wanted they could have been at the Mexico City one in less than an hour after the exchange and clear out of the country by now. But they did not go there. Instead they drove all night, something one does not do in Mexico without a good reason, to come to Acapulco. Now what does this tell us? It tells us that they were in a hurry—they drove all night. It tells us they wanted to be in a seaport. These two together tell us that they wanted to be in a seaport by a certain time which in turn tells us that they are here to meet a ship which is leaving.” He smiled to himself in frank praise of his clear-cut logic, “So the next question is—which ship is leaving today and that is the one they are on?”
“None,” Timberio said, one hand over his mouth as he wielded a toothpick with the other. “No ships due to leave for the next three days.” Sones’s smile vanished and the scowl returned.
“Enough theory,” Goldstein said, rapping on the table as tin to bring them to order. “Grab them first, theorize afterward. Let us find the car and then we will find these crooks. Can you do this, Timberio?”
“Easily enough. Do I get the Cellini painting when we grab them?”
“Free and clear,” Sones said, resigned now. “Though we would like a statement that it was returned with the aid of the American Government. The FBI should be mentioned.”
“And the Treasury.”
“That’s fine by me, boys.” He sent a cold glance in Tony’s direction. “There is also the matter of some thousand pesos that Hawkin owes me.”
“That is between you two,” Sones said. “This operation is way over budget already.”
“You’ll get it,” Tony said. “I promise, cross my heart.”
“You had better.” Timberio looked skeptically at Goldstein. “And are you doing all this out of kind generosity, Jacob?”