Ralph Harrow was fifty-three, the principal stockholder of the Commauck Aircraft Company. He owned 27 percent of that company’s outstanding shares. And he was additionally a large stockholder in three airlines and one insurance company. He was also a member of the board of each of the five companies thus represented in his stock portfolio. He had been born to money, and had multiplied his inheritance. A staff of attorneys saw to it that nothing he did was technically illegal, and they earned their money.
He came into the room showing an unusual apprehension, and responded to his daughter’s introductions with a brief, wary nod. “This is my daughter’s idea, uh, Willis,” he said. “I assure you, coercion is not my normal, uh, my normal policy.”
“You haven’t coerced me yet,” Parker had answered. “First you got to tell me what you want.”
Harrow licked his lips and glanced at his daughter, but she was no help. “To begin with, I’d like you to read a brief article in this magazine.”
He said magazine, but it was obviously the book he meant. He held it up, and Parker saw above the picture a title: Horizon. And below the picture a date: September, 1958. So it was a magazine that looked like a book.
Harrow opened the magazine-book, muttering to himself, “Page sixty-two.” He found the page and extended the open book.
Parker shrugged, not taking the book. “Just tell me what you want.”
If it had been just the father he’d been dealing with, he’d squeeze the gun out of him now and throw him away. But the daughter was tougher stuff.
Harrow was looking pained, as though he had indigestion. “It would really be quicker if you’d read this first,” he said.
“Go on, Chuck,” Bett said. “It’s short.”
“Just two pages,” Harrow added.
Parker said, “You read it, didn’t you?”
“Well... yes.”
“So you can tell me about it.”
Parker turned away from the book and went over to sit at the writing desk, turning the chair around to face the room.
Bett was still smiling. She settled luxuriantly on the bed, catlike, and said, “You might as well do it his way, Dad. I don’t think Chuck’s a reader.”
“Well, but...” Harrow was confused and unhappy; this wasn’t the way he’d planned things.
Parker had had enough waiting around. “Either get to the point or get out,” he said.
Bett said softly, “And go to the police?”
“If you want. I don’t give a damn.”
Bett laughed, and looked challengingly at her father. Harrow sighed. “Very well. It would have been easier if you’d... but very well. This article concerns a group of eighty-two statuettes in a monument at Dijon, in France.” He turned the book around so Parker could see. “You see the title? ‘The Missing Mourners of Dijon', by Fernand Auberjonois.”
“You want me to steal a statue,” Parker said, and Bett laughed again.
“I want you to understand the background.” Harrow answered unhappily. “It is important that you understand the background.”
“Why?”
“Dear Dad’s a romantic,” said Bett, with honeyed venom in her smile.
Parker shrugged. He didn’t care what the Harrow family thought of each other.
“These statuettes, eighty-two of them, were made for the tomb of John the Fearless and Philip the Good, Dukes of Burgundy,” Harrow said. “John was murdered in 1419, but not before ordering the tomb to be built. Philip was his son, and survived till 1467, when he—”
“The statues,” Parker said.
“Yes. The statues. They are sixteen inches high, made of alabaster, and were placed in niches at the base of the two memorials. No two of them are precisely alike, and they all express an attitude of mourning. Every possible variation on mourning, both true and false. There are monks, priests, choirboys — Well. At any rate, they are priceless. And at the time of the French Revolution, many of them were stolen or lost. At the present time, seventy-four of the statuettes are still in Dijon; some were always there, others have been found and returned. Of the remaining eight, one is owned by a private collector in France, two by a private collector in this country, in Ohio, and two are in the Cleveland Museum. The other three mourners are still missing.”
He closed the book, but kept his finger in the place. “That’s what this article would have told you,” he said, “and just as quickly as I have told it to you.”
Parker waited, controlling his impatience. None of this was necessary. Harrow wanted a statue stolen, that was the point. If the job looked easy enough, and if the price was right, he might do it. Otherwise, no. All this talk was a waste of time.
But Harrow wasn’t finished yet. “Now, for you to understand what I want, and why I want it, you must understand something about me.”
“Why?”
Bett said, “Let him, Chuck. It’s the only way he knows how to talk.”
“Elizabeth, please.”
“Get on with it,” Parker said.
“Very well. Very well. I, Mr. Willis, am in a very small and special way a collector of medieval statuary. I say in a special way. My collection is small, but if I do say so myself it’s excellent. I have at present only eight pieces. This is because my criteria are very high indeed. Each piece must be unique, must be one of a kind, must have no counterpart anywhere in the world. Each must be valued so highly as to be for all practical purposes priceless. And each must have an unusual and fascinating history. My daughter is right, Mr. Willis — I am a romantic. I am fascinated by each piece in my collection, by its creation and by its history. You understand this collection is for my own satisfaction, and not on display.”
Bett laughed and said, “Because they were all stolen.”
“Not so!” Harrow looked indignantly at his daughter. “Every piece was paid for, and handsomely too.”
“But the fascinating history,” she said, mocking the words. “It always includes a theft or two, doesn’t it?”
“That is not at all my concern. I myself have—”
“Shut up,” said Parker.
They stopped their bickering at once, and looked at him startled. “You want me to steal one of these statues, right? From a museum?”
“Good heavens, no!” Harrow seemed honestly shocked. “In the first place, Willis, all the statuettes mentioned in this article are far too easily traceable. They’re unique, you see, each a separate and distinct figure. Here, look.” He came forward, opening the book again, shoving it under Parker’s nose. “Here are pictures of some of them. See? They’re all different.”
Five of the statuettes were pictured, and Parker looked at them, nodding. Five sad, robed, weeping mournful little people, in five different postures of grief.
“Besides,” added Harrow, “besides, none of these has the kind of history I mean, the sort of background I want for the pieces in my collection.”
Parker shoved the book away. “What then?”
“Let me tell you.” Harrow stood in front of him, suddenly beaming, a glint of excitement in his eyes. “You remember, three of the mourners are still missing? No one knows where they are. But I’ve located one of them!”
“And that’s the one you want me to get?”
“Yes. Yes. Now, the way it—”
“Sit down. You’re making me nervous.”
“Oh, of course. I’m sorry. Yes, of course.”
Harrow retreated, and sat poised on the edge of the chair by the door. Parkers tone had drained some of the excitement out of him, and he went on more normally. “The way I happened to discover this mourner was rather odd. My company, about three years ago, received a small order for cargo planes from Klastrava. Six planes, I believe. You know the country?”