Montezuma’s Revenge

“That is very wise,” the man said, emerging from the closet, circling warily around Tony who turned his head to watch. He was an individual of advanced middle age with flowing white hair and neatly trimmed white beard and mustache, dressed in a green suit of impeccable cut, wearing a waistcoat under it that appeared to be made of hand-done brocade. His shoes were highly polished as was the nickel-plated barrel of the gun in his hand. Carefully, from behind, he patted Tony quickly and professionally to see if he was armed. Apparently satisfied, he seated himself in the armchair so recently vacated by the police lieutenant and waved Tony toward the couch.

“Please, accommodate yourself, Signore Hawkin, so we can have a nice chat.”

“Would you mind if I asked just who the hell you are?” Tony dropped heavily onto the couch well aware of the unwinking eye of the muzzle still trained upon him.

“Of course. My name is Carlo D’Isernia. You know of me?”

“No.”

“I am surprised. It has been said you are the art authority and it is to be supposed that therefore you have heard of the Sapri altar-piece ... ?”

“Wait, yes of course, you know this is not the first time tonight I’ve played this twenty-question thing. Famous altarpiece, vanished, sold to Oil-rich sheik, famous dealer involved, Italian Government still looking for him, D’Isernia. You?”

“The name. You did remember, that is very nice. I am so sorry you had that little difficulty earlier tonight.”

“So am I. Did you arrange that?”

“Quite the contrary. I was driving the car and was forced to leave when there was a sudden rush of tough young men from an alleyway. My associates feel that this has—what is the expression—blown the operation. But I think differently. I thought we might have a chat so I could determine what did occur. My belief still is that the Americans can produce the correct sum despite tonight’s fiasco.”

“I’ll be happy to tell you—but how do I know you are whom you say you are?” After the events of the night the security bug was beginning to nibble at Tony as well.

“A fair question. I will use a name. Operation Buttercup. It means something to you? And I will show you this.”

He took a photograph from an inside pocket and threw it spinning so it landed near Tony’s feet where he could pick it up. A color print of an unframed painting, leaning against what appeared to be a rock wall. The “Battle of Anghiari.”

“That looks like it all right. If you were in the car you know more about what happened at that point than I do. I was hit on the head. I woke in the back of a restaurant and was questioned thoroughly about art matters by a man named Jacob Goldstein ...”

“Who?” The gun sagged, forgotten, as D’Isernia leaned forward.

“Goldstein? You know the name? The famous Nazi catcher.”

“I have heard the name before. Continue.” He appeared as calm as ever; Tony knew that he wasn’t.

“He seemed to know more than a bit about this operation and I answered his questions, telling him as little as I could. He seemed satisfied then and they brought me back here.”

“That was all?”

“Just a name that he asked me, I never heard of it before, he told me to remember it and think about it. Hochhande. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Nothing. Well, you seem to have been honest with me, Mr. Hawkin. Perhaps we can resume our business association that was so rudely interrupted. May I presume that if I put my weapon away, you will attempt no violence upon my person?”

“Yes, of course. Why on earth should I?”

“Why? Why does an art expert travel with a large and sharp butcher knife in his luggage?” He pointed to the floor of the closet where the offending weapon could still be seen. “I discovered this in your bag and had removed it but minutes before the police arrived. It was most uncomfortable in there. And the reason you carry this weapon?”

“I don’t. I never saw it before this evening and I swear I did not put it in my luggage.” All the truth, if slightly bent.

“For some reason I believe you, Mr. Hawkin. You do not strike me as being the murderous type.” The gun was slipped into the jacket pocket. “Therefore we open negotiations again. You know the price we are asking for the painting?”

“I was never informed.”

“One million dollars. That is agreeable to you?”

“A nice round figure. It seems a steal if the painting is the real one.”

“I can assure you that it is. As proof of our good will I offer you this. Your people may examine it and test its authenticity, then return it. Then we will arrange once more for you to see the painting.”

This was a flat package wrapped in cloth, which unwrapped to reveal a wooden box no bigger than the average book. Inside the box, which was closed only with a simple latch, well wrapped in cotton wool, was a flat, wooden panel as big as a man’s hand, dark with age. Yet the painting upon its surface was as colorful and bright as the day it had been done. A St. Sebastian complete with dripping wounds and sore pricked with arrows. Tony gasped aloud.