Montezuma’s Revenge

Five

There was very little Tony could do other than stand and gape, for this encounter was the absolutely final straw, the nightcap to an evening that he would be having bad dreams about for the rest of his life. It was too much. He was too exhausted, too shocked to even be frightened at this point and even had to struggle slightly to hold back what might prove to be an hysterical giggle. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do; he stood there in a state of semi-paralysis with his eyes wide and round as saucers.

“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.

“The lost left panel of the Cellini triptych. Also destroyed in the bombing of the Monte d’Capitello Museum.” He should recognize it; before coming to Mexico he had had a good read through Lost Masterpieces of Europe, a beautiful and depressing volume of the art destroyed during the war.

“It is indeed.”

“Beautiful ... priceless ...”

“All of that. So you will understand the quality of my good will when I entrust it to you and your government, Mr. Hawkin. Today is Wednesday morning and the airplanes fly with great regularity. You will return the painting to me on Friday evening and our interrupted negotiations will be resumed. It is agreed?"

“Of course, yes. But you are leaving this with me?”

“It is my bona fide. This and the Da Vinci are the only remaining paintings from the destroyed museum.”

“Do you think you could tell me the entire story of this operation?”

“Your government is being overly secretive even with their secret agents? It is the evil of all governments. Well then, you must turn your mind back to the year 1945. The war is almost over, the Germans are on the run, the victorious Allied armies closing in for the death blow. Yet, like cornered rats, the Germans fight on. In order to break their hold a diversionary landing is to be made at Salerno, I am sure you have heard of it. Tons of bombs were dropped on the German gun positions to soften them up for the landings and undoubtedly innocent people were killed who were nearby when the American bombs fell short or over. Not only people. Inland, but still close to the sea, stood the Monte d’Capitello Museum, a pilgrimage spot for the art-minded tourists between the wars. Here, in the midst of an indifferent collection of broken swords, rusting armor and other medieval junk, there rested the two masterpieces we have discussed. National treasures indeed, and they should have been put some place out of harm’s way, but who thought that the war would come to this secluded corner of Italy? Boom. The great American bombs land on the Germans and one bomb flies too far and utterly destroys the wing of the museum where these two paintings hang. The gods are laughing, a few feet more and the Renaissance trash would have been blown up instead of these two priceless objects. That is the story that is in the books and it is a nice one indeed. The Americans have felt great chagrin about doing this and much money has been subscribed by public-spirited individuals to rebuild the museum. But the paintings, ahh, they could never be restored. But can they? You hold in your hand half of the answer to that.”

“They never were blown up at all?”

“Not at all. A little German trick, some insurance in case the war was lost. The guard was killed, the paintings removed, a large amount of dynamite planted under the building. Regular as clockwork the American planes appeared that night, the third evening in a row and the bombs fell. Boom, boom. A tragedy of war. Then, by a secret route, through Germany to France and Spain and across the ocean to Mexico to a bank vault, these and other valuable objects were smuggled by a trusted officer, a man I think you have met.”

“Kurt Robl?”

“None other. Loyal and true he did as he was bid and has been the guardian ever since, for his master, for obvious reasons, could not dispose of the paintings, so his faithful servant guards them year after year.”

“Not so faithful if he is trying to sell them now.”

“There are limits to everyone’s patience. And, since the master can no longer profit from these works of art, the servant must still live so he therefore, reluctantly, puts a small Matisse landscape on the market, trees with bathers in the foreground ...”

“Hold on, D’Isernia, do you know what you are saying? That Matisse appeared in Argentina a few years back, part of Hitler’s own collection that was never recovered. You aren’t trying to tell me that the master of this faithful servant Robl is really—”

“I am.”

“But Hitler has been dead for more than twenty-five years. You expect me to believe that Robl had these paintings all this time and did nothing?”

“I expect you to believe only facts. The Matisse was sold. You hold the Cellini in your hand. Although Robl engineered the coup at the Capitello Museum it was done for another’s benefit. The other, as you have just said, is long dead. The servant still must eat so, with great reluctance, he parts with one of the treasures. Unacquainted with the world of art he bungles the sale, is cheated of the money and is almost killed. He does not wish this to happen again. This time he contacts an expert who will arrange the sale to everyone’s mutual advantage.”

“Yourself?”

“I have that honor.” D’Isernia bowed slightly even though he was seated. Tony blinked rapidly in an attempt to clear his muddled thoughts, feeling very much out of his depth.

“You wouldn’t like a drink, would you? Sorry, should have offered sooner.”

“Perhaps a small vermouth so we can drink to the success of this business relationship. Some money for myself and my client, a small sum, less than the cost of a single helicopter of the kind destroyed every day in your unhappy war. For America the removal of a blot upon her honor and the restoration to Italy of treasures long thought destroyed.”

“I’ll drink to that, I guess.”

Tony placed the painting carefully on the table and went to the bar. They raised their glasses and clinked them and the Italian downed his in a single swallow.

“I will go now, Signore Hawkin, and will contact you in this same place this Friday evening. A meeting will be arranged. Please have the money ready.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Once again Tony locked and bolted the door, then stood in silence to admire the panel from the triptych. No matter how strange everything else sounded, this fragile and beautiful piece of art had an unmistakable reality. He blinked wearily. Some sleep was what he needed to sort the entire thing out, just a few hours at least, then a plane to Washington, and what a relief that would be. Safely away from the dangerous insanities of Mexico City. He carefully wrapped the painting, placed it back in its box and put it on the table by his bed. His clothes fell from him almost of their own accord and he was about to drop into the bed when he had a sudden thought. No, it was impossible. Yet once he entertained the idea it would not go away and he knew he would not be able to get to sleep. Stumbling now with fatigue, naked as the day he was born, he prowled the depths of the suite and looked under every piece of furniture, behind every door and in every closet, until he had assured himself that he was really alone at last. Only then did he close the curtains tightly, turn off the lights and fall gratefully into bed.

With vicious thoroughness the phone call seemed timed to arrive at the precise moment when he had sunk into the deepest depths of sleep, unconscious and unaware. The ringing nagged at him, tugging and jangling, and would not go away no matter how he twisted and pulled the pillow over his head. In the end it roused him, bringing him back reluctantly to semi-consciousness so he could grope and fumble for the offending instrument, knocking the entire apparatus to the floor until he eventually found the handpiece and raised it. Wrong end too. Finally, with growing anger that was beginning to wipe away the dregs of disturbed sleep, he got the right end to his ear and mumbled something into the other.

“Is that you, Mr. Hawkin?” Mumble. “Listen, I must hang up quickly. This is a message from Rooster. He says to tell you that he is very sorry but something has gone wrong, a slight error.”

“Wrong? Error? What?”

“Yes. You see the body of your friend Mr. Davidson has just been found in a canal in Xochimilco Park. The police will now be on their way to see you. Good-by.”