Scarlet Night (22 page)

R
OMANO SAT, HIS HANDS
on the edge of the desk, palm to palm, as in prayer. “It was an appalling chance to take, Miss Julie. I underestimated your recklessness.”

“I waited until I was sure. It helped, having his knife—and the Book of Kells for an example.”

“I distrust sentimental alliances.”

“I thought we agreed we might need him.”

“Forgive me, dear girl, but I don’t think you have any idea what or whom we may need. Furthermore, I don’t believe you think so either. Or have you arrived at a modus operandi? In which case, pray, share it with Alberto and me. Unless we are to be dispensed with.”

She had not expected this kind of reaction. She had rather expected to be congratulated. “It just happened, Mr. Romano. I knew I could bring him over to our side and I did it. I’m not trying to run the show. I know I couldn’t if I wanted to.”

The Little King ruffled his shoulders. “This is my first experience of women’s liberation and I’m finding it difficult to absorb.” He looked around to where the younger man, his back to them, was working at another desk. “Alberto, say something.”

Alberto wasn’t all that liberated either, Julie thought. Then he surprised her. “We’ll be able to use him, Mr. Romano. Especially if he knows the layout of the place.”

Julie wasn’t about to say how limited O’Grady’s knowledge of its layout was.

“You are both making an assumption I am not ready to accept: suppose Campbell is not the collector?” He pounded the desk for emphasis. “On top of failure, you commit trespass. Better the F.B.I. today.”

Julie said: “I won’t turn
Scarlet Night
over to Rubinoff until we’re sure.”

“I hope you are given that option. Do you know what I believe, Miss Julie? You find Alberto and me alien creatures. You’re afraid of us, however fascinating this exotic tower of ours. Am I right?”

“In a way.”

“Good! We have retained some degree of autonomy at least. But this O’Grady—is he a…a comfort to you?”

Julie was devastated by Romano’s reprimand, the biting sarcasm, and she was tired, having slept badly. Furthermore, she was beginning to feel the strain of not being able to confide in Jeff: it was different when he was out of the country. She burst into tears. Women’s Lib, oh, yes.

“Alberto!” Romano got up and fled into the studio.

Alberto flung himself around her helplessly. He offered a paper napkin, having no handkerchief. Finally, he said: “How would you like to wash up for lunch?”

“Do I look that awful?”

He blushed. “I thought you might like to get off by yourself.”

Julie smiled weakly and shook her head. She went to the studio door which Romano had left open. He was looking over a tray of bottles and containers, a tuft of cotton in his hand. “I’m sorry, Mr. Romano,” she called from the doorway.

He continued with what he was doing. He turned and dabbed at a painting on an easel, then gently stroked the spot in tiny, circular motions. If it were something human standing there, you might have thought he was wiping its tears. “Is the deluge over?”

“Yes.”

“Alberto is right. You had better compose yourself for lunch. I shall introduce you as my niece if that does not offend you. If Mr. Kliegman suggests that you too might sit for him, don’t be adamant either way. I think it unlikely unless he is in need of money. Women are not among his more successful subjects.” He dropped the cotton into a wastebasket and came toward her. “You do look peaked, my dear. Mr. O’Grady is obviously a great conversationalist to have kept you up so late.”

Julie was repairing her lipstick in the guest bathroom when it occurred to her: Could it be that Romano was jealous?

Leonard Kliegman might be the most popular painter around these days, but Julie found him insufferable, an egomaniac, and a fool. Anybody who could sit there telling Romano about the gangsters whose girl friends he had done portraits of—Romano had been wrong about his painting women; or maybe he wasn’t, maybe he’d seen the portraits—had to be a little short on judgment. He kept dropping mobster nicknames as if he were Jimmy Breslin. And from the minute Alberto brought in the
gazpacho
and served it from the sideboard, Kliegman played to him, talking louder when he was offstage. Romano sat in an attitude of a porcelain buddha as though time were eternally his. When Kliegman stopped in the middle of a sentence, however, and asked his host what he should call him, it was a great moment.

The Little King suggested disingenuously, “Mister Romano?”

It didn’t faze Kliegman.

Julie concentrated on the food: after the
gazpacho,
filet of sole—Bolognese, Romano informed her when she asked, cooked with wine, herbs, and parmesan cheese, browned under the broiler at the last minute.

It was during the sole that Romano said: “You know G. T. Campbell, don’t you, Mr. Kliegman?”

Kliegman opened his eyes a little wider. They were half closed most of the time. “I’ve done him, yes.”

“At his home at Maiden’s End?”

“I’ve been there. It’s grotesque. He has no taste. I hope he’s not a friend of yours.”

“I was more interested in your opinion of his collection,” Romano said.

Kliegman flopped his hand at his host. “It’s an exhausting collection, absolutely debilitating.”

“Because of its single theme?” Romano suggested.

“Of course. No matter how many instruments there are in the orchestra, if they don’t play a different tune now and then, we must go mad.”

Romano chortled. So did Julie. Not that it mattered what she did: Kliegman really believed she was Romano’s niece.

Romano said, “But you must admit, he has some good things. The Courbet, for example.”

“Yes,” reluctantly. “And the Tintoretto is very good. Important.”

“What about his Eakins?”

“I don’t like Eakins. He’s so sincere.”

Romano did not contradict. “Campbell has some of your things, doesn’t he?”

“Abominably hung. He’s a segregationist.”

Julie thought she was going to have to figure that one out. But Romano got it right away. “Ah, yes. He has your
Musicians.”

“He has my
Harlem Musketeers,
which is a masterpiece.”

“Of course, of course. I’d forgotten where that was.”

“Which makes my point, doesn’t it?”

Romano nodded, his expression sympathetic. It was lost on the guest of honor, for Alberto had come in with the salad. Romano’s and Julie’s eyes met. It was an electric moment.

Romano turned a bland gaze on Kliegman and said, “I wonder if you have an opinion of his Degas?”

“Ha! In the first place, Mr. Romano, the final painting of
The Young Spartans,
even as it hangs in the National Gallery, is one of the most static pieces of art ever allowed out of a painter’s
atelier.
It is small wonder he kept it to himself most of his life. And in the second place, I doubt the authenticity of Campbell’s sketch.”

“Interesting,” Romano murmured. “But
he
believes in it?”

“Oh, utterly. He’s one of those people who must believe in the authenticity of everything he owns. Otherwise, it devaluates the dollar.”

Romano smiled. “I will show you my collection after lunch, and then perhaps we shall talk business.” He turned to Julie: “The dessert is especially for you, my dear.”

It was oranges in Grand Marnier, sprinkled with shreds of the peel and glazed.

A
T THREE-THIRTY THAT
afternoon, Friday, with Alberto at the tape recorder and Julie on the extension phone, Romano reached G. T. Campbell. He had just come in off the water.

“It must be beautiful up there this afternoon,” Romano said.

“Too damn calm. Only thing moving out there is the tide and you can’t fill your sails with that. Your name’s Romano. Do I know you?”

“Probably not, Mr. Campbell, although, like you, I am a collector of some breadth. I have been persuaded by a young scholar friend to help him put together a Degas exhibition for Los Angeles. I understand you have one of the earliest sketches for
The Young Spartans.”

“Well, yes.”

“I wonder if you would be kind enough to see Mr. Scotti this weekend. Alberto Scotti…If you haven’t heard of him, believe me, you will.”

“I think I’ve heard of him,” Campbell said.

“He’s flying on to London the first of the week. Otherwise I wouldn’t press him on you over the weekend. Is Sunday evening possible?”

“Definitely not, Mr. Scotti.”

“Romano. It’s Mr. Scotti I’m sending to see you.”

“Sunday’s out from, say, noon on. No. Let’s just say Sunday’s out, period.”

“Perhaps you would suggest a convenient hour?”

“Is he an early riser?”

Romano, off the telephone: “Are you an early riser, Scotti?” Then: “Any time convenient for you, Mr. Campbell.”

“How’s eight-thirty breakfast tomorrow morning? Put him on the phone so’s I can tell him how to get in here. I keep this place pretty well locked up.”

Julie counted the clicks to be sure Campbell had rung off before she hung up the extension. She returned to the office. Romano was chuckling in self-satisfaction. He said: “Now I am able to believe.” He looked up at Julie. “So, my dear, our fantasy has come true: His Degas is a
Young Spartans
sketch pedigreed by Edmund Schoen. And Mr. Campbell does seem to want his name in a catalogue.”

“And Sunday’s out,” Julie said. “That’s the day he expects to fork over six hundred thousand in cash for
Scarlet Night.
Wow.”

Alberto said: “Mr. Romano, I don’t know very much about Degas and I never studied at the Actors Forum. Isn’t there somebody else you could send up there tomorrow morning?”

“Certainly not. You look the part, by which I mean—you know what I mean. And there is a tape of my conversation with the curator who gave
me
an education on Degas. You will memorize that transcription. What is of equal importance, we must get hold of Andy Davis again and have him instruct you on the preliminaries at least of organizing this exhibit. You should probably go equipped to impress him with the names of, say, a half-dozen private collectors whose paintings you expect to have in the show. I shall provide those for you.”

“Thanks,” Alberto said as though for not much. “And what if Rubinoff shows up for breakfast with us?”

“I can almost certainly assure you that he won’t. But if he does, he will discourage Campbell’s loaning his
Young Spartans,
not wanting its provenance questioned too closely. But the grounds on which he will object will concern reliability of the sponsors, transport, insurance, etcetera. Which is why we must get you to Andy Davis at once. The weekend is upon us. And I don’t suppose we should overlook the real purpose for which you are going: to put it in the vernacular, to case the joint. If I have faith in you, Alberto, why have you so little in yourself?”

“Because I know what I don’t know.”

“Believe me, that is the best place to start. Do you realize that not having even laid eyes on you, Mr. Campbell provided us with the most important information of all: how to get on the estate whether or not the watchman is on duty? I was touched at so much trust.” He sat in silent musing for a few seconds. “Six hundred thousand dollars. I wonder what denominations…and what sort of transport Rubinoff will be using. Your Irishman may prove of some worth in that matter, Miss Julie.”

Julie said, “Mr. Romano, isn’t it time I called Rubinoff?”

“Yes.” Slowly but emphatically.

In the silence they could all but hear one another’s heartbeats. They were about to set the countercaper rolling.

“The Maude Sloan Gallery would close at five on Sunday. Shall I tell him to come to my house at five?”

Romano rocked back and forth gently and nodded.

“I suppose I’d better ask him for five hundred dollars even though I only paid a hundred.”

“In cash, Miss Julie. Otherwise, he is likely to stop payment on the check Monday morning.”

“I can’t do that. That would make him suspicious.”

“I understand. But it’s a pity.”

Julie made the call from the studio.

“I’ll see if he’s in,” the secretary said. “He may have left for the weekend.”

Rubinoff was not far. “Mrs. Hayes,” he said as though trying to remember. “Ah, yes.
Scarlet Night.
I wondered if I’d hear from you again.”

“Are you still interested in it?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, but the tone was casual. “Unless of course you are thinking of making money on it.”

Julie was much too uptight to play games. “Five hundred dollars, Mr. Rubinoff. You can have it Sunday, if you want to come to my home for it about five or so.”

“That is inconvenient, Mrs. Hayes. Why not bring it over here this afternoon? Or tomorrow. The gallery will be open even if I’m away.”

“Because I made up my mind to keep Ralph’s painting either until I heard from him—which I haven’t…” She had to catch a little breath…“Or until the show would have closed in the normal course of events.”

“Really,” he said.

She hated him and it helped. “But if you want to let it go for a week or two, that’s all right with me. Only I’ll be away next week.”

“Make it at six on Sunday and I’ll be there. The address, please?”

She gave him the address on Sixteenth Street.

She put the phone down carefully and wiped her palms, one hand in the other.

Romano stood in the doorway. “Bravo!”

“Now I’ve got to call Ginni and play it straight all the way, invite her for a drink and a last look at
Scarlet Night.”

“Bravissimo.”

G
INNI ARRIVED AT O’GRADY’S
at six-thirty. Steph and Tommy groveled when she wafted through the door. And she was a vision, O’Grady admitted, for them who could stand the light. She wore a shimmery gown of bluish-gray fluff with silver slippers and a purse to match. He suspected the earrings were genuine sapphire. What would keep her from harm in this neighborhood: they wouldn’t know her kind from a whore. Beneath the makeup was the first scratching of crowsfeet at the corners of her eyes. In time she would surely look like her mother and O’Grady wished it on her at the earliest possible moment. She draped herself on the daybed, the boys at her feet dramatizing their experiences in New York.