The Dark Lady (9 page)

“Why you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, why did he choose you?” said Venzia. “I know a little bit about Abercrombie, and he'd sooner cut off his right arm than give the time of day to an alien.”

“I had previously seen two pieces that he wanted, and he commissioned me to seek out the owners and purchase them.”

“
Recent
pieces?” demanded Venzia intently.

“Recent is a relative term,” I replied.

“Within the past ten years?”

“No. The most recent was from the very early days of the Oligarchy.”

He lit up a small cigar, ignoring the hostile glances he received from two Teronis at the next table. “Did you have any luck?” he asked in a more relaxed tone of voice.

“Yes,” I replied. “Mr. Abercrombie was able to obtain both pieces.”

“And now you're trying to hunt down others featuring the same subject.” It was more a statement than a question.

“That is correct.”

“Well, you've gone about as far as you can with the library computer.”

“How do you know what I asked the computer?”

He smiled again. “I told it to notify me if anyone began asking questions about Mictecaciuatl and Kama-Mara.”

“You spied on me!”

“I wouldn't call it spying,” he said. “I have no idea what questions you asked, though I can make a pretty good guess. How many paintings did the computer identify for you?”

I felt that he had no right to ask, but again, I could see no reason for not answering him. “Six.”

“You discarded the Piranus sculpture?”

“Yes.”

“Good decision.” He exhaled deeply. “Well, six is all you're ever going to get out of this computer. And, to save you some wear and tear on your expense account, none of them are available.”

“Have you purchased them yourself?” I asked.

He chuckled. “Hell, no. I don't want them.”

“I am afraid that I do not understand,” I said. “The first time I saw you you were trying to buy the Kilcullen painting for 400,000 credits.”

“No, I wasn't.”

“But— ”

“I knew Abercrombie wouldn't let anyone outbid him,” he interrupted, looking inordinately pleased with himself. “I just wanted to see if there were any other interested parties.”

“Why would you do that, if you have no interest in the paintings?” I asked.

“I have my reasons.”

“Might I know them?”

He shook his head. “I don't think so, Leonardo.”

“May I know why not?”

“Because I have a feeling that you can't tell me anything I don't already know—
yet,
” he added meaningfully. “When you can, we'll get together again. I might have a job for you.”

“I am already employed by the Claiborne Galleries.”

“I thought you said you were working for Abercrombie,” he said sharply.

“So I am. But Claiborne is my official employer during my tenure here. Abercrombie is paying them for my services.”

“I'll pay even better.”

“Leaving Claiborne against their wishes would bring dishonor to my House,” I explained. “I could never do that.”

“You won't have to leave them,” said Venzia.

“I do not understand.”

“Claiborne is one of the biggest art houses in the galaxy,” he began. “They've got branches on seventy-three planets— ”

“Seventy-five,” I corrected him.

“Seventy-five, then,” he said. “You hold forty or fifty auctions a year, and arrange God knows how many private sales.”

“That is true,” I acknowledged. “But I fail to see how— ”

“Let me finish,” said Venzia. “You have access to a lot of information about these auctions and sales.”

“It is my understanding that you have recently purchased an art gallery,” I said. “Surely you have access to the same information.”

“I need
advance
access,” he said, emphasizing the word. “In point of fact, I need
you.
”

“I could not even consider helping you,” I said firmly. “It would be unfair to the other potential bidders.”

“I'm not a potential bidder.”

“But you own an art gallery.”

“There's not a single piece of art on the premises,” he replied. “It's just a mailing address on Declan IV.”

“Then why... ” I began, trying to formulate my question.

“Because I need the kind of information that an art gallery is privy to— but I'm finding out that large chains like Claiborne get it a lot faster than one-man companies.”

“But if you don't want the artwork, what
do
you want?” I asked.

“The names and addresses of the artists.”

“Claiborne handles almost a million transactions a year,” I noted. “What could you possibly do with all those names?”

“I don't want all of them,” he said. “Just the ones who painted the woman you and Abercrombie are so interested in.”

“Why?”

He smiled and shook his head. “Not until you have something to tell me that's of equal interest.”

“I have nothing to tell you.”

“But you will.”

“It would be unethical.”

“How?” he persisted. “I'm not trying to cut Claiborne out of its commission, or preempt any potential bidders. I just need information.”

“I cannot— ”

“Don't say no yet,” he interrupted. “Think about it for a day or two, and you'll see that what I want can't possibly harm Claiborne or the artists.”

“Even if that were so, it would be disloyal to Malcolm Abercrombie for me to turn such information over to you, when he is employing me to find such information exclusively for him.”

“It's not disloyal,” he said irritably. “I told you: I don't
want
the damned paintings!” He paused and forced a tight smile to his lips. “We'll discuss it again in a few days. In the meantime, let me give you something as a gesture of my good faith.”

“I cannot accept your money,” I said. “Since I will not leave Claiborne to work for you, accepting payment would be unethical.”

“Who's talking about payment? I have some information that will make your current job a little easier.”

“My job?”

He nodded his head. “Have you got a pocket computer with you?”

“Yes,” I said, withdrawing it from my pouch.

“Activate it.”

I did as he asked.

“Contact the Deluros VIII Cultural Heritage Museum,” he said, speaking very slowly and enunciating each word clearly so that the machine could not misinterpret him, “and use Access Code 2141098 to call up material on Melaina, a goddess who was also known as the Black Mare of Death; Eresh-Kigal, the Goddess of the Underworld; and Macha, the Irish Queen of Phantoms.” He then placed his thumb over the sensor. “From Kenya's MacMillan Library on Earth, use this thumbprint for access to call up material on K'tani Ngai, Empress of the Dark Domain. And from the library computer on Peloran VII, call up material on Shareen d'Amato, who supposedly haunts the spacemen's cemetery there. No access code is required.”

He stopped speaking and handed the computer back to me.

“And portraits exist of all these myth-figures?” I asked.

He nodded affirmatively. “The myths may differ, but the woman is the same.”

“You are quite sure?”

“I could hardly expect you to consider my offer if I lied to you, could I?”

“No, you could not,” I admitted. “I thank you for your help.”

“My pleasure.” He withdrew a small card and inserted it briefly into the computer. “That's my address on Far London and my vidphone access number. Contact me whenever you're ready to talk a little business.” He got to his feet. “Since our conversation is finished, I trust you'll forgive me for leaving you here, but the truth of the matter is that the smell is making me sick.”

“One last question!” I said so emphatically that I drew additional stares from the nearby tables and a surly look from the waiter.

“Just one, Leonardo,” he replied. “There's a difference between good faith and philanthropy.”

“Why has her portrait always been rendered by unknowns?”

“I wouldn't call them unknowns,” answered Venzia. “Some of them were quite famous. I gather this Kilcullen was quite a military hero, and our boy on Patagonia IV was supposedly the greatest trapeze artist of his time.”

“But they were unknown as artists,” I persisted.

“True enough,” he conceded. Once again he looked amused. “Good question, Leonardo.”

“What is the answer?”

“I don't think I'm going to tell you.”

“But you agreed to.”

“I agreed to let you ask one more question,” replied Venzia. “I never agreed to answer it.”

“May I ask why not?”

He smiled and shook his head. “That's another question.”

Then he was gone, and I was left alone at my table to wonder why a man who professed no interest whatsoever in possessing any of the various renderings of this mysterious woman should be so vitally interested in the artists, or why he had more facts at his fingertips than Malcolm Abercrombie had been able to amass in a quarter of a century.

The next two weeks were uneventful. I was unable to find any other paintings of Abercrombie's model, and I spent most of my time investigating the list of names that Venzia had read into my pocket computer.

The results were puzzling. The renderings of Melaina, Eresh-Kigal, Macha, and K'tani Ngai to which he had referred me were all of our mystery woman— but when I delved further into the lore surrounding Melaina, the Black Mare of Death, I found five other renderings, all different. Curious, I next researched K'tani Ngai, and discovered that in every other portrait and carving, except the one in the MacMillan Library, she was a black woman, usually portrayed with the hands and feet of a leopard. The same held true for Macha and Eresh-Kigal.

The only other name on his list was Shareen d'Amato, and I had the Far London library computer access the computer on Peloran III. Its answer to my query was brief but intriguing:

D'AMATO, SHAREEN. DATE OF BIRTH, UNKNOWN. DATE OF DEATH, UNKNOWN. CLAIMED CITIZENSHIP ON BANTHOR III, BUT BANTHOR III POSSESSES NO RECORD OF HER.

“Wait!” I said excitedly. “Do you mean to say that Shareen d'Amato actually existed?”

YES.

“When and where?”

AS EXPLAINED, A COMPLETE BIOGRAPHY OF SHAREEN D'AMATO IS UNAVAILABLE.

“Give me such facts as you possess.”

SHE WAS THE CONSORT OF JEBEDIAH PERKINS FROM 3222 G.E. TO 3224 G.E.

“That's all you know about her?”

YES.

“When was her portrait painted?”

IN 3223 G.E.

“By Perkins?”

YES.

“Give me Perkins’ biographical data.”

JEBEDIAH PERKINS, BORN 3193 G.E., SPACESHIP PILOT WITH KARANGA INDUSTRIES FROM 3215 TO 3219 G.E., PILOT WITH BONWIT CARTEL FROM 3219 TO 3222 G.E., PILOT WITH FALCON CORPORATION FROM 3222 TO 3224 G.E., DIED IN 3224 G.E. WHILE PILOTING A SHIPFUL OF SCIENTIFIC OBSERVERS TO THE VICINITY OF THE QUINIBAR SUPERNOVA.

“Did he get too close?” I asked.

UNKNOWN.

“Was Shareen d'Amato aboard the ship?”

UNKNOWN. IT IS GENERALLY SUPPOSED SO, BUT THERE IS NO VERIFIABLE DATA.

“Was there ever a photograph or hologram taken of Shareen d'Amato?”

UNKNOWN.

“Why is she believed to haunt the spacemen's cemetery on Peloran VII?”

UNKNOWN.

“Has anyone ever claimed to see her there?”

UNKNOWN.

“Thank you,” I said, breaking the connection.

It was frustrating that the computer could supply so little information, but the one piece of positive data it had supplied was fascinating: Unlike all the other goddesses and myth-figures, Shareen d'Amato had actually lived, and had presumably posed for the portrait that now resided in one of the art museums on Peloran VII.

I found a vidphone booth in the library and called Abercrombie to tell him of my discovery.

“Interesting,” he said after activating the vidphone and listening to my information. “What museum owns the painting?”

“I can find out by this afternoon,” I said. “But the intriguing thing is that she actually lived!”

He shook his head. “I doubt it.”

“But the computer said— ”

“The computer is wrong,” he interrupted me. “If she was born in the Third Millennium of the Galactic Era, how the hell did her image turn up on all those earlier paintings and holograms and statues?”

I hadn't considered that, and I had no answer for him.

“Start using your brain, Leonardo,” he continued. “If this d'Amato woman actually existed, then the painting's an aberration, a fluke.”

“I can research her more thoroughly,” I suggested.

“How?” he asked contemptuously. “Your best bet was Peloran VII, and the computer there has already told you everything it knows.” He paused. “Look— I'm not writing a scholarly thesis on this woman. I hired you to find her portraits, not to tell me that she shacked up with some spaceship pilot more than fifteen hundred years ago. Now track down the painting and find out how much they want for it.”

“Yes, Mr. Abercrombie,” I said.

He stared sharply at me. “By the way, I've never heard of Jebediah Perkins. How did you find out he had painted her?”

“Reuben Venzia told me.”

“Venzia!” he repeated, leaning forward with interest. “Have you finished researching him?”

“I haven't yet begun,” I replied. “He sought me out two weeks ago and volunteered some information concerning the woman in the paintings.” I paused. “Thus far, everything he told me has been verified.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And what did you give him in exchange for this information?”

“Absolutely nothing, Mr. Abercrombie,” I said truthfully.

“Nobody gives anything away for nothing!” he snapped. “Exactly what did you promise to give him? Paintings of
my
model?”

“Nothing,” I repeated, shocked. “He asked for certain specific information concerning upcoming art auctions, but I refused to divulge it or help him in any manner.”

“What kind of information?” he persisted.

“Information concerning portraits of the subject that you collect.”

“And he gave you all this stuff on the paintings after you refused to help him?” said Abercrombie with obvious disbelief.