Street Of The Five Moons Part 15

"Horsefeathers," I said rudely, fighting the melting effect of those cornflower-blue eyes. "The cla.s.s barriers went down with a crash in World War Two, even in England. When the Duke of Bedford is selling souvenirs to tourists who visit his stately mansion, anybody can work."

"Ah, well, it was worth a try," John said, without rancor. "You sense the truth, of course; I am personally disinclined to engage in vulgar labor. It's a psychological handicap. If you knew my mother-"

"Scratch excuse number two," I said. "I don't buy the theory that perverts and criminals are the guiltless products of a corrupt society. And as a woman I'm sick and tired of the attempts to blame Mom for every crime that has been committed since Cain and Abel."

"Eve was probably overprotective," John said speculatively. "She always liked Abel best. Naturally this upset his brother... My mother's name is Guinevere."

I stared at him for a minute and then started to laugh.

"You are hopeless," I said. "Is that really her name?"

"Yes."

"You may have an excuse after all."

"We're an old Cornish family," John explained. "Old and decadent. However, I cannot honestly blame my sins on Mum. She's a good old girl, even if she does look like Judith Anderson playing a demented housekeeper. No, my sins are my own. I simply cannot settle down to an honest spot of work. It's so boring."

"And swindling isn't boring?"

"Well, this particular scheme isn't as ingenious as some I have engaged in. There was one stunt.... But perhaps we had better not recall that. It was brilliant, though. Almost worked, too. It failed only because I was too innocent to understand the depravity that lurks in the hearts of men. One man in particular - my partner."

"It appears to me that you haven't overcome that weakness," I suggested politely.

"Too true. I simply must become more cynical. At any rate, this plan seemed quite foolproof. I was approached by an acquaintance of mine in London - and, pardon me. I simply will not mention names. I don't mind about some of the others, but he's a good chap, and a friend."

"Never mind the n.o.blesse oblige. What was the plan?"

"Don't rush me," John said, savoring the syllables. "I must think how to explain it convincingly."

"I think I see another of your troubles," I said maliciously. "You talk too much. You are so enamored of the sound of your own voice that you babble on and on when you ought to be doing something."

"That is unkind, but probably correct. Very well, I'll get on with it.

"My friend, whom I shall refer to as 'Jones' - to go with 'Smythe,' you know - is the sole heir of a wealthy old aunt. At least she was wealthy; at the rate she is using up her resources there won't be much left for poor old Jones - which is one of the reasons why she is living so well, since she doesn't care much for Jones. She thinks he is a lazy ne'er-do-well, and she is absolutely right. The only a.s.set she possesses that she won't p.a.w.n or sell is her antique-jewelry collection. She plans to leave that to the British Museum, in order to spite Jones.

"So, when Jones was contacted by a strange little man who proposed a deal, he listened. The deal was simple enough. The old lady doesn't trust banks. She keeps her jewels in a safe in her flat. (The family mansion went on the block years ago.) The jewels are amply protected, not only by the safe, but by a dozen nervous dogs. The old witch adores the creatures.

"Now Jones admits that he had thought of - er - borrowing a few small diamonds, but he gave up the idea because he would be the first one to be suspected. His newfound friend's scheme disposed of this difficulty. He would supply Jones with imitations good enough to deceive even the old lady's sharp eye.

"Jones jeered at this - until he was shown a sample. It was the Charlemagne talisman, which I gather you've already seen. Good, isn't it?"

"Superb," I said honestly. "It ought to have relieved Jones's scruples - though he doesn't appear to have had many."

"I must confess he was ready to be persuaded," John said demurely. "The deal went off quite neatly. Jones supplied photographs and measurements, and the switch was made one night while Auntie was at the opera. Wagner.

"The gang split the proceeds with Jones, who is now living comfortably on the Riviera. When they asked him to recommend a friend who might a.s.sist them in finding other - er-"

"Victims," I suggested.

"Victims," John agreed, without batting an eye. "He thought of me. I was happy to oblige. I have a fairly wide acquaintance among the undeserving rich."

"But how do they sell the things?" I demanded. "If the jewels are so well known, no fence-"

"That's the beauty of the scheme. There are no middlemen. The gems are sold directly to collectors. There is a lot of money floating around the world these days, my dear. In the Near East, South America, the States.... People are buying jewels as investments, and antique jewelry is increasingly popular with collectors. The buyer knows, of course, that there is something shady about the transactions. He doesn't care. He is willing to keep quiet about his acquisitions."

"That's crazy."

"I quite agree. But there are a lot of crazy people in the world too. It happens all the time, Vicky. There is a large underground movement in forgeries of all kinds. Antique furniture, Chinese ceramics, famous paintings. Read some of the literature. The list of detected forgeries is enormous. And the objects on the list are the unsuccessful unsuccessful fakes. G.o.d knows how many imitation Rembrandts and Vermeers there are still in the museums. Where have the genuine pieces gone? Into private collections. The only thing that makes this scheme better than others is that the imitations are virtually undetectable. I doubt that even the great British Museum will notice the difference when Auntie finally pa.s.ses her jewels on to them." fakes. G.o.d knows how many imitation Rembrandts and Vermeers there are still in the museums. Where have the genuine pieces gone? Into private collections. The only thing that makes this scheme better than others is that the imitations are virtually undetectable. I doubt that even the great British Museum will notice the difference when Auntie finally pa.s.ses her jewels on to them."

"And Pietro is one of the people who are allowing their collections to be copied?"

"Right."

"But why? The man is rich as Croesus. Villas and palaces stuffed with antiques, fancy cars, servants.... Why should he partic.i.p.ate in a crummy deal like this?"

"Vicky, Vicky! It is clear that you, like my parents, come from the poor but honest cla.s.s. I suppose you don't buy things unless you can pay for them."

"I can't can't buy things unless I can pay for them," I said, remembering my ivory loden cloak with the silver b.u.t.tons and the swollen price tab. buy things unless I can pay for them," I said, remembering my ivory loden cloak with the silver b.u.t.tons and the swollen price tab.

"That's because you are one of the deserving poor. The Conte Caravaggio - who is one of the undeserving rich - can walk into a shop and walk out with a new Rolls, and the vulgar subject of money is never mentioned. Eventually he has to put a bit on account, but you'd be surprised how long this economic ruin can be juggled before it collapses. Pietro has already sold many of his treasures; half those paintings at the palace are copies. You didn't examine them because you were concentrating on jewelry. The property is mortgaged to the hilt and the servants haven't been paid for years. He needs money, darling, and so do many other people in his position. If he weren't of n.o.ble blood he'd stop buying Beluga caviar and handmade leather shoes, and declare bankruptcy; but the Caravaggio honor won't allow him to be an honest pauper."

"Very eloquent," I said. "Very convincing.... You don't have a high opinion of my intelligence, do you?"

"My dear girl, what do you mean?"

"My dear boy, the scheme you have outlined isn't larceny - except for the initial transaction. I suppose you thought I'd concentrate on that and overlook the fact that there is no law to prevent a man like Pietro from selling his possessions if he wants to. And no law to keep him from having copies made for himself."

"It was worth a try," John said coolly.

"So what is the plot? No, don't tell me, it's quite obvious, really. Pietro doesn't sell his jewels, he sells the copies. Not once, but several times! He and the others who are cooperating in this scheme never appear - that's your job, to peddle the merchandise. The collectors who buy from you think they are buying stolen property, so they don't compare notes or publicize their purchases. Luigi's copies will pa.s.s any test they can devise. And if they see references in the press to the original jewels - the Grafin von Hochstein at the opera wearing the Hochstein emeralds - they think she is wearing the fakes! That's it, isn't it?"

"Essentially, yes. That's it."

"It's incredible," I muttered.

"'Brilliant' is the word I would choose," John said complacently. He sat up and moved in close to me, but he didn't touch me. Well, Vicki, what do you say? Wasn't I right when I claimed no one has been hurt? Most of these jewels will end up in museums eventually, like the Hope diamond and other famous gems. The museums will get the copies - quite adequate for their purpose, which is to display objects of unusual beauty or historic interest. Luigi's copies are as good as the originals, which are, after all, only chunks of raw material. Honestly, only a stuffy pedant could claim that this is an immoral trade."

"You can't get at me that way," I said severely. "I am too old to wince at unkind names. I may be a stuffy pedant, but there are flaws in your argument. For one thing, I don't like the idea of stealing from museums."

"But we don't actually steal from the museums," John said. "The Charlemagne piece was only a sample. Museums are too dangerous. They have quite up-to-date security systems, and my crowd is an amateur lot; nothing like the people who robbed Topkapi. We don't rob rob anyone; and we only steal from people who can well afford it. They are just as dishonest as we are, or they wouldn't accept what they believe to be stolen property." anyone; and we only steal from people who can well afford it. They are just as dishonest as we are, or they wouldn't accept what they believe to be stolen property."

"No," I said stubbornly. "I still don't buy it."

"Why not?"

I felt my cheeks getting warm. My generation is sometimes accused of having no verbal inhibitions, and G.o.d knows I use words in ordinary conversation that would have sent Granny Andersen running for the soap, so she could wash my mouth out. But here I was, all embarra.s.sed, blus.h.i.+ng, at the prospect of explaining my moral standards.

"It's a question of - of integrity," I stuttered. "Honesty. Everybody lies these days, from politicians and statesmen to the people who repair my car and my radio. Everybody has a specious excuse for chiseling the other guy. It's got to stop somewhere. I know the arguments, I've heard them. 'If these people weren't basically dishonest, we wouldn't be able to cheat them; and besides, the ignorant cruds don't deserve to own beautiful things, they can't even tell the difference between the real and the fake.' The critics have been rooked too, plenty of times, but that is beside the point. The point is that if you have a skill, or a talent, or a body of knowledge, you are obliged to use it honestly. Obliged to yourself! There is no difference between a man who robs a little old lady who is living on social security and a swindler who cheats a nasty, greedy oil millionaire. He is still a crook. And I'm sick and tired of crooks."

My cheeks were flaming by the time I finished. I expected him to laugh - or put his arms around me. Men always think they can overcome a woman's scruples by fondling her.

Instead he sat quite still, his head bowed.

"If you feel that way," he said, "then I couldn't talk you out of it even if I wanted to. Shall we go to the police?"

"No," I said, with a gusty sigh. "I'm going to break this racket wide open, Moriarty. But I'll give you twenty-four hours to get lost. I owe you."

He looked up, his eyes twinkling with amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Don't think I won't take you up on it. I'm not as honorable as you are."

"But you'll have to help me. I may need a statement from you."

"I'll do better than that. I've got doc.u.mentary evidence."

"What?"

"I am not quite as naive as I appear," said John, trying, without conspicuous success, to look naive. "I have learned to take precautions. The things I have aren't conclusive, mind you; but I have a list of names and copies of Luigi's drawings. You may need them if Pietro destroys his files and dismantles the workshop."

"They would help, certainly. I'm well aware of the fact that it is going to take some time to get the ponderous machinery of the law moving. It's a wild tale, this one."

"All right, it's a deal. Suppose I get my papers. They are in a bank on the Corso, along with some cash I had the good sense to stash away. The problem is going to be a pa.s.sport."

"Good Lord, yes. You can't get out of the country without one."

"Oh, I can get out of the country, all right. But I can't get back into England unless I take risks that far outweigh the risks involved in retrieving the thing."

"Why do you want to go back to England? I would have thought you would head for the Sahara, or a South Sea island."

"No, that's stupid. The best place to lose oneself is among one's own kind. A foreigner stands out like the Eiffel Tower in another country. I've got friends at home."

"Your future movements are a matter of indifference to me," I said. "How do you propose to get your pa.s.sport? I suppose it is back at the villa."

"Never mind where it is. I'll deal with it."

"If I were in your shoes," I said ominously, "I would prefer someone to know where I was at all times."

"In case I don't come out?" He grinned feebly. "What would you do, rush in with your six-guns blazing?"

"I would call the cops."

"Hmm." John considered this. "Yes, I can visualize situations in which I might find that prospect consoling. All right. I have a little pied-a-terre here in Rome...."

"With half a dozen extra pa.s.sports? No, never mind, don't tell me. I don't want to know about your criminal activities."

"Much better for you if you don't." He dropped his head into his hands. "d.a.m.n, my brain seems to be petrified. I could do with a few hours' sleep, after our wild night."

"That might not be such a bad idea." The nape of his neck looked thin and defenseless, like a young boy's. I wondered cynically if he was aware of the effect it had on women.

"It might not be a good idea either. We ought to move out of here." He didn't move, though; he just sat there, all hunched over, exuding stoic control and suppressed pain. "They must know the only way we could get out of the area was by car. The buses don't run that late. There isn't much through traffic in the wee small hours...."

"So it might occur to Pietro to inquire about us in Tivoli," I finished the train of thought. "Yes, you're right. But we've got several hours. Our drivers won't get back to Tivoli till midmorning. What about your pied-a-terre? You didn't tell anyone where it is, I hope?"

John looked up at me. There was the funniest expression on his face for a moment. Then he shook his head.

"We needn't hurry, then," I said. "You lie down and sleep for a while. Give me some money."

"What for?" He looked at me suspiciously.

"I'm going to the farmacia farmacia, if I can find one that's open. And to a grocery store. A little bread, a little wine.... And a little penicillin."

They sell all sorts of drugs in Italy that you would need a prescription for back in the States. I told the clerk my boyfriend had fallen off his bike and hurt himself. He was very sympathetic.

I half expected John would be gone when I returned, but he was flat on his back, sleeping heavily. My first aid woke him with a vengeance. The bullet wound looked nasty in the bright light of day. He played the tight-lipped hero, stifling his groans, until I finished the bandaging and took out the hypodermic needle.

"Oh, no," he said energetically. "Where the h.e.l.l did you get that?"

"They sell them over the counter," I explained, squinting professionally at the tip of the needle. "Roll over."

"Not on your life."

"I didn't think you were so modest."

"Modest, h.e.l.l. If you think I'm going to let an amateur jab that thing into my defenseless backside-"

"Look, you've probably got enough germs in your bloodstream to kill a whole village. You don't want to get sick while you're on the run, do you?"

John stuck out his lower lip and pressed his body firmly into the mattress.

"Come on, don't be such a baby. I know how to do it. The clerk at the farmacia farmacia showed me. It's easy." I could see that my rational arguments weren't having any effect, so I tried threats. "If you don't, I am going straight out of here to the police." showed me. It's easy." I could see that my rational arguments weren't having any effect, so I tried threats. "If you don't, I am going straight out of here to the police."

If I do say so, I made quite a neat job of it. But he carried on more about the needle than he had about being shot.

"There, now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" I said soothingly.

"I think I would prefer gangrene."

"Don't be silly. There are some pills, too. You're supposed to take one every four hours."

With a martyred groan, John hoisted himself up off the bed.

"It's late. We had better get moving."

We went to the bank first. I waited outside till John came out with a thick manila envelope.

"You got the papers?"

"Yes. Here you are. And I got some money."