Madonna of the Apes by Nicholas Kilmer Page B

Fred, taking his coffee black, left the litter of condiments on the table next to the extra coffee, the sack, and a pile of books on whose covers and spines the word
Leonardo
seemed to predominate.
    Fred began, “I’m told that in the art world people either say nothing about their business, or lie.”

Chapter Twenty-two
    Fred looked across at Clay and waited. The older man pursed his lips. “About me you are correct this far. I cannot bear for anyone to know my business. It is an instinct. Almost an obsession. And yet, apparently, perhaps heeding a deeper instinct, I take you into my confidence. At a time and in a circumstance when a great issue is at risk. With a prize such as my Leonardo at stake, why would I not lie, or stand mute, to protect it? If you infer, or aver, that I am in the art world, I will not argue, although I don’t think of myself as belonging to any world at all. If I accept your premise, and wish to confirm it, my next move is either to lie, or to say nothing. We reach an impasse.”
    “In
my
world, on the other hand,” Fred said.
    “What
is
your world?” Clay interrupted.
    “In my world, I hate to waste time.”
    “You keep coming back,” Clay said. “Why?”
    “There are things about the neighborhood,” Fred said. “Moving on…”
    “You told me you want nothing,” Clayton reminded him. “I hold a vulnerable treasure, which indeed you helped me to procure. Unavoidably, through happenstance, your business and mine coincided, briefly, while you saved my life. I acknowledge it. I have thanked you. Forgive me if my instincts were at fault, but you seem a man of considerable pride, and I believed that to have offered anything in the nature of a financial reward—yes, I see that I was right. You say that you want nothing. I must respect that statement. Yet you keep coming back.”
    “Moving on,” Fred said. “There are things you don’t understand. That makes me nervous. There’s too much wrong. For one thing, Tilley keeps a large amount of cash in the house.”
    “As you know I had on me, on Sunday night, a notable amount of cash. It comes in handy sometimes, as the event developed. It would not surprise you to learn that I had more cash in the house.”
    “Not in the bathroom hamper with the dirty socks and skivvies,” Fred said.
    Clayton Reed blushed. “You were thorough,” he said. “Still, people are free to do what they wish. I prefer a safe. Many persons prefer to effect their transactions in the form of cash. If their reasons are dishonorable, their dishonor is their business.”
    “Upward of fifty thousand cash,” Fred pressed on. “That’s a guess. That kind of cash in that kind of place means trouble. Normally it indicates traffic in contraband. When I called Franklin on it, he turned green.”
    Clay started, “I didn’t hear…”
    “Last night,” Fred explained. “I was in the neighborhood. He had a woman there, representing the Agnelli Collection, she told me later. She also wants your chest. She didn’t mention a figure.”
    Clay jumped to his feet, almost chattering in alarm. “This is an unforgivable intrusion.”
    “Without which,” Fred said evenly, “you would be ignorant of the forces that are moving. Without my interference you wouldn’t know that Franklin Tilley regrets making the sale. You wouldn’t know he keeps a gun. You wouldn’t know about this new player, Suzette Shaughnessy, or her principal…”
    “You didn’t…” Clayton started.
    “I told her nothing.”
    “And now you want…”
    “You thought you were home free. Now we know about two parties who are looking for what you bought.”
    “What do you want from me?” Clay demanded, smoothing his lapels with trembling hands.
    “I can make allowances. You are worried. But understand this,” Fred said, slowly, and with measured force. “You don’t know me, but you’ve had a chance to take my measure. Do you really want to suggest that I will either betray or blackmail