Frame-Up (20 page)

“No. Not now, young man. I'm — No.”

He headed at double-quick-time for the lift. I was on his heels, pleading, but he had closed his ears to me. He pulled the door of the lift open just enough for his wan body to slip inside. I grabbed the door, pulled it open the rest of the way, and slipped into the tiny space beside him.

From the look on his face, I had a genuine fear that the panic in his eyes could be the precursor to a heart attack. He was punching the button for the second floor as rapidly as his little fist could poke.

The clangs and squeaks of that industrial dinosaur were mixed with the high-pitched demands of the twit below. “Come down this instant or I shall summon the police.”

“Summon the queen if you want. Just keep everyone off this damn elevator for the next ten minutes!”

We reached the second floor in what seemed like half an hour. The professor wanted nothing more than to spring loose and lock himself in his room with me on the outside. It was time to use the one advantage I had over him. I was bigger than he was.

I grabbed him by the shoulders and pinned him to the side of the elevator and told him in a tone that I could not have conceived of in History of Art 102, “With all due respect professor, shut up and listen.”

He was so far beyond terror that he did just that. I had the stage and an attentive audience of one.

“Professor, I am not going to harm you. I firmly believe I am about to save your life. Two men, Russians I think, came to your room this afternoon. I think they left a surprise package for you. We have to be extremely careful. Are you hearing me?”

His eyes were like letter Os, and he couldn't seem to speak.

“Just nod. Are you hearing me?”

He nodded, and for the first time that day I felt I had communicated with someone.

“Good, professor. We're going to get out of the elevator. Stay behind me. Give me your key.”

He did. I walked ahead to the room marked 5. The door and lock were as ancient as every other part of the building. I looked for any kind of marks on the door and thought I saw a scratch on the outside where the latch fit into the groove. I felt the tiniest vindication. On the other hand, the mark could have been made four hundred years ago.

I slipped the key in the old-fashioned lock and turned it until the tumbler clicked into the open position. I thanked God that it predated spring-loading.

I guided the professor down the hall to a position outside of Room 4. I pushed him against the inner wall and told him not to move. He behaved like an obedient cocker spaniel.

I went back to the door to Room 5. I moved as carefully as a bomb squad in turning the knob just enough to leave the door free to swing open. I took off my raincoat and plastered myself as far down the corridor as I could and still have a shot at the door. I rolled my raincoat into a tight ball.

One check of the professor, who had not moved an inch, and I hurled the raincoat with the best sidearm pitch I could manage.

The raincoat hit the door and sent it flying open. In that fraction of a second, I realized that if nothing happened, I would feel as if I had just walked naked into a meeting of the Ladies' Abstinence Society.

The concern was short-lived. In a fraction of a second, I found myself grabbing the sides of my head to dull the double percussive shock that nearly blew out both eardrums. I fell to the floor with the instantaneous pain in the ears and forced my eyelids closed against the cloud of plaster that filled the corridor.

When I could open my eyes, I saw that the wall opposite Room 5 had been blown away. I was still on the floor when I checked back to see the professor in the same place but down on his knees, holding his ears. He looked up at me, and I signaled him to stay put.

I crept up to the open doorway and looked inside Room 5. The
two Russians, or whatever they were, did nothing halfway. Two shotguns were strapped to chairs five feet inside the room. They were wired to go off when the door was fully opened so that the person entering, assumedly the professor, would get the full benefit of both blasts.

I kicked open the door to Room 4 with a shot from the heel of my still water-soaked shoe. I pulled the professor inside and told him to “sit on the bed and don't move” till I come for him. At this point, if I'd told him to stand on the window ledge and do the Macarena, he'd be up there.

I closed the door to Room 4 and raced down the steps. The twit was in full fluster. The double blast must have blown to pieces what little grip he thought he had on the situation.

He had the phone in one shaking hand, and was stabbing at and missing the digits with the other. I grabbed the phone out of his hand and hung up.

“Get a grip. What do you dial to get an ambulance?”

His body was shaking in rhythm with his hand.

“I want the police. Right now.” His voice was half an octave higher yet. One more disaster in his evening and only dogs would hear him.

“First the ambulance. What number?”

He fumbled for a sheet of paper with emergency numbers, and I picked the one marked “Hospital/Emergency.” I called it and gave the address of the hotel. They sounded efficient, and to my delight, within three minutes I heard that yodeling wail ambulances make over there.

I watched them pull up to the entrance, and two uniformed medical technicians rushed through the door. I left them to make whatever sense they could out of the rantings and whimperings of the clerk.

I took the stairs on the fly back to Room 4. I grabbed the professor by the hand and led him like a chimpanzee down the stairs. The lobby was now full of confused guests milling around and asking each other questions that none of them could answer. Another
siren indicated that the police would soon be taking control. It was time to leave.

I found a back entrance. Still grasping the professor by the hand, I quick-marched down the alley behind the hotel until we reached a cross street. Fortunately, the rain had let up. In two blocks, we slowed to a breath-catching walk.

My ultimate destination was my own hotel, the Chesterfield. A block short, I could not resist a left turn into a warm, dry pub. We found a table in the back where the noise level let us talk but not be overheard. I settled the professor into a seat while I went to the bar. I prescribed a brandy for the professor and five fingers of the Famous Grouse for me.

I gave us time to medicate before beginning a conversation. Three fingers into the Grouse, a spurious thought crossed my mind. Wouldn't this be the darndest time to actually ask him to reconsider the B he gave me in History of Art 102?

I resisted.

The pub was beginning to pulse with the after-office-hours clientele. New arrivals gave dripping evidence of the heavy rainfall. The professor and I huddled in our remote corner, nestling the Grouse and brandy in our increasingly warm little mitts.

I was reasonably confident that the panic had passed, unless, of course, the professor's two Slavic visitors chose this out of all of the pubs in London.

They were clearly pros, which led me to believe that they undoubtedly waited around to hear the resounding percussion of their handiwork. I had called for the ambulance to give them one last visual indication that the shotguns had found their target, i.e., the professor. With that satisfaction, hopefully they had moved on to other duties.

I finally had what I wanted — a one-on-one with Professor Denisovitch, he being in a mood to open the store.

“Professor, you might have missed the introduction. My name's Michael Knight. Why I'm here is a long story. You don't need to hear it right now. Let's cut to the chase. First point. Your life is in danger, do we agree?”

He looked up from the brandy and nodded.

“Young man, how did you know—?”

“Michael, professor. Michael Knight. Ordinarily I wouldn't care, but I think we're going to be in close contact for a while.”

“Yes, Mr. Knight. How did you know—?”

“That's part of the long story. I don't want to be rude, but we have a lot to cover in what could be a short time. My second point.
I believe your life is in danger because you probably authenticated a painting by Vermeer. You did it for another former student, John McKedrick. You probably didn't know that John was working for one of the big shots in the New England Mafia. What I'm saying is you're dealing with some dangerous people. I think you're convinced, correct?”

He just nodded his head slowly.

“How did I bring this on myself?”

“A more important question is how you're going to get out of it. If I'm going to be able to help you, I need information. I need to know every detail you can think of regarding this Vermeer deal.”

The professor finished the brandy before beginning an account that I could hardly believe. Apparently John approached him and commissioned him to paint a copy of the Vermeer canvas that had been stolen from a Boston museum. When it was finished, John demanded that he authenticate his painting as the genuine Vermeer. He even brought threats to bear on the lives of the professor's family if he refused.

“Professor, did John actually threaten you himself?”

He thought for a bit, and I was glad to have him take the time to put the pieces together accurately. I took another slug of the Grouse and braced for the answer.

“No. Not personally. He came to me with the original commission to paint the copy, but it was a Russian man who made the threats. He was part of the same group with Mr. McKedrick. That's why I was confused. He was from Minsk, from Belarus. Sergei Markov. I won't forget that name. He made the threat.”

“Now I'm confused. John McKedrick was working for a Mafia gangster in Boston by the name of Tony Aiello. Did you ever hear that name?”

“No. I never heard whom Mr. McKedrick represented. He and Markov seemed to be working together.”

“All right. To whom did you give this authentication?”

“There was a meeting.”

“Where?”

The professor's energy was draining fast. I figured that I better squeeze it bit by bit to get everything in one sitting. There may not be another.

“In Amsterdam.”

“Who was there?”

“Mr. McKedrick. This man from Belarus, Markov. And two men with whom they seemed to be negotiating.”

I signaled the barmaid for another brandy for the professor to keep down the nervous fidgets that seemed to be starting again.

“This is important, professor. Do you remember their names?”

He gave it his full concentration. I thanked God that he didn't come up empty.

“Van Drusen. That was one. He was a financier of some kind. ‘Jan' they called him. We met in his office. The other was, I'm not sure, Van Arsdale I think. They were partners.”

“Do you remember where their office was?”

“No. It was my first time in Amsterdam. It was beside a large canal.”

“And you gave them your opinion that the painting was a genuine Vermeer?”

He went silent on me.

“Professor?”

“Yes. I did. I'm ashamed.”

“Under the circumstances, you really had no choice. Were these financiers buying the painting?”

“I don't think so.”

“Why don't you think so?”

“After I signed the authentication certificate, they took the painting to a bank in the same block. They placed the painting in a vault. Mr. McKedrick and Van Drusen each took a separate coded number. They had me come along to certify that the painting was not switched before it was put into the vault.”

“Did you have any idea what they were doing?”

“I think so. I've seen it done before. I believe the painting was security for a loan.”

“Loan to whom?”

“I suppose to whomever John McKedrick was working for. I'm very tired.”

The second brandy had him more relaxed than I'd hoped, but at that point I probably had all he was able to give me. I got the two of us bundled up, more for disguise than for weather protection in case the two Russians were still lurking about.

I hustled him through the rain to the Chesterfield Hotel and up to my room. While he took a hot bath, I made some calls. My first was to Helga Swenson to let her know that the professor was alive. I decided to tell her about the incident at the Grisham Hotel. I didn't want to alarm her, but I wanted her to take seriously my plea that she tell absolutely no one where the professor was, or even that he was still alive.

My second call was to Mr. Devlin. I decided to tell him everything, particularly in view of the fact that I had the Atlantic Ocean as a buffer between us. What could he do, fire me?

“Michael, damn it, you're fired. If that's the only way to get you to stop putting your neck on the block, you are no longer engaged as an attorney.”

“You can't fire me, Mr. Devlin. We're partners. Besides, you're not my client. If you'll be kind enough to remember, I represent the Prince of Evil, the Godfather of all malevolent Godfathers, thanks to your boyhood reunion. Besides, who else will put up with your intimidation?”

“Intimidation? When the hell have you ever followed one bit of my good advice to keep you in one piece?”

“I'm definitely starting now.”

“Good. I'll expect you on the next plane to Boston.”

I decided to finesse that one. Instead, I told him what I'd learned from the professor. I had one final point.

“Mr. Devlin, can you find out from Santangelo if he knows anything about this deal with the Vermeer? My guess is he doesn't.”

“That's my guess too. It looks like Aiello was going big league behind his back.”

“It's going to look that way to Mr. Santangelo too. Without tipping too much, can you try to squeeze a few more days of truce out of him? I think I'm getting close.”

“I'll see what I can do. And you stay out of danger.”

“No problem. I'm just dealing with stuffy art dealers from here on.”