"Lovely t.i.tle for a thriller," he interrupted.

"It's been done. Stop interrupting. Your man in Munich is dead, and you know he had the Charlemagne talisman-"

Smythe sat upright. His smile had faded, and his eyes were bright and speculative.

"So that was it. No, I didn't know what had stimulated an employee of the National Museum to burglary, but the mere fact was enough to make us suspicious of you. Even so, my dear, the existence of the talisman is irrelevant. What a nasty suspicious mind you must have, to leap to the conclusion that our pretty little copy meant larceny."

"Where you made your mistake was having me kidnapped," I retorted.

"You don't suppose I would do anything so stupid?" Smythe demanded scornfully.

"Who did, then?"

"None of your business. Good Lord, girl, you didn't really imagine I was going to blurt out a detailed confession as soon as you had me to yourself? You can't prove a b.l.o.o.d.y thing. You can sit here till moss grows on you, and you still won't be able to prove anything."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really. We have our tracks very nicely covered, I a.s.sure you. You won't learn anything here, but it is possible that you may get into trouble. My colleagues are harmless souls, on the whole, but one or two of them.... I spoke quite sharply to them about kidnapping you, and I hope it won't happen again. But I can't promise, and I'm d.a.m.ned if I'm going to make a habit of rescuing you. Why the h.e.l.l don't you go away?"

"You wouldn't be so anxious for me to leave if there were nothing to be learned here," I said.

"Rudimentary Logic One. How to Construct a Syllogism. That doesn't follow, you know. I told you, I am not completely certain of my colleagues' reliability." His tone changed. He leaned forward, his blue eyes softening. "Look here, Vicky, it's really quite a harmless little plot. Why can't you drop it?"

"If I knew all about it, I might agree with you," I said sweetly.

Smythe opened his mouth as if to speak. Then he fell back in his chair and started to laugh.

"No, no," he said, between chuckles. "I was tempted to spin you a pleasing yarn. I could do it, you know. But you have a mind that is almost as twisty as mine. You'd never believe me, would you?"

"Frankly," I said, throwing tact to the winds, "I wouldn't believe you if you told me the sun rises in the east. Why don't you you give it up? If the plot is that harmless, it can't be worth much. I'm very persistent, and my friends already know quite a lot about you." give it up? If the plot is that harmless, it can't be worth much. I'm very persistent, and my friends already know quite a lot about you."

Gravely Smythe removed a white handkerchief from his pocket, waved it in the air, and then returned it to its place.

"The parley is over," he said. "We don't seem to be getting anywhere. I am going back to the house; I have work to do. Coming?"

"I'm beginning to like this place," I said. "I think I shall stay awhile."

Smythe walked to the mouth - the door, that is. He turned. Against the sunlight he was a dark paper shape, a silhouetted shadow. I couldn't see his features, but when he spoke his voice had lost its humorous tone.

"I admire your bravado, Vicky. But don't push it too far. There are things that walk in the garden here - and not only by night."

Which was a nice thought to leave with a girl who was sitting inside a monster's head.

II.

I fell asleep out there in the monster's head, lying on a nice soft chaise longue. It was very unusual for me to do that. I never sleep in the daytime. I don't usually eat lunches like that one either, with almost half a bottle of very potent wine.

Things started to liven up about four o'clock, when Pietro rose from his nap - if that's what he was doing up there in his room. As I was to learn, he was usually somnolent and lazy in the morning, but he revived, like a night-blooming cereus, as twilight approached, and by midnight he was going strong.

He was a rather engaging little man. Unlike many blase millionaires, he really enjoyed life. Not that I've known that many millionaires; I base that statement on what I read in the magazines. Wine may have contributed to his joie de vivre. He started drinking as soon as he got up, and continued until he collapsed. He drank fairly slowly, just a little bit faster than his body could absorb the stuff, so it took him quite a while to get loaded. He pa.s.sed through several distinct stages along the way. The first sign of inebriation was a profound intellectuality. He would talk about history and politics and philosophy, using a lot of long words and quotations from Greek philosophers I had never heard of. He invented them, I think.

As the dinner hour approached, sensuality replaced the lure of the intellect. If I was alone with him during that period I had to keep moving, but eating used up most of his libidinous urges, and after dinner he became soft and sentimental. That was when he played old Nelson Eddy-Jeanette MacDonald records on his huge hi-fi and tried to do Viennese waltzes.

The belligerent mood succeeded this one, but being a n.o.ble Italian, Pietro wanted to fight with swords instead of fists. During these hours he often challenged people to duels. At about midnight he became quite vivacious and told a lot of old jokes and did vaudeville routines. He fancied himself as an amateur magician. He had all the paraphernalia, including one of those trick boxes for sawing a lady in half, but by that time his hands were getting unsteady, and even the housemaids refused to be sawed. Sometime in the early hours of the morning he collapsed and was carried off to bed by his valet and Mr. Smythe. I don't know what he needed a mistress for, unless it was during the pre-dinner hour.

It was during the intellectual stage that first evening that he decided to show me his collections. He warned me that it would take days to study them properly; this was just a quick run-through, to give me a chance to decide what I wanted to concentrate on.

I've seen a lot of beautiful things. Museums are my favorite hobby, as well as my profession. But that was a unique experience. The objects he showed me were not museum pieces, they were part of the furniture.

"But what about thieves?" I said, midway through the tour. "This place is wide open, Pietro; anybody could get in."

"But how would they get out? Carrying that..." And he gestured at a greater-than-life-size marble torso of Hercules that stood on a pedestal in the salone salone. "You would need a truck, would you not, and a block and tackle. It is not easy to put such an apparatus into my drawing room."

"That's right, I guess." The little man wasn't as foolish as he looked. "But what about the smaller objects?"

"There are many servants, even when I am not in residence. My housekeeper checks the inventory daily. As for the very small, very valuable objects, naturally I keep them in my safe."

"Things like jewelry?" I said.

"Ah, you like jewelry?" Pietro patted my arm, and for a minute I thought the sensual phase was arriving a little early. But he went on. "That I keep in the vault. You would care to see it?"

"Oh, yes," I said, wide-eyed. "I just love jewelry."

"Ah, women," sighed Pietro. "You are all alike - even you clever ladies are like all the others where jewels are concerned."

The safe was a small room, right next to his sitting room upstairs, and he had sense enough to stand between me and the combination lock as he opened it.

"It is changed yearly," he explained, twirling k.n.o.bs. "A little person comes from the bank."

At his suggestion I sat down on a velvet divan and he brought out boxes, which he piled on a low table in front of me. Then he started opening the boxes.

For half an hour or so I forgot I was a well-educated, cynical specialist, gainfully employed in a museum. I wallowed in jewels.

The pieces that really got to me were the Renaissance jewels. There was a pendant of gold and enamel, with a mermaid made out of a Baroque pearl. Its contours formed the mermaid's torso; her raised arms and flowing hair were gold. The scales of her fishtail were made of roughly polished emeralds. And there was a necklace two feet long, made of stones as big as the end of a man's thumb - emeralds and rubies and amethysts and topazes. Another necklace was of square-cut rubies framed in gold, with a cabochon ruby the size of a bantam hen's egg dangling from the center. There was a headdress like one I had seen in a Botticelli painting - fine bands of gold supporting a star sapphire with stylized flower petals all around it. A star-shaped brooch set with pearls and rubies and emeralds framed in twisted gold wire. Rings....

I tried to look at these jewels with a critical eye, but it wasn't easy, because Pietro insisted that I try them on. Rings on my fingers, bells on my toes.... He was getting to the amorous stage. I was absolutely clanking with jewels when the door burst open and Helena stormed in.

Alas, it appeared that we were no longer buddies. She glared at me and burst into impa.s.sioned speech.

"So this is where you are! You give this to her - never have you let me have so much as a miserable little ring, and you shower this - this-"

What followed was a fascinating excursion into Roman gutter slang. I had never known there were so many different words for a lady of ill repute. Pietro stood it for a while, and then he let out a roar.

"Silenzio! How dare you come here and use such vulgar language to a lady? A learned lady, who comes to study my collection! She is - she is writing a book, which will make me famous, is that not so, Vicky?"

"Oh, yes," I said. "I surely am. You surely will be."

Helena started to speak again, but Pietro shouted her down.

"Go! Go and learn manners. I do not give you so much as a ring, no! These jewels have been in my family for centuries. They belong to the Contessa Caravaggio, not to a - a-"

"That's all right," I said, as he glanced apologetically at me. "I know what you mean. You had better put the jewels away, Pietro."

And - I hate to admit it, but I must - as I started to remove the ornaments from my fingers and throat and breast, my hands were stiff and reluctant. That was when I first began to understand the lure of precious jewels - a violent emotion that has prompted a good deal of bloodshed over the centuries.

It wasn't until I got back to my own room and began getting ready for c.o.c.ktails that I could think sympathetically of Helena.

If those d.a.m.ned pieces of crystallized carbon affected me as they had done, what must they do to Helena? I will do myself some justice; it wasn't only the value of the stones that fascinated me, it was the beauty of the workmanship. The Renaissance jewelers weren't simply craftsmen, they were the great artists of the period. Cellini was a sculptor as well as a goldsmith; Ghirlandaio, Verrocchio, and Michelozzo worked as jewelers. The "Doors of Paradise," those matchless bas-reliefs at the Baptistery in Florence, were designed by a goldsmith named Ghiberti.

The unknown workman who had copied the Charlemagne talisman was in good company. I wondered if any of the jewels I had seen that day were fakes.

I guess this is as good a time as any to talk about fakes. It isn't a single subject, it is a dozen subjects, because the techniques used in imitating jewelry, for instance, obviously differ from the methods used for porcelain or paintings. But all imitations have one thing in common, and that is this: if they are well done, it is practically impossible to tell them from the real thing.

The stuffier connoisseurs and art critics like to think they can spot a fake masterpiece by its stylistic failings alone. After all, if Rembrandt was so great, he should not be easy to imitate. This is a nice theory, but it is wrong. Every single museum in the world, including the snootiest, has objects tucked away in the bas.e.m.e.nt that their experts would like to forget about - forged paintings and sculptures that they paid through the nose to get because they thought the pieces were genuine. Oh, sure, once a piece of art is known to be a fake - because the forger confessed, or chemical tests exposed it - then it's easy to pick the thing apart. "The drapery in the imitation Greek bas-relief is not as crisp and sure as in the original...." Bah, humbug. The best of the experts have been fooled.

Take the case of Van Meegeren, who was probably the most famous and most successful art forger the world has ever known. If he hadn't confessed, his fake Vermeers would still be featured in museums. His was a rare and lovely case of poetic justice, because he had to confess in order to save himself from a far more serious charge. During the German occupation of Holland, Van Meegeren sold one of his paintings to that clod Goering, who thought he was a connoisseur. Goering believed he was buying a genuine Vermeer, of course. Unfortunately, so did the Dutch government, and after the war, when they were catching up with traitors and quislings, they arrested Van Meegeren on a charge of collaborating with the n.a.z.is - specifically, for selling national art treasures. The really amusing thing about the case was that when Van Meegeren confessed to faking dozens of Vermeers, the art world refused to believe him. What - the great "Supper at Emmaus" a fraud? Nonsense. It was obviously by Vermeer; in fact, it was his masterpiece! Not until Van Meegeren painted a new Vermeer, in his cell in the city jail, were the skeptics convinced. Then - such is human nature - they all started picking flaws in the paintings they had once hailed as treasures.

I knew something about how paintings are faked. I also knew that the only sure way of detecting a good forgery is by means of chemical and physical tests. For instance, a careless modern forger might use paints such as synthetic cobalts, ultramarine, or zinc white, which weren't manufactured until the nineteenth century. But a good forger would avoid such sloppy errors. Van Meegeren was careful to use only the pigments obtainable in Vermeer's day. They are still available; there are no "mystery pigments" or unknown techniques. Most forgers know enough to use old canvases, and they are skilled at imitating things like cracks and wormholes and patinas. There are all kinds of tricks, I'm sure - and any honest art historian will admit it, after a drink or two - that there are still lots of forgeries adorning the sacred halls of the world's great museums. As for private collectors, they are hopelessly outcla.s.sed, especially if they buy things of questionable origin. They daren't consult appraisers or scholars if they suspect the objects are stolen.

I felt sure that a great deal of antique jewelry had been faked, too, but the only piece I could remember reading about was the Saitaphernes tiara. A tiara is not necessarily a delicate half crown like the ones worn by fairy princesses. This piece was shaped like a tall pointed hat made of thin gold and covered with embossed scenes and inscriptions. The inscriptions had been copied from genuine Greek texts, so they sounded authentic, and the workmanship was good enough to fool the boys at the Louvre, who bought it for that great collection! The jeweler was a Russian named Rouch.o.m.owsky. Like Van Meegeren, he had a hard time making the art world accept his confession when he finally broke down. Again let me repeat - there are no lost techniques. Rouch.o.m.owsky had learned how to perform the ancient art of granulation - designs formed by tiny beads of gold, no bigger than grains of coa.r.s.e sand, each one of which is individually welded into its place. Some of his forgeries were excellent copies of ancient Etruscan goldwork.

If Rouch.o.m.owsky could do it, so could someone else. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that this gang had an undetectable racket. The only certain method of detecting fakes is by scientific tests, and if you use authentic materials, there is no way in the world they can test wrong. Gold is gold. It varies in purity, of course, but a careful faker would make sure he used the same type normally employed by the Greek or Renaissance craftsmen he was copying. Imitation jewels used to be easy to spot, but nowadays, since the discovery of synthetic jewels, a well-made piece can virtually defy laboratory tests. I wondered why Schmidt was so sure he had the genuine Charlemagne talisman. If I had been in his shoes, I would have taken good care of both of them.

I put on my one long dress - black jersey, very slinky - and took out my own personal jewelry collection. I must say it looked rather tacky.

Six.

THE MEN WERE WEARING DINNER JACKETS; and if I had not felt less than kindly toward "Sir John Smythe," I would have had to admit that formal wear suited his slim build and fair hair. His c.u.mmerbund was nice and flat. Poor Pietro looked like a melon with a purple ribbon tied around it.

The dowager was sitting by the drawing-room windows, in a tall carved chair like a throne. Her presence subdued her son slightly. He had to confine his amorous proclivities to Helena, since the old countess beckoned me to her side and kept me engaged in conversation.

She was cute. She reminded me of my grandmother. Not that they looked alike; Granny Andersen was a typical Swede, big-boned and blond even in her seventies, with eyes like blue steel chisels. But they were both matriarchs. The dowager had a pa.s.sion for fashionable scandal. She wanted to know all the latest about Elizabeth Taylor's new husband, and what Jacqueline and Princess Grace were doing. I wasn't up to date on that subject, but I was a good listener. We both agreed, regretfully, that while recent American presidential wives might be very nice ladies, they had not contributed much to the world of glamour.

Before long, young Luigi wandered in. He looked vaguely around the room, as if he had forgotten what he came for; then he caught his grandmother's eye and ambled over to her. She put out her thin, veined hand and drew him down to a seat on a low stool at her side. They made a pretty picture sitting there - sweet old age and attentive youth.

"My darling, you have not greeted Doctor Bliss," said the dowager fondly.

Luigi looked up at me. I felt a slight shock. He might look dreamy and disconnected, but his eyes were furiously alive - black, blazing, intent.

"Buona sera, Dottoressa," he said obediently.

I returned the greeting, and then silence fell. Luigi continued to fondle his grandmother's hand, running a delicate thumb over her bony fingers, almost in the manner of a lover.

"You look tired, my treasure," she said. "What have you been doing? You must conserve your strength, you are growing."

"I am well, Grandmother." He smiled at her. "You know that to work is for me the highest pleasure."

She shook her head anxiously.

"You work too hard, my angel."

He didn't look overworked to me. He'd have been a howling success as a pop-music star, setting the little girls shrieking, if he hadn't been so clean.

"What sort of work do you do, Luigi?" I asked. Then, as he held out those expressive, stained young hands, I said, "I'm sorry, I forgot. What sort of painting do you do?"

It was badly phrased. Most young painters imitate one style or another, but none of them like to be reminded of that; they all think they are innovators. Before I could repair my blunder, Pietro let out a sneering laugh.

"His style, do you mean? It is of the most modern school, Vicky. Totally without form or sense. Blobs of color smeared on a canvas."

The boy's eyes flashed.

"I am still experimenting." He spoke directly to me, ignoring his father. "To me art is a very personal experience; it must flow directly from the unconscious onto the canvas, do you not agree, signoria signoria?"

"How could she agree?" Pietro demanded. "She is a scholar, a student of art. Did Raphael allow his unconscious to overflow onto the canvas?"

"Well, now," I said, remembering the etchings, "that might not be so far off as-"

"No," shouted Pietro. "Form, technique, the most meticulous study of anatomy.... Vicky, do you not agree with me?"

I was about to give some light, joking answer when the tension in the room caught me. They all stared at me with fierce, hungry eyes - the boy, his father, the old woman. I realized that we weren't talking about art at all. This was an old feud, a basic struggle between father and son. I also realized that I would be an idiot to commit myself to one side or the other. Looking around for help, I caught John Smythe's ironical eye. Get yourself out of this one, he seemed to be saying.

"I'm not a critic," I said modestly. "As a medieval scholar I appreciate form, naturally, but I do feel that one's approach to art must be basically visceral. I couldn't comment on your work without seeing it, Luigi."

It wasn't a bad answer; it could be interpreted according to the predilections of the hearer. Luigi's face lit up. Goodness, but he was a handsome boy!

"I will show you," he said, starting to rise. "Come now and we will-"

"Luigi!" The dowager tugged him back onto the stool. "You forget yourself, my child. It is almost time for dinner."

"Tomorrow, then." The boy stared at me.

"It will be a pleasure," I said.

"It will be a great pain," said Pietro rudely.