Read Online A Deadly Shade of Gold by John D. MacDonald - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John D. MacDonald
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Private Investigators, Detective and Mystery Stories, Political, Hard-Boiled, Fort Lauderdale (Fla.), Detective and Mystery Stories; American, McGee; Travis (Fictitious character), Private investigators - Florida - Fort Lauderdale
Ads: Link
a well-known piece... from a museum collection, for example, something might be worked out. But I...."
"But you just work here, Charlie. Right?"
He touched the toad. "Do you care to purchase this?"
"Not today"
Page 36
"Would you wait here, please?"
He wrapped it up and took it away. I had a five minute wait. I wondered what they did for customers. A little old man came shuffling out. He had white hair, a nicotined mustache, a tough little face. I don't think he weighed a hundred pounds. In a deep bass voice he said his name was Borlika.
He peered up at me, his head tilted to the side, and said, "We are not receivers of stolen goods, mister."
"Unless you're damn well sure they'll never be traced, old man."
"Get out!" he bellowed, pointing toward the front door. We both knew it was an act.
I put my hand on my heart. "Old man, I'm an art lover. It'll hurt me here to melt all the beautiful old crap down."
He motioned me closer, leaned on the counter and said, "All?"
"Twenty-eight pieces, old man."
He leaned on the counter with both arms and kept his eyes closed for so long I began to wonder if he'd fallen asleep. At last he looked at me and blinked as the gold toad would blink if it could and said, "My granddaughter is in Philadelphia today, doing an appraisal. In this area, you will talk to her. Can she see the pieces?"
"That can be arranged later. After we talk."
"Can you describe one piece to me?"
I gave him a crude but accurate description of the sensual little man. His eyes glittered like the toad's.
"Where can she find you this evening, mister?"
"I can phone her and arrange that."
"You are a very careful man."
"When I have something worth being careful about, old man."
He wrote the phone number on a scrap of paper, told me her name was Mrs. Anton Borlika, and told me to phone after eight o'clock. When I got back to the hotel I checked the book. The listing was under her name, an address on East 68th which would place it close to Third Avenue.
With time to kill, I got a cab and kept it while I made a tour of inspection of the neighborhood.
It was a poodle-walking area. At about five o'clock I found a suitable place about two blocks from her apartment. It was called Marino's Charade. There was an alcove off the bar/lounge with a booth at the end, perfectly styled for maximum privacy. The night shift was on, and the boss waiter was happy to gobble up my ten dollar bill and promise that he would keep it empty from eight o'clock on.
Page 37
Her voice on the phone, flat as only Boston can make it, had not prepared me for the woman.
She was in her late twenties, black Irish, with blue eyes and milky skin, slightly overweight, dressed in a conservative suit, a big grey corduroy rain cape, droplets of the night moisture caught in her blueblack hair. As she walked along the alcove toward the booth I stood up and said, "Mrs. Borlika?"
"That's right," she said, slipping the cape off. I hung it up. "You made yourself easy to find, Mister...."
"Taggart. Sam Taggart." I watched for reaction and saw none.
She smiled and smoothed her suit skirt with the backs of her hands and slid into the booth.
"Betty Borlika," she said. "Have you eaten? I had a nasty sandwich on the train."
"Drink first?"
"Of course." The waiter appeared, took our drink order and hastened away.
"How were things in Philadelphia?"
She made a face. "I had three days of it. Thank God somebody else was doing the paintings.
There must have been five hundred of them. Fifty years of miscellaneous collecting. Barrels, actual barrels of ikons. Temple bells. Chinese ivory. You have no idea."
"You know what all that stuff is worth?"
"Enough to give it an appraisal the tax people accept. I wouldn't say I missed it by far."
With all her friendly casualness, I knew I was getting a thorough inspection. I returned the favor.
No rings on the ring finger. Plump hands. Nails bitten down. Plump little double chin. Small mouth, slightly petulant.
"You
"But you just work here, Charlie. Right?"
He touched the toad. "Do you care to purchase this?"
"Not today"
Page 36
"Would you wait here, please?"
He wrapped it up and took it away. I had a five minute wait. I wondered what they did for customers. A little old man came shuffling out. He had white hair, a nicotined mustache, a tough little face. I don't think he weighed a hundred pounds. In a deep bass voice he said his name was Borlika.
He peered up at me, his head tilted to the side, and said, "We are not receivers of stolen goods, mister."
"Unless you're damn well sure they'll never be traced, old man."
"Get out!" he bellowed, pointing toward the front door. We both knew it was an act.
I put my hand on my heart. "Old man, I'm an art lover. It'll hurt me here to melt all the beautiful old crap down."
He motioned me closer, leaned on the counter and said, "All?"
"Twenty-eight pieces, old man."
He leaned on the counter with both arms and kept his eyes closed for so long I began to wonder if he'd fallen asleep. At last he looked at me and blinked as the gold toad would blink if it could and said, "My granddaughter is in Philadelphia today, doing an appraisal. In this area, you will talk to her. Can she see the pieces?"
"That can be arranged later. After we talk."
"Can you describe one piece to me?"
I gave him a crude but accurate description of the sensual little man. His eyes glittered like the toad's.
"Where can she find you this evening, mister?"
"I can phone her and arrange that."
"You are a very careful man."
"When I have something worth being careful about, old man."
He wrote the phone number on a scrap of paper, told me her name was Mrs. Anton Borlika, and told me to phone after eight o'clock. When I got back to the hotel I checked the book. The listing was under her name, an address on East 68th which would place it close to Third Avenue.
With time to kill, I got a cab and kept it while I made a tour of inspection of the neighborhood.
It was a poodle-walking area. At about five o'clock I found a suitable place about two blocks from her apartment. It was called Marino's Charade. There was an alcove off the bar/lounge with a booth at the end, perfectly styled for maximum privacy. The night shift was on, and the boss waiter was happy to gobble up my ten dollar bill and promise that he would keep it empty from eight o'clock on.
Page 37
Her voice on the phone, flat as only Boston can make it, had not prepared me for the woman.
She was in her late twenties, black Irish, with blue eyes and milky skin, slightly overweight, dressed in a conservative suit, a big grey corduroy rain cape, droplets of the night moisture caught in her blueblack hair. As she walked along the alcove toward the booth I stood up and said, "Mrs. Borlika?"
"That's right," she said, slipping the cape off. I hung it up. "You made yourself easy to find, Mister...."
"Taggart. Sam Taggart." I watched for reaction and saw none.
She smiled and smoothed her suit skirt with the backs of her hands and slid into the booth.
"Betty Borlika," she said. "Have you eaten? I had a nasty sandwich on the train."
"Drink first?"
"Of course." The waiter appeared, took our drink order and hastened away.
"How were things in Philadelphia?"
She made a face. "I had three days of it. Thank God somebody else was doing the paintings.
There must have been five hundred of them. Fifty years of miscellaneous collecting. Barrels, actual barrels of ikons. Temple bells. Chinese ivory. You have no idea."
"You know what all that stuff is worth?"
"Enough to give it an appraisal the tax people accept. I wouldn't say I missed it by far."
With all her friendly casualness, I knew I was getting a thorough inspection. I returned the favor.
No rings on the ring finger. Plump hands. Nails bitten down. Plump little double chin. Small mouth, slightly petulant.
"You
Similar Books
