nearly $100,000, a pair of netsukes stolen from a private collection in Austria and easily worth six figures. An antique sapphire brooch, reputed to have been worn by Mary, Queen of Scots.
And the list went on. Despite the chill of the room, DiCarlo’s skin grew clammy. Not one single item remained in Porter’s possession. Sold, DiCarlo thought, all sold.
“There’s nothing left,” he said weakly.
“Said we had a good turnout.” Pleased with the memory, Porter poured another drink.
“I need this merchandise.”
“So you said, but that shipment came in just minutes before we started the auction, and there wasn’t time todo an inventory. Way I figure it, your boss and I could sue the pants right off Premium.” Because the idea held appeal, Porter smiled and drank again. “Bet they’d settle on a nice tidy sum, too.”
“Mr. Finley wants his property, not a lawsuit.”
“Up to him, I guess.” With a shrug, Porter finished off his liquor. “Helen keeps a mailing list of our customers. Pays to send out notices when we’re having an auction. Best I can say is you go through it, match up the names and addresses with the names she’s got there next to the stuff we sold. You can get in touch, explain things. Of course, you’ll return my merchandise. I paid for it, right?”
It would take days to round up Finley’s stock, DiCarlo thought, sickened. Weeks. “Naturally,” he lied.
Porter grinned. The way he figured it, he’d already sold one lot. Now he’d sell another—all for the price of one.
“The mailing list?”
“Oh, sure, sure.” Comfortably buzzed on Four Roses, Porter shuffled through a drawer and came up with a metal box full of index cards. “Go ahead, take your time. I’m not in any hurry.”
Twenty minutes later, DiCarlo left Porter comfortably drunk. He had one bright pinpoint of hope. The porcelain figurine was still in Front Royal, the property of a Thomas Ashworth, antique dealer. DiCarlo grasped hold of the possibility that regaining possession of one piece quickly would placate Finley and buy time.
As he drove through light traffic to Ashworth’s shop, DiCarlo worked out his strategy. He would go in, explain the mishap, keeping it light, friendly. Since Ashworth had paid only $45 for the figure, DiCarlo was prepared to buy it back and include a reasonable profit for the dealer.
It could all be handled quickly, painlessly. Once he had the figurine, he would phone Finley and tell him that everything was under control. With any luck, Finley would be satisfied to have Winesap contact the rest of the list, andDiCarlo would be back in New York to enjoy Christmas.
The scenario brightened his mood to the extent that DiCarlo was humming as he parked his car by the curb in front of Ashworth’s shop. It wasn’t until he was out of the car and across the sidewalk that his easy smile faded.
CLOSED
The large cardboard sign on the glass-fronted door glared back at him.
DiCarlo was at the door in two strides, rattling the knob, pounding on the glass. It couldn’t be closed. With his breath coming quickly, he raced to the wide display window, cupping his hands beside his face as he pressed it to the glass. He could see nothing but shadows and his own misery.
Finley would accept no excuses, he knew. Would tolerate nothing so vague as simple bad luck.
Then, as his lips peeled back in a snarl, DiCarlo saw the porcelain figure of a man and woman in ball dress, embracing lightly.
DiCarlo clenched his gloved hands into fists. He wasn’t about to let a lock and a sheet of glass stop him.
The first step was to move his car. DiCarlo circled the block slowly, instincts humming as he kept an eye out for cruising patrol cars. He parked two blocks away. From his glove compartment he took what he thought he’d need. A flashlight, a screwdriver, his revolver. He slipped them all into the pockets of his cashmere coat.
This time he didn’t approach the shop from the front, but
And the list went on. Despite the chill of the room, DiCarlo’s skin grew clammy. Not one single item remained in Porter’s possession. Sold, DiCarlo thought, all sold.
“There’s nothing left,” he said weakly.
“Said we had a good turnout.” Pleased with the memory, Porter poured another drink.
“I need this merchandise.”
“So you said, but that shipment came in just minutes before we started the auction, and there wasn’t time todo an inventory. Way I figure it, your boss and I could sue the pants right off Premium.” Because the idea held appeal, Porter smiled and drank again. “Bet they’d settle on a nice tidy sum, too.”
“Mr. Finley wants his property, not a lawsuit.”
“Up to him, I guess.” With a shrug, Porter finished off his liquor. “Helen keeps a mailing list of our customers. Pays to send out notices when we’re having an auction. Best I can say is you go through it, match up the names and addresses with the names she’s got there next to the stuff we sold. You can get in touch, explain things. Of course, you’ll return my merchandise. I paid for it, right?”
It would take days to round up Finley’s stock, DiCarlo thought, sickened. Weeks. “Naturally,” he lied.
Porter grinned. The way he figured it, he’d already sold one lot. Now he’d sell another—all for the price of one.
“The mailing list?”
“Oh, sure, sure.” Comfortably buzzed on Four Roses, Porter shuffled through a drawer and came up with a metal box full of index cards. “Go ahead, take your time. I’m not in any hurry.”
Twenty minutes later, DiCarlo left Porter comfortably drunk. He had one bright pinpoint of hope. The porcelain figurine was still in Front Royal, the property of a Thomas Ashworth, antique dealer. DiCarlo grasped hold of the possibility that regaining possession of one piece quickly would placate Finley and buy time.
As he drove through light traffic to Ashworth’s shop, DiCarlo worked out his strategy. He would go in, explain the mishap, keeping it light, friendly. Since Ashworth had paid only $45 for the figure, DiCarlo was prepared to buy it back and include a reasonable profit for the dealer.
It could all be handled quickly, painlessly. Once he had the figurine, he would phone Finley and tell him that everything was under control. With any luck, Finley would be satisfied to have Winesap contact the rest of the list, andDiCarlo would be back in New York to enjoy Christmas.
The scenario brightened his mood to the extent that DiCarlo was humming as he parked his car by the curb in front of Ashworth’s shop. It wasn’t until he was out of the car and across the sidewalk that his easy smile faded.
CLOSED
The large cardboard sign on the glass-fronted door glared back at him.
DiCarlo was at the door in two strides, rattling the knob, pounding on the glass. It couldn’t be closed. With his breath coming quickly, he raced to the wide display window, cupping his hands beside his face as he pressed it to the glass. He could see nothing but shadows and his own misery.
Finley would accept no excuses, he knew. Would tolerate nothing so vague as simple bad luck.
Then, as his lips peeled back in a snarl, DiCarlo saw the porcelain figure of a man and woman in ball dress, embracing lightly.
DiCarlo clenched his gloved hands into fists. He wasn’t about to let a lock and a sheet of glass stop him.
The first step was to move his car. DiCarlo circled the block slowly, instincts humming as he kept an eye out for cruising patrol cars. He parked two blocks away. From his glove compartment he took what he thought he’d need. A flashlight, a screwdriver, his revolver. He slipped them all into the pockets of his cashmere coat.
This time he didn’t approach the shop from the front, but
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