Thorn by Fred Saberhagen (reading like a writer TXT) 📕

ideas you have on the Renaissance seem pretty farfetched, no offense, I’m willing to concede there may be areas where you know what you’re talking about.” Seabright emitted a calculated chuckle. “You mentioned the painting’s origins. I’ve already heard one crackpot theory on that subject, which I hope you’re not going to endorse. But there, I’m sure I do you an injustice, Thorn. You must have something sensible to say on the subject. Possibly with evidence to back it up?” The big man paused, in an attitude of hopeful inquiry, of generous expectation that he was going to be told something that made sense.

      Thorn hesitated. “I do have some ideas on the subject, as I told your secretary. As for evidence … before I begin, Mr. Seabright, would you mind telling me how long the painting has been here?”

      “In this room? Why not? Since 1953. That’s when my brother brought it home from Argentina. Some Nazi who evidently saw the end coming sent it there from Europe in 1944. During the war one of the collecting teams working for Goering had evidently liberated it, shall we say, from a chateau in Normandy. How long it had been at that particular chateau, or where it had been before that, we were never able to discover. Only a tantalizing hint or two … these things, the great ones, tend to have remarkable histories, don’t they?” Seabright ran a hand back over his suntanned brow.

      Thorn glanced at him, then back at the blank wall. “Indeed they do. They also have a habit of being stolen.”

      “Had you ever laid eyes on it, yourself, before two nights ago? I don’t suppose you had the chance.”

      “On the contrary. I saw it several times. Some years ago.”

      That had not been the answer Seabright was prepared for. The big man swung his heavy arms, like a furniture salesman getting bored on floor duty. “You saw it here? Ah, I see, you were acquainted with my brother, then.”

      “No, I regret, I did not know him. Or that he had the painting here … it was in Europe.”

      Obviously calculating years, moving his lips very slightly as he counted, Seabright gave a little shake of his head, whose thickness seemed to be becoming more and more apparent. “You must have been only a child.”

      Thorn had turned, was leaning with his arms folded against the blank space on the wall, staring at things on the far side of the room. “Yes … yes, I suppose I was. An ill-tempered child. Though at the time I was quite sure of my own power and wisdom, and there was no lack of people willing to humor me. But then—this painting—”

      He came to a halt, not knowing how much he ought to say in the presence of this fool. Talking to Seabright was helpful, in a way, as talking to a child might be. But who else might be listening?

      “The painting,” Thorn went on, “acquired for me some special associations. Special meanings, that even now I find it difficult to explain. Yes, even difficult to explain to myself.” He looked closely into Seabright’s uncomprehending face, and for the first time the big man drew back a little. Thorn added: “For a long time I have wondered where it was.” Then, more mildly, with a smile: “My own collection runs heavily to the Renaissance.”

      “Oh.” Seabright blinked. “Then our tastes are alike in that, at least. Forgive me, Mr. Thorn, but I continue to find it somewhat odd that your name has never come to my attention before now. I had thought that all the world’s important collections in my field were known to me.”

      “Almost all of them are, I’m sure.”

      “Almost. Yes, I see. My brother and I never cared for a lot of publicity either. And I am sure your collection must be important.”

      “Thank you, yes, I believe it is. And you are right, very little known. And also, regrettably, incomplete.”

      Seabright let out another chuckle, this one gross and uncontrolled, the laughter of a man who cares nothing for what he sounds like. “What real collector is ever satisfied? Tell me, are your things in this country?”

      “Very few of them.”

      “I see. Well, I have no wish to pry. But I am always on the lookout for genuinely valuable articles. As investments, even if they do not match my own tastes perfectly. I prefer to deal confidentially whenever possible. I needn’t talk to you about taxes and so on, you understand those matters, I am sure. There are possibilities of barter and exchange as well as purchase. I even, sometimes, have things that I wish to sell. Well, Stephanie. Join us?”

      She had entered the gallery on bare and silent feet, still wearing her tiny swimsuit and her beach cape. Her dark hair was uncurling quickly in the dry air. Almost without looking at the two men she came to stand, in a model’s pose so practiced as to be second nature, before the dim scar on the wall showing where the large painting had been removed. Her liquor glass had been left back at the bar.

      “I miss that picture,” she announced. “Isn’t it foolish, with everything else … but I do miss it.”

      “You have good taste, then, in painting,” said Mr. Thorn, pausing ever so slightly before the last two words. Stephanie’s eyes turned from the wall to him.

      “I myself,” said Seabright, “prefer something more sensual than Verrocchio.”

      “A matter of taste,” said Thorn. “So, you have paid a fortune for a supposed Verrocchio that does not really suit your preference?” He was still looking at the lady. Help me, her eyes seemed to be broadcasting. I would like very much to get out of this. Sometimes it seems that I can wait no longer.

      What is it that you are waiting for? Thorn would have liked to ask. But there was no way to put the question now. He could be patient.

      Seabright was answering him: “An investment, my friend, remember? But ‘a supposed Verrocchio’? Aha, you are going