"And while you were searching for my clothes, you had a chance to take a more general look around."

"Just so."

"And you found?"

"Just clothes. You use a very good tailor, Dr. Hemlock. How do you manage that on a professor's salary?"

"I take bag lunches."

"I see. Ah, but of course, you are doing well on your books-popular art criticism for the masses. How dreary that must be for you."

The three men passed into the steam room, Leonard looking grotesquely comic with only a towel to hide his powerful but inelegant primate body. Not once, not even while undressing, had his hooded eyes left Jonathan, and when they sat on the scrubbed pine benches of the steam room, he positioned himself in the corner, protectively between Jonathan and Strange.

The jets had been open for some time, and now the room was filled with swirling steam that eddied and echoed their movements; the temperature was in the mid-nineties. But Jonathan found no relaxation in the heat and steam. During the introductory badinage, he had recovered from his surprise at discovering that Strange and the Renaissance man were one, and now he had begun to model a cover story for himself. It covered the ground thinly, but he had no time to test it for fissures.

Strange closed his eyes and rested back, soaking up the steam, his confidence in Leonard's protection absolute. "You realize, of course, that this Dantesque room may be your last living memory."

Jonathan did in fact realize this.

Strange continued, his voice a lazy drone. "You sought to impress me just now by dropping information concerning my past. What more do you know?"

"Not much. I've been trying to track you down, and in the course of it I discovered that you were in the whorehouse business-if I may simplify."

Strange waved an indifferent hand.

"I also discovered you are in the country illegally, and that you have been in one aspect or another of the flesh trade as far back as my sources go."

"What are these sources?"

"That's my affair."

"I think I can guess at them. You were in CII. You were an assassin-or, to be polite, a counterassassin. It is my opinion that you found out what you wanted to know about me from old contacts in that service."

"I'm impressed you know that much about me."

"I'm an impressive man, Dr. Hemlock. So tell me. Why were you seeking me out?"

"The Marini Horse."

"What is that to you? I know something of your financial condition. Surely you don't expect to be able to buy the Horse."

"I don't even particularly care for Marini, nor for any of the moderns for that matter."

"Then what is your interest?"

"I need money. And I thought I might turn a buck out of it."

"How?"

"You have to admit there were some bizarre aspects to our meeting at Tomlinson's. You intend to sell the Horse, and evidently for more money than one would have considered possible. I naturally began to think about that and wonder what I might do to turn it to my fiscal advantage."

"Go on." Strange did not open his eyes.

"Well, my public evaluation of the statue could increase its value by a great deal. Just at this barren moment in art criticism, things tend to be worth whatever I say they're worth."

"Yes, I'm aware of your singular position. A one-eyed man among the blind, if you ask me."

"I thought you might be willing to share some of the excess profit with me."

"Not an unreasonable thought." Strange rose and crossed through the thickening steam to a large earthenware jar of cold water. He poured several dipperfuls over his head and rubbed his chest vigorously. "Good for toning the skin. Care for some?"

"No, thanks. I don't want to be refreshed. I want to relax and get some sleep."

"Later perhaps. If all goes well, we shall take supper together, after which you may wish to sample our amenities here, the most modest of which is a comfortable bed. What would you say if I told you that, while you were seeking to contact me about the Marini Horse, I was bending every effort to contact you?"

"Frankly, I would doubt you. Coincidences make me uncomfortable."

"Hm-m. They make me uncomfortable too, Dr. Hemlock. It seems we have that in common. And yet there are coincidences here. And discomfort. Could it be that it is not particularly coincidental for two such men as we to see profit in the same thing?"

"That could be." This was the narrow bit. The only story Jonathan had been able to put together quickly was Strange's own. He knew he'd be driving up the same street Strange was driving down, and he knew the coincidence of it would loom large, but at least he had been able to mention it first. He rose to get some cold water after all, and with his first movement, Leonard sprang to his feet with surprising alacrity for a man of his bulk and interposed his body between Jonathan and Strange. "Oh, relax, dummy!"

"Sit down, Leonard. I think Dr. Hemlock is aware of the impossibility of his getting out of here without my permission. And I think he realizes how quickly and vigorously an attempt to do me harm would be punished. You must forgive Leonard his passion for duty, Dr. Hemlock. He has been at my side for-oh, fifteen years now, it must be. I'm really very fond of him. His canine devotion and extraordinary strength make him useful. And he has other gifts. For instance, he has an enormous tolerance for pain. Not his own, of course. When it is necessary to discipline one of the young people working for me here, I simply award him or her to Leonard for a night of pleasure. For a few days afterward, the poor thing is of little use in my business, and occasionally he requires medical attention for hemorrhage or some such, but it is amazing how sincerely he regrets his misdeeds and how rigidly he subsequently conforms to our rules of performance." Strange looked at Jonathan, his pale eyes without expression. "I tell you this, of course, by way of threat. But it is perfectly true, I assure you."

"I don't doubt it for a moment. Does he also do your killing for you?"

Strange returned to the pine bench, sat down, and closed his eyes. "When that is necessary. And only when he's been especially good and deserving of reward. When did you leave CII? And why?"

"Four years ago," Jonathan said, as immediately as possible. So that was to be Strange's interrogation style, was it? The rapid question following non sequitur upon less direct chat. Jonathan would have to field the balls quickly and offhandedly. It was a most one-down way to play the game.

"And why?"

"I'd had enough. I had grown up. At least, I'd gotten older." That would be the best way to stay even. Tell trivial truths.

"Four years ago, you say. Good. Good. That tallies with the information I have concerning you. When first it occurred to me that you might be of use in my little project for selling the Marini Horse, I took the trouble to look into your affairs. I have friends... debtors, really... at Interpol/Vienna, and they did a bit of research on you. I cannot tell you how my confidence increased when I discovered that you had been a thief, or at least a receiver, of stolen paintings. But my friends in Vienna said that you had not purchased a painting for four years. That would seem to coincide with the time you left the lucrative company of CII. Why did you work for them?"

"Money."

"No slight tug of patriotism?"

"My sin was greed, not stupidity."

"Good. Good. I approve of that."

Jonathan noticed that Strange never raised an eyebrow, or smiled, or frowned. He had trained his face to remain an expressionless mask. Doubtless to prevent the development of wrinkles.

"I think that is enough steam, don't you?" Strange said, rising and leading the way back to the exercise room where the man with two mouths was waiting with a glass of cold goat's milk, which Strange drank down before he and Jonathan lay out on exercise tables to be rubbed down. The masseur scrubbed Jonathan with a rough warm towel before beginning to knead his shoulders and back, while Leonard performed the same service for Strange.