"Hello?"

She turned her head and peered in his general direction, her eyes watery and uncertain. "Now, don't tell me, young man. I never forget a face."

"Is MacTaint around?"

"He's gone beyond. To relieve his bladder, as we used to say in the theatre. Come in. Entrez. I was just havin' my mid-afternoon pick-me-up. Care to join me?" She gestured toward the bar with her half-full glass of gin, slopping the contents in a discrete arc.

"No, thank you, Lilla. I just wanted to see-"

"You know my name! So we havemet before. I told you I never forget a face. It was in the theatre, of course. Now let me see..."

Just then MacTaint came shuffling in, wearing his long overcoat and mumbling to himself. "Ah, Jonathan! Good to see you!"

"The gentleman and I was just havin' a chat about the old days in the business, if you don't mind."

"What business was that?"

"The theatre, as you know perfectly well."

"Oh yes, I remember now. You used to sell chocolates in the aisle and your ass in the alley out back. The chocolates went better, as I recall."

"Here! That will be enough of that, you stinking old fart." She turned her wobbling head to Jonathan. "Do excuse the diction."

"Right, now get along with you. We have business to talk over."

"Don't exercise that tone of voice in my presence, you dinky-cocked son of a bitch!"

"Slam a bung in it, you ha'penny flop, and get your dripping hole upstairs!"

"Really!" Lilla drew herself up, fixed MacTaint's general area with a stare of quivering disdain, and swept to her exit.

MacTaint scratched at his scruffy beard, his lower teeth bared in painful pleasure. "Sorry about her, lad. Of late she's been nervy as a cat shitting razor blades. But she's a good old bitch, even if she does take a sip now and then."

"I could use a drink, if there's any left."

"Done." Eddies of ancient sweat were almost overcoming as MacTaint brushed past on his way to the bar, moving with his characteristic shambling half trot. He returned with two glasses of Scotch and handed one to Jonathan, then he sprawled heavily in a fainting couch of rosewood, one ragged boot up on the damask upholstery, his chin buried in the collar of his amorphic overcoat. "Well, here's to sin." He swilled it off with a great smacking of lips. "Now! I suppose you're needing your two hundred quid."

"No. You keep it. For your trouble."

"That's very good of you. But holding it's been no trouble."

"I'm talking about future trouble."

"I was afraid you might be." The old man's eyes glittered beneath his antennal eyebrows. "What future trouble?"

"I'm still not in the clear, Mac."

"Sorry to hear that."

"I need help."

MacTaint pursued an itch from his cheek to his shoulder, then down his back inside the greatcoat, but it seemed just out of reach to his fingertips. "What kind of help?" he asked after scratching his back against the chair.

Jonathan sipped his whiskey. "The theft of the Chardin. Is it still on?"

Instantly Mac's voice was flat and tentative, and the leprechaun facade fell away. "It is, yes."

"And it's still scheduled for Tuesday night?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"I want to go with you." Jonathan placed his glass carefully on the parqueted side table.

MacTaint examined a new tear in his canvas trousers with close interest. "Why?"

"Can't tell you, Mac. But it's tied up with the trouble I'm in."

"I see. Why didn't you lie and make up some convincing story?"

"I would never do that, Mac."

"Because we're such great friends?"

"No. Because you'd see through it."

MacTaint enjoyed a good laugh, then a short choke, then a long racking cough that ended with his spitting on the carpet. "You're a proper villain, Jonathan Hemlock. That's why I like you. You con a man by admitting you're conning a man. That's very fine." He wiped his eyes with his fist and changed tone. "Tell me this. Will taking you along screw up my work?"

"I don't see why. You only need a couple of minutes, using your technique."

"Ah, then you know what my technique is?"

"I've had a couple of days to figure it out. Only one possibility. You get a good fake. You mutilate it, break in, and swap it for the original. Everyone assumes there's been an act of vandalism-not a theft. The fake is repaired with care, and if anyone ever notices a blemish, it's put down to the repair job."

"Precisely, my son! And, though I say it who shouldn't, there's a touch of genius in it. I nicked my share of paintings in the past ten years this way."

"And that accounts for the rash of vandalism in British museums."

"Not quite. In one case a real vandal broke in and damaged a painting, the heartless son of a bitch!"

Jonathan waited a moment before asking, "Well? Can I go with you?"

MacTaint clawed meditatively at the scruff on his scalp. "I suppose so. But mind you, if there's trouble, it's devil take the hindmost. I love you like a son, Jon. But I wouldn't do porridge even for a son."

"Great. What time do I meet you on Tuesday night?"

"About ten, I suppose. That will give us time for a few short ones before we go."

"You're a good man, MacTaint."

"True enough. True enough."

Because it was handier, Jonathan went to his Mayfair flat to make a pattern of calls to selected art reviews and critics who create British taste. His approach differed slightly, but only slightly, as he covered the range from The Guardianto Time and Tide.In each case he introduced himself, and there was the inevitable catch in the conversation as the person on the other end of the line realized to whom he was speaking. Jonathan began by assuming the critic had heard that a Marini Horse was in the country and was going up for auction within a week. He smiled as the critic inevitably responded that he had indeed heard something of this. What he was seeking, Jonathan said, was reliable verification of the rumor that the Horse would bring between three and five million in the bidding. After a pause, the critic said he wouldn't be surprised-not a bit surprised. Their initial flush of pleasure at being consulted by Jonathan Hemlock inevitably gave way to the public school whine of superior knowledge. Jonathan knew the type and expected their self-esteem to expand to fill any space he left for it.

He made a point of mentioning each time that the mossbacks of the National Gallery had pulled off quite a coup in securing the Marini Horse for a one-day exhibition just before it went off to the auction room, but he assumed the critic already knew all about that. The critic knew all about that, and several of them intimated that they had had some modest part in the arrangements. Each conversation ended with pleasantries and regrets for not having got together for lunch-a social hiatus Jonathan intended to fill in at the first opportunity.

As he dialed each new number, Jonathan pictured the last man hastily thumbing through reference volumes, taking rapid notes and frowning importantly.

In his mind Jonathan could see the prototypical article, some version of which would appear in a score of major and minor papers the day after tomorrow. "It has long been the opinion of this writer that the innovative work of Marini has suffered from a lack of study and recognition in England. But it is to be hoped that this gap will be closed by a forthcoming landmark event that I have been following closely: the public auction of one of Marini's characteristic bronze Horses. Unless I miss my guess, the Horse will bring something in the neighborhood of five million, and although this figure may surprise the reader (and some of my colleagues, I am sorry to say), it is no surprise at all to the few who have followed the work of this modern sculptor whose genius is only now coming into full recognition.