Thorn

Chapter Five

Travel by automobile was not something that Mr. Thorn enjoyed. In fact—except for flying machines of all types, which he liked immensely—complex machinery of any kind had always impressed him as perverse and unreliable. He detested, for example, firearms. But he could get along in an uneasy coexistence with mechanism when he had to; and recently he had been brought to the reluctant conclusion that the advantages of being able to drive oneself about in one's own automobile outweighed the attendant irritations. Thus it was that two evenings after Mary Rogers had splashed her Hollywood blood on Ellison Seabright, and one evening after her visit to Thorn's hotel, Thorn was alone in a rented vehicle, on his way to see the Magdalen again. Or so he hoped.

Persistence on the telephone had finally paid off, and he had wangled for himself an invitation to the Seabright mansion. Persistence, and a ploy of passing along for Mr. Seabright's ears some hints of information that Thorn guessed the most recent purchaser of the supposed Verrocchio would be unable to resist. The guess was evidently right.

The house lay in what was probably the wealthiest suburb of the metropolis. The high wall enclosing its several hectares of grounds was constructed in large part of real adobe; looking at this wall, Mr. Thorn thought that some segments of it, near the house, were possibly old enough to have seen forays by hostile Indians. He knew little of the history of this part of the world, but meant someday to study it, an effort he suspected would not be easy. History, unlike machinery, he always found interesting; but he had seen too much of history to have any faith in the official account of anything.

As soon as the drive leading to the house parted company with the curving public road, it passed under an iron gate, now closed, in the old wall. Just outside the gate, Thorn stopped his Blazer—having seen what a high proportion of the natives elected to use four-wheel-drive vehicles, he suspected they had some good reason and had followed their example. A gatekeeper, a Spanish-looking man, appeared now inside the ironwork, which opened itself on electric tracks as soon as Thorn rolled down his window and announced his name.

Inside the gates the graveled drive curved to and fro through spacious lawns now enjoying their evening sprinkling from an automatic system. Citrus blossoms blessed the air. From behind a mass of greenery the house came into view—for its time and place, quite an impressive villa, though it was not like some that Mr. Thorn had visited. Like its surrounding wall it was eclectic, with some good old sections that looked especially venerable. Additions over a number of decades, some quite recent, had made it very large.

As Mr. Thorn parked his Blazer and approached the sizable front portico, there sounded from somewhere on the other side of the building the thrum of a diving board, followed by the trim splash of a lithe body entering a pool. It was, somehow, a definitely female splash; and Thorn, with no more than that to go on, immediately visualized the dark and slender woman who had been with Seabright two evenings ago. Stephanie Seabright, bereft of her only child just two months past. Stephanie who did not seem to mourn, but yearned. And swam, too, evidently; though Thorn could not really be sure from a mere splash that it was she.

At the front door Thorn was met by a butler, who resembled physically the bodyguard who had attended Seabright at the auction room. This man was a little slimmer and younger, though, and therefore presumably a little faster on his feet.

"Come in, sir, you're expected. Right this way, please."

"Thank you." To Mr. Thorn, the simple crossing of any house's threshold for the first time was always something of an event; and in this house he had a special interest. Once inside, enveloped by air conditioning, he was led across a wide entry floored with Mexican tile into a sort of manorial hall that made the house seem even larger than it had looked from outside. The ceiling of this hall, at about third-story level, was supported by wooden beams so gigantic that the whole effect reminded Thorn of nothing so much as the passenger concourse of the Albuquerque airport, where not long ago he had spent part of a long bright afternoon between planes, besieged by sunlight, squinting through sunglasses and changing his place in search of deeper shadow. He had in his time been inside private homes that had rooms bigger than this hall. But not many such homes, and not much bigger.

Pushing open a massive door of carven wood, his guide stood deferentially aside. Halfway down the length of the booklined study thus revealed, Rodrigo Borgia rose up from behind a desk, all red smears cleaned away, and dressed as for a leisurely safari.

"Mr. Thorn, glad to see you again," Ellison Seabright boomed. "That's all, Brandreth," he added in an aside to the butler, and then came forward as to some old friend, extending one great arm for a handshake. "Too bad we didn't have more of a chance to talk the other night." In fact they had never talked at all. "That damned woman . . . you'd like a look at the collection, right? Of course you would. So let's go downstairs and do our talking there." Seabright had a light, homey, completely American voice. Mr. Thorn could easily imagine him reading the ten o'clock news, getting high ratings on the job.

Thorn murmured something in the way of a response. The easy voice of his host chatted on, while a massive hand on Mr. Thorn's bony shoulder guided him out of the study again and back across the baronial hall. At the far end of the hall a small elevator opened its bronze door and without a groan accepted the combined weight of the two men.

Of the several levels indicated on the elevator's control panel, two appeared to be below ground, and Seabright pressed the button for the lowest. During the brief descent he chatted with Thorn about the Arizona climate, and the importance of always maintaining the proper atmospheric conditions in rooms housing a collection. As he talked Mr. Seabright kept eyeing his guest steadily. It was a gaze not quite offensive, but still it would have been found intimidating by almost any visitor. The elevator eased itself to a stop meanwhile, surrounded by deep silence. Scream down here, thought Mr. Thorn, amusing himself privately, and no one will hear you.

"Ah, Stephanie!" Seabright exclaimed, taken by surprise as the door opened. The lift had delivered them to a perfectly cooled lounge or game room, of a size and elaborateness appropriate to the house. At one end of the room was a bar, and on one of the bar's six chrome stools perched the dark lady of the auction room, the lately bereaved mother. In a few more years she would have to give up brief bikinis such as she was wearing now—but not for a few more years, and she was making the most of the time left. Over the shreds of cloth she wore as symbolic cover-up a translucent short cape, some hybrid perhaps of cloth and plastic. Behind the bar, Thorn noticed at once, there was no mirror, but a mural of youths and maidens, pseudo-Greek and semi-porn, and Stephanie had to turn her head to see the men. Her dark hair as she looked round at Thorn was almost wet enough to drip, and her face bore the practiced smile that he remembered from the auction room. At Stephanie's fingertips on the bar, a tall glass held a little dark liquid and some ice.

"Mr. Thorn, my wife. Steff, you probably remember seeing Mr. Thorn, of Chicago, at the auction room night before last? That damned woman."

Thorn took the lady's tanned hand when it was offered as if he meant to bow and kiss it, but did not go that far. Stephanie's eyes rested perturbedly on his. On the skin her hand was cool, but there was a faint, heated trembling underneath. "My heartfelt sympathy, madam, on your dear daughter's passing."

"Thank you. Everyone who knew Helen says what a remarkable girl she was." It sounded like a rehearsed line. Probably it had been used very often in the past weeks and months. Stephanie's eyes would not hold Thorn's directly for very long. Common enough. But he knew she was still wishing that she was somewhere else. Somewhere, perhaps, that did not exist outside of her own imagination.

"Anything to drink, Thorn? Then let's go take a look at a few things. Right through here."

Just as he was leaving the lounge, Thorn was granted a last unexpected glimpse of the swim-damp lady, in a mirror that had been almost concealed, for some reason, in a niche. She was still on her stool, eyes gazing back with vague puzzlement at the same area of reflective glass. Perhaps she noticed that the mirror bore no image of the lean man who had just pressed her fingers in a way that could be taken to mean something if she wanted to think about it.

More likely, Thorn considered, the oddity of what was lacking in the glass escaped her. Experience had long ago proved to him that people usually accepted such accidental non-perceptions without thought, or sometimes rejected them completely as being caused by momentary aberrations of their own senses. Of course there was a chance that the mirror had been placed there deliberately, and Seabright might have looked into it to check out his guest. Thorn himself, of course, could tell a vampire without any such subterfuges; but even the wisest breathing folk might have difficulties sometimes in doing so.

Fortunately for him.

Meanwhile the two men had walked through an odd little curving tunnel, with white curving walls, and had entered what looked like a miniature museum. All white walls and new brown carpet. As far as Thorn could tell, Seabright's mind was still firmly on things other than vampirism.

"Some of the things in this room are mine," the big man intoned, sounding quite satisfied. "Were mine, I mean, even before last night's auction. Never seem to have room in my own house in Santa Fe for all my stuff. What do you think of this?"

It was a graceful silver ship, intricately modeled, standing alone on a low cube of furniture. Thorn chose not to see his host's generous gesture inviting him to pick it up. If he touched it the nonreflectable quality of his fingers would be very plain in the curve of argent hull. Instead he bent his head and walked around the object on its low stand, looking at it carefully.

"German . . . almost certainly sixteenth century. It is some time since I have seen a nef of this quality in private hands." Well, the piece was not really all that impressive; but it did not seem likely that a little judicious flattery would do any harm.

It seemed that he had passed the examination, or its first question anyway. Seabright, a little more relaxed now, chatted some more. Still probing, doing what seemed his best to probe cleverly. Finding out, as he must have thought, a fair number of things about Thorn without giving away much about himself. Thorn inclined more and more to the opinion that the mirror in the game room-lounge had been completely accidental. He doubted more and more Mary Rogers's estimation of this man as a Machiavellian murderer. Seabright simply did not seem bright enough to carry off any such scheme successfully.

The portion of the Seabright collection here visible contained a couple of really respectable things, not to mention the one in which Thorn was really interested and which they had not come to yet. Also it contained some that verged—no, more than verged—upon the pornographic. Those two young ladies under the oddly rumpled coverlet had their eyes closed but were enjoying more than sleep; the sculptured monk standing close behind the choirboy was, on second glance, not really intent on music. These examples and others more explicit appeared to be for the most part underground Victorian imitations of earlier masters. Maybe the porn things were all Ellison Seabright's to start with, for he discussed them roundly and seemed to take an extra pride in their display. They were not really to Mr. Thorn's taste, but he could be polite.

The walls of these underground rooms were thick, Mr. Thorn knew, inside their earthen envelope. Even with only interior surfaces visible he could sense the thickness all round him, virtually impenetrable, like the walls of a bomb shelter or a bank vault. Faultless air conditioning, that even Thorn could barely hear, maintained a good museum's silence, coolness, balanced humidity.

Yet there were soundless echoes of murder and violence in the air down here. Death not all that old. The much-publicized Seabright murder-kidnapping, of course. But Thorn had got the impression from the news accounts that all those scenes had been in the upper levels of the house.

Trading opinions, some of which may have made sense, about the Renaissance, the two men presently moved farther into the gallery. Mr. Thorn came to a halt. He saw with a pang the well-lighted, centrally located space on a wall where the Magdalen should obviously be. She was not here, though she must have been. The empty place of honor was marked by the very faint outline of her frame.

He hoped, but did not immediately ask for, a quick explanation of where she was right now. Feeling more disappointment than was entirely reasonable, he continued his expected admiring commentary on the lesser works surrounding him. A few of these he could recognize as having been at the auction room. They had been brought back here afterwards, but she had not.

At last he stopped talking, to stand gazing pointedly at that central gap.

His huge host gestured, with self conscious drama. "That's where the Verrocchio was, of course. Naturally I'm curious as to just what you meant when you mentioned the question of its origins to my secretary on the phone. I hope you're not going to try to cast any doubts on its authenticity? I'd hate to think that my confidence in that painting as an investment has been misplaced."

Thorn smiled. "Oh, by no means. It is extremely valuable."

"I'm glad you agree. I will take your opinions on art fairly seriously, you know, now that we've had this little talk. Though frankly some of the 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 are you 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 to have some supposed revelation concerning the painting to offer me after all."

Thorn turned back to his host and asked him bluntly: "Is it being brought here today? I look forward to seeing it again."

"Here?" Seabright tried to sound surprised. "Why no, it isn't being brought back here at all. I'm taking it to Santa Fe, to my own house." He consulted his wrist watch. "In fact it's en route right now, on my own plane. Most of this other stuff is going to follow in due course. I'm having another room built on. But I wanted the Verrocchio there right away."

Thorn stood up straight, no longer leaning on the wall. "Ah," he said slowly. "Then I must hope to be able to see it there someday, in Santa Fe." He had the feeling of just having been checkmated. But not by this great fool, surely, nor this preoccupied woman. He felt a certain bewilderment. His real opponent, it seemed, had not yet even come in sight.

"Why not?" said Seabright, jovial and insincere. "If you're ever there, give me a call. It's been a real pleasure to converse with someone who knows what he's talking about. Now what was this idea you had about the painting's origin?"

Mr. Thorn had nothing to say on that subject now. Anyway he would not have had much chance to talk. He could hear the sound of the elevator door opening, back in the lounge, followed by the agitated approach of one person, a young man, and worried, to judge by the sound of his busy feet.

A figure to match the calculated image appeared, almost dancing through the white curve of the tunnel, garbed in white shirt and necktie, topped with a neat haircut. His face, that Thorn had never seen before, bore an expression eloquent of disaster. Thorn was conscious of calamity, like a compact cloud of darkness, hanging somewhere just above.

"Mr. Seabright, sir? Santa Fe just called."

Seabright rounded on the perturbed aide, turning his broad back on Thorn. "Well, what? Spit it out."

For a moment the young man sputtered, as if trying to take the order literally. Then he managed speech. "The plane is almost three hours overdue now, sir. And they can't contact Mr. Gliddon on radio."