Hidden Riches

DiCarlo, unamusing—question, Sherman Porter rummaged through his dented file cabinet.
    “Guess we’d have caught it here, but we had ourselves an auction going on,” Porter continued as he carelessly destroyed the filing system. “Hell of a turnout, too. Moved a lot of inventory. Shitfire, where does that woman put things?”
    Porter opened another file drawer. “Don’t know how I’m supposed to find anything with Helen off for a week visiting her daughter in D.C. You just did catch me. We’ll be closing till New Year’s.”
    DiCarlo looked at his watch. Six-fifteen. His time was running out. As for patience, even the dregs of that had vanished. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear, Mr. Porter.The return of this merchandise is vitally important to my employer.”
    “Oh, you made that clear. A man wants what’s his, after all. Here now, this looks promising.” Porter unearthed a short stack of neatly typed sheets. “See, Helen’s listed all the merchandise we auctioned, the lot numbers, selling price. Woman’s a jewel.”
    “May I see that?”
    “Sure, sure.” After handing over the papers, Porter pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk. He took out a bottle of Four Roses and a couple of dusty jelly glasses. He offered DiCarlo a sheepish grin. “Join me in a drink? It’s after hours now, and it keeps the cold away.”
    DiCarlo eyed the bottle with distaste. “No.”
    “Well, I’ll just help myself then.”
    DiCarlo took out his own list and compared. It was all there, he noted, torn between relief and despair. All sold. The china hound, the porcelain figurine, the abstract painting, the bronze eagle and the stuffed parrot. The enormous and ugly plaster replica of the Statue of Liberty was gone, as well as a pair of mermaid bookends.
    Inside his pocket, DiCarlo had another list. On it were descriptions of what had been carefully and expensively hidden in each piece of merchandise. An engraved Gallae vase valued at 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