Hidden Riches

all but smell the blood and betrayal on the stones. And it pleased him.
    “Oh, the trouble and expense it’s taken me to acquire this bauble. It shall have a place of honor,” he said, and set it gently aside.
    Like a spoiled child on Christmas morning, he wanted more.
    The engraved Gallé vase in the bowels of the Statue of Liberty thrilled him. Momentarily he forgot his guests as he cooed over it, stroking its long sides, admiring the lithe female forms decorating the Art Nouveau glass.
    His eyes had taken on a glassy sheen that had Winesap averting his in faint embarrassment.
    From within the hollowed base of the bronze eagle, Finley released a padded box. Saliva pooled in his mouth as he tore the padding aside. The box itself was a smooth rosewood, lovingly oiled and polished. But the lid was the treasure, a micro mosaic panel commissioned in Imperial Russia for Catherine the Great—perhaps by her canny lover Orlov after he’d murdered her husband and lifted Catherine onto the throne.
    More blood, Finley mused. More betrayal.
    Signed by the artist, it was a wonderfully delicate reproduction of the Imperial Palace fused onto glass.
    “Have you ever seen anything more exquisite? The pride of czars and emperors and kings. Once this sat behindglass in a museum where unwashed tourists could come and gawk. Now it’s mine. Mine alone.”
    “It’s a beauty, all right.” DiCarlo hated to interrupt, but it was nearly time to make his pitch. “You know the value of art, Mr. Finley. What’s the point in having something priceless if any jerk can walk in off the street and see it?”
    “Exactly, exactly. True art must be possessed, it must be hoarded. Museums buy for posterity. The soulless rich for investment. Both processes are abhorrent to me.” His eyes were very green now, very bright and a little mad. “To own, Mr. DiCarlo, is everything.”
    “I get your point there, and I’m happy to have played a part in bringing you your merchandise. Of course, there was some difficulty—”
    “I’m sure.” Finley waved him off before the mood was spoiled. “But we must finish here before we discuss your trials and tribulations.” He used the hammer on the dog, bursting its belly open. The hound gave birth to a gold cat. “It’s quite solid,” Finley explained as he unwound the heavy wrapping. “A beautiful piece, of course, but all the more because of its background. It’s said to have been a gift from Caesar to Cleopatra. Impossible to prove the validity of that, though it has been dated correctly. Still, the myth is enough,” he said softly, lovingly. “Quite enough.”
    His hands shook with excitement as he set it down. “And now, the painting.”
    “I, ah . . .” It seemed a good time to stand. “There was a little trouble with the painting, Mr. Finley.”
    “Trouble?” Finley’s smile remained fixed. He scanned the room, saw no sign of his final possession. “I don’t believe you mentioned any trouble, Mr. DiCarlo.”
    “I wanted to get you this merchandise without any more delay. These pieces represent a great deal of time and money on your part, and I knew you’d want them in your hands at the earliest possible moment.”
    “We are speaking now of the painting.” And now the painting was all that mattered to Finley. Cleopatra, Catherineand Mary of Scotland were all forgotten. “I don’t see it here. Perhaps it’s eyestrain. An optical illusion.”
    The sarcasm brought a dull flush to DiCarlo’s cheeks. “I wasn’t able to bring it on this trip, Mr. Finley. As I started to tell you, there was a problem.”
    “A problem?” He continued to smile pleasantly, though the acids in his stomach had begun to churn. “Of what nature?”
    Encouraged, DiCarlo resumed his seat. He explained briefly about the three break-ins, reminding Finley that the first had resulted in the recovery of the china hound. He made sure he highlighted his search for the painting, at great personal risk.
    “So I’m sure you’ll agree, sir,” he concluded, as though wrapping up a sales meeting, “that it would be dangerous for all of us for me to return to Philadelphia at this time. I do have a contact who I can put on the matter, at my own expense, of course. Since you’ve recovered six of the seven pieces, I’m sure you’ll be patient. I see no reason why the painting can’t be in your hands within, say, six weeks.”
    “Six weeks.” Finley nodded, tapped his forefinger to his lip. “You say