"I would be glad to get rid of it. I never want to see it again. A fake among my beautiful treasures. I'd like to give it away," he added bitterly.
"That will not be necessary. My client would probably be willing to pay you, say, fifty thousand dollars for it. Shall I make a telephone call?"
"That would be most kind of you, Seсor Rendell."
At a hastily held meeting the stunned board of directors decided that the exposure of one of the Prado's prize paintings as a forgery had to be avoided at any cost. It was agreed that the prudent course of action would be to get rid of the painting as quietly and as quickly as possible. The dark-suited men filed out of the room silently. No one spoke a word to Machada, who stood there, sweltering in his misery.
That afternoon a deal was struck. Henri Rendell went to the Bank of Spain and returned with a certified check for $50,000, and the Eugenio Lucas y Padilla was handed over to him, wrapped in an inconspicuous piece of burlap.
"The board of directors would be very upset if this incident were to become public," Machada said delicately, "but I assured them that your client is a man of discretion."
"You can count on it," Rendell promised.
When Henri Rendell left the museum, he took a taxi to a residential area in the northern end of Madrid, carried the canvas up some stairs to a third-floor apartment, and knocked on the door. It was opened by Tracy. In back of her stood Cesar Porretta. Tracy looked at Rendell questioningly, and he grinned:
"They couldn't wait to get this off their handsl" Henri Rendell gloated.
Tracy hugged him. "Come in."
Porretta took the painting and placed it on a table.
"Now," the hunchback said, "you are going to see a miracle - a Goya brought back to life."
He reached for a bottle of mentholated spirits and opened it. The pungent odor instantly filled the room. As Tracy and Rendell looked on, Porretta poured some of the spirits onto a piece of cotton and very gently touched the cotton to Lucas's signature, one letter at a time. Gradually the signature of Lucas began to fade. Under it was the signature of Goya.
Rendell stared at it in awe. "Brilliant!"
"It was Miss Whitney's idea," the hunchback admitted. "She asked whether it would be possible to cover up the original artist's signature with a fake signature and then cover that with the original name."
"He figured out how it could be done," Tracy smiled.
Porretta said modestly, "It was ridiculously simple. Took fewer than two minutes. The trick was in the paints I used. First, I covered Goya's signature with a layer of super-refined white French polish, to protect it. Then, over that I painted Lucas's name with a quick-drying acrylic-based paint. On top of that I painted in Goya's name with an oil-based paint with a light picture varnish. When the top signature was removed, Lucas's name appeared. If they had gone further, they would have discovered that Goya's original signature was hidden underneath. But of course, they didn't."
Tracy handed each man a fat envelope and said, "I want to thank you both."
"Anytime you need an art expert," Henri Rendell winked.
Porretta asked, "How do you plan to carry the painting out of the country?"
"I'm having a messenger collect it here. Wait for him." She shook the hands of both men and walked out.
On her way back to the Ritz, Tracy was filled with a sense of exhilaration. Everything is a matter of psychology, she thought. From the beginning she had seen that it would be impossible to steal the painting from the Prado, so she had had to trick them, to put them in a frame of mind where they wanted to get rid of it. Tracy visualized Jeff Stevens's face when he learned how he had been outwitted, and she laughed aloud.
She waited in her hotel suite for the messenger, and when he arrived, Tracy telephoned Cesar Porretta.
"The messenger is here now," Tracy said. "I'm sending him over to pick up the painting. See that he - "
"What? What are you talking about?" Porretta screamed. "Your messenger picked up the painting half an hour ago."
Chapter 31
Paris
WEDNESDAY, JULY 9 - NOON
In a private office off the Rue Matignon, Gunther Hartog said, "I understand how you feel about what happened in Madrid, Tracy, but Jeff Stevens got there first."
"No," Tracy corrected him bitterly. "I got there first. He got there last."
"But Jeff delivered it. The Puerto is already on its way to my client."
After all her planning and scheming, Jeff Stevens had outwitted her. He had sat back and let her do the work and take all the risks, and at the last moment he had calmly walked off with the prize. How he must have been laughing at her all the time! You're a very special lady, Tracy. She could not bear the waves of humiliation that washed over her when she thought of the night of the flamenco dancing. My God, what a fool I almost made of myself.
"I never thought I could kill anyone," Tracy told Gunther, "but I could happily slaughter Jeff Stevens."
Gunther said mildly, "Oh, dear. Not in this room, I hope. He's on his way here."
"He's what?" Tracy jumped to her feet.
"I told you I have a proposition for you. It will require a partner. In my opinion, he is the only one who - "
"I'd rather starve first!" Tracy snapped. "Jeff Stevens is the most contemptible - "
"Ah, did I hear my name mentioned?" He stood in the doorway, beaming. "Tracy, darling, you look even more stunning than usual. Gunther, my friend, how are you?"