'Don't be witty, Douglas, please,' Fabian said. 'It ill becomes you. The particular South American I have in mind is at present in St Moritz, where all good things abound. He is a dear friend of his country's ambassador, and the diplomatic pouch is always available for his use. He hinted that he is willing to go as high as one hundred thousand dollars. And I believe that Herr Steubel could be influenced to pay a fair percentage of that as our commission.'

'What's a fair percentage in this kind of deal?' I said.

Twenty-five percent,' Fabian said promptly. Twenty-five thousand dollars for merely taking a five-hour, absolutely legal drive through the picturesque scenery of beautiful Switzerland. Now do you understand why I told you in Zurich that Gstaad could wait?'

Yes,' I said.

'Don't say it so glumly,' Fabian said. 'Oh - incidentally -the painting that we are going to see is a Tintoretto. As a professor of art you should be able to recognize it. You will remember the name, won't you?'

Tintoretto,' I said.

'Excellent.' He beamed at me. He drained his glass. This wine is delicious.' He poured for both of us. *

It was dark when we reached the villa of Herr Steubel. It was a squat, two-storey house built of stone, perched high on an unlit, narrow road overlooking the lake. No lights could be seen through the closed shutters on the windows.

'Are you sure this is the place?' I asked Fabian. It did not look like the mansion of a man who was in the process of breaking up a family collection of old masters.

'Positive,' Fabian said, as he turned off the ignition of the car. 'He gave me explicit instructions.'

We got out of the car and walked on a path through a small overgrown garden to the front door. Fabian pushed the bell. I heard nothing from within. I had the feeling that we were being watched from somewhere. Fabian pushed the bell again and the door finally creaked open. A tiny old lady in a lace cap and an apron said, 'Buona sera.'

'Buona sera, signora.' Fabian said, as we went in. The old lady led the way, limping, down a dimly lit hall. There were no pictures on the walls.

The old lady opened a heavy oak door and we went into a dining room lit by a heavy crystal chandelier over the table. A huge bald man with a heavy paunch and a beard like a New Bedford whaling captain's was standing waiting for us, dressed in a creased corduroy suit that included a pair of short knickers, under which the man's massive calves were brilliant in red wool stockings. Behind him, unframed, lit by the chandelier, hung a dark painting pinned by artist's tacks to the plain, yellowish wall. The painting was of a madonna and child, perhaps thirty inches wide and a yard long.

The man greeted us in German, with a little bow, as the old lady went out, closing the door behind her.

'Unfortunately, Herr Steubel,' Fabian said, 'Professor Grimes does not understand German.'

'In that case, we will speak English, of course,' Herr Steubel said. He spoke with an accent, but it was not heavy. 'I am happy you could come. Could I offer you gentlemen some refreshment?'

'It's good of you, Herr Steubel,' Fabian said, 'but I'm afraid we haven't the time. Professor Grimes has a call to make at seven o'clock to Italy. And after that to America.'

Herr Steubel blinked and rubbed the palms of his hands together, as though they were sweating. 'I trust the Professor can get through to Italy promptly,' he said. The telephone system in that misguided country...' He didn't finish his sentence. I had the distinct impression that he didn't want anybody to call anywhere.

'If I may,' I said, taking a step toward the painting on the wall.

'Please.' Herr Steubel stepped out of the way. 'You have the documents, of course?' I said.

He rubbed his hands together again, only harder this time. 'Of course. But not with me. They are in my ... my home in ... in Florence.'

'I see,' I said coldly.

It would be a matter of a few days,' Steubel said. 'And I understood from Herr Fabian that there is a time element ...' He turned toward Fabian. 'Didn't you tell me the gentleman in question was scheduled to leave by the end of the week?'

'I may have,' Fabian said. 'I honestly don't remember.'

'In any case,' Herr Steubel said, 'here is the painting. I am sure I do not have to tell the Professor that it speaks very eloquently for itself.'

I could hear him breathing heavily as I stepped Up to the painting and stared at it. If it was Fabian's plan to make the man nervous, he was succeeding admirably.

After about a minute of silent scrutiny, I shook my head and turned around. 'Of course I may be wrong,' I said, 'but after the most superficial inspection, I would have to say that it is not a Tintoretto. It may be the school of Tintoretto, but I doubt even that.'

'Professor Grimes!' Fabian said, his voice pained. 'Surely you can't believe - in one minute - in artificial light...'

Herr Steubel's breath was coming in short, labored gasps and he was leaning against the dining-room table for support.

'Mr Fabian,' I said crisply, 'you brought me along to give my opinion. I've given it.'

'But we owe it to Herr Steubel...' Fabian was hunting for words and pulling furiously at his mustache. 'Out of common courtesy ... I mean ... give it a few hours' thought. Come back tomorrow. In daylight. Why ... why ... this is frivolous. Frivolous. Herr Steubel says he has documents...'

'Documents,' Herr Steubel moaned. 'Berenson himself has attested to this painting. Berenson...'

I had no notion who Berenson was, but I took a chance. 'Berenson is dead, Herr Steubel,' I said.

'Ven he wass alife,' Herr Steubel said. The chance had paid off. My credentials as an art expert had been confirmed.

'Of course, you could seek other opinions,' I said. I could give a list of certain colleagues of mine.'

'I haff no need of any damned colleagues of yours. Professor.' Herr Steubel shouted. His accent had thickened considerably. He loomed over me. For a moment I thought he was going to hit me with one of his huge, club-like hands. 'I know what I know. I don't need any damned small-time, barbaric Americans to tell me about Tintoretto.'

'I'm afraid I must leave now,' I said. 'As you remarked, it is difficult to put calls through to Italy and there may be delays. Are you coming with me, Mr.Fabian?'

'Yes, I'm coming with you.' Fabian made it sound like a curse. 'I'll call you later. Herr Steubel. We'll arrange something for tomorrow, when we can speak more calmly.'

'Come alone,' was all that Herr Steubel said as we opened the dining-room door and went out into the dark hall. The little old lady in the lace cap was standing just a few feet away, as though she had been trying to listen to what had been said in the dining room. She let us out of the house without a word. Even if she couldn't have understood what had been spoken in the dining room, the tones she had overheard and the brevity of the conference must have made an impression on her.

Fabian slammed the car door behind him when he got behind the wheel of the Jaguar. I closed my door gently as I slid into my seat. Fabian didn't say anything as he started the engine and revved it savagely. He had to back into a driveway to make the turn to go down the hill toward the lake. I heard the tinkling of glass as he slammed the rear light into a low stone fence. I said nothing. He didn't say a word either until we reached the lake. Then he parked the car and turned the motor off. 'Now,' he said, keeping his voice even with an obvious effort, 'what was all that about?'

'What was what about?' I asked innocently.

'How the hell do you know whether a Tintoretto is a fake or not?'

'I don't,' I said. 'But I was getting bad vibes from that fat Herr Steubel.'

'Vibes! We risk losing twenty-five thousand dollars and you talk about vibes ! ' Fabian snorted.