Pāo De Açucar
Image by David Mark from PixabayClifton Johns stood by the large window overlooking the city and the Pāo De Açucar in the distance.
The drop was a hundred sheer feet. There would be no escape that way.
“Nice view,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Johns,” Trivolo said, joining him. “The view
had better be nice given what it costs me. Whisky? Yamazaki thirty-five year
single malt. That is your drink, Mr. Johns?”
“Thank you, Mr. Trivolo,” Johns said, accepting the glass.
He watched Trivolo take a drink before lifting the glass to his own lips. “Your
assistant said you were interested in selling your Rembrandt.”
“My assistant has shown a disturbing trend toward disloyalty
lately. I’m afraid I’ve had to terminate her with prejudice.” Trivolo indicated
the window again, and Johns turned to see the young woman, her arms tied behind
her back, go sailing past.
“You bastard! She was innocent!”
“Please, Mr. Johns. None of us are innocent.” Trivolo took
another drink. “I’ve had you looked into. I was surprised to find you were
really an art historian. That is, before you were recruited by MI6. Just to be
sporting, I’ll give you thirty seconds to determine if this painting is a
forgery.”
“Or what?”
“Or I won’t give you the antidote for the poison you just
drank. Tip of your tongue beginning to numb? It was on the glass, not in the
whiskey. Eighteen seconds.”
Mr. Johns rushed to the painting, scanning every inch of it.
The signature was perfect, the brushstrokes were impeccable. He breathed deeply
the unique scents of ancient pigments, the cadmium, the mercury, the egg-wash.
He flipped the painting and smiled.
“Forgery. The original was on a tight-weave linen. This is
close, but clearly hemp.”
“Hmm. Another termination for my forger. Goodbye Mr. Johns
You’ve been most helpful.”
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