Sure enough, with the dessert, the inevitable name was introduced, by Tony, with all the subtlety of a bulldozer.

“Speaking of sculpture”—which nobody was—“how much would you give for a Riemenschneider?”

George had the face of an actor or a con man, beautifully schooled; but I saw him blink before he readjusted his mask. Then I knew. The guy was a fake. He’d never heard of Riemenschneider, and I felt sure his passion for art was not genuine. For him it was a device to outdo lesser men. As a kid he had probably collected rocks or bottles with the same single-minded fury, chiseling and outbidding other kids in order to get the biggest collection in town.

I would have tripped him up, then and there—and I had thought of a couple of ways in which to do it—but Jake outmaneuvered me.

“Riemenschneider,” he rumbled, in his bass bullfrog voice. “Yes—the German woodcarver. Saint Stephen in the Cleveland Museum. God that’s a masterpiece. That’s really great. Yeah, yeah; there was a theft, couple years ago. The Madonna from Volkach. German government ransomed it.”

“Not the government; the editor of Der Stern.”

“Shut up,” Myers said, glaring at Tony. “Twenty-five thousand ransom. That’s a lot of money. Yeah, sure, I remember the case. Nothing wrong with my memory. You just stop interrupting me, Tony.”

George, for one, had no intention of interrupting. He sat tapping his fingers gently on the table, a faint, knowing smile on his face. But the smile didn’t fool me. I couldn’t expose his ignorance now; foxy Grandpa had already told him what he needed to know. Myers really did have a fabulous memory. His enthusiasm was genuine, even if it was amplified by the old acquisitive instinct.

“Tony,” I said gently, “do you think you ought—”

Jake leaned forward, elbows planted squarely on the table, and squinted at me.

“So you’re in on this.” His voice was unexpectedly genial. It made a chill run up my spine. “Well, well. That makes it even more interesting. Now don’t you interrupt me again, young woman! Let me talk. Let me think. Sure, I know Riemenschneider. I also know it would be virtually impossible to get hold of a major piece. Most of his stuff is in churches or museums. And you wouldn’t dangle a minor work in front of my nose….”

He wasn’t talking to us. He was thinking aloud. His squinty little black eyes shone like jet. Another chill explored my backbone. The old devil was smart, smart and hard as nails. With one halfhearted question Tony had set a bloodhound on the trail.

Tony, who knew him better than I did, was thinking the same thing. His mouth had dropped open, and there were two parallel lines between his eyebrows. He caught my eye, and his mouth tightened. He looked away.

“You’re not a dealer,” Myers went on. “Private collectors wouldn’t approach you. Which one are you planning to steal, and how do you propose to go about it?”