Free A Deadly Shade of Gold by John D. MacDonald Page A

agreed price of a hundred and thirty-seven thousand, five hundred dollars. We shook hands.
    "Even if you were his agent, I couldn't give you a penny more."
    "You'll get a quarter of a million when you sell them."
    "We might. Over a period of years. There isn't an active market in this sort of thing, Sam. You saw the jeweled toad. We've had that for over four months. We have considerable overhead you know. Rent, salaries, money tied up in inventory."
    "You'll have me crying any moment."
    "Don't cry. You drove a very good bargain. How would you like the money?"
    "Used money. Fifties and smaller."
    "It will take several days to accumulate it, Sam."
    "I haven't exactly got the little golden people stashed in a coin locker."
    "Of course not. From my estimate of you, they are probably in a very safe place. How long will it take you to bring them here?"

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    "You just get the cash and hang onto it and I'll phone you when I get back to town. How will we make the transfer?"
    "Do you trust me, Sam?" I could not get used to being called that. I kept seeing those pink teeth.
    I returned her smile. "I don't trust anybody. It's sort of a religion."
    "We're members of the same sect, dear. And that gives us a problem, doesn't it? Any suggestions?"
    "A very public place. How about a bank? Borrow a private room. They have them. Then nobody can get rough or tricky."
    "You are a very clever man, Mr. Taggart. Now we can forget it all until I hear from you again.
    And could you order us a brandy? The deal is made. From now on it's social."
    "Social," I agreed. Her eyes were softer, and her smile a little wider.
    "You are a very competent ruffian, Sam. You give me problems. Did you know that?"
    For the first time I could see that the drinks were working on her. "Not intentionally."
    She frowned judiciously. "You know, I deal all the time with shifty shifty people. How many ways can a person be shifty? Not so many ways, Sam. It's like dancing. Ballroom dancing. It takes a few bars of music to get in step, and then you can follow every lead. But I stumble a little with you. You have contradictions, Sam. You look a little bit rough and sort of mild and sleepy and, excuse me, not too terribly sharp. I think I have you cased and then something else shows, and you go out of focus. Something quick and bitter and secretly laughing. Then I feel trivial and transparent. But I'm not!" She glowered at me. "Damn it, I'm not!"
    "I know you're not, Betty."
    I had seen the same thing happen with businessmen. The deal in process would sustain them, keep them alert and organized and watchful, and when it was settled, they would turn into softer more vulnerable mechanisms. The Betty Borlika of appraisals and bids, of dickering and expertise, had faded away. This was the woman of the bitten nails and the small petulant mouth, and blue Irish eyes slightly mazed, the young Irish widow, with a hidden uncertainty about the value of her goals and her attainments, driving loneliness underground with the pressures of her work.
    I paid the check and helped her into her cape. The place was nearly empty. On the way out we stopped at the bar, at her suggestion, for another brandy.
    "I came down here and got a small job," she said. "Betty O'Donnell, curator of practically nothing. Scut work at the Museum of Contemporary Crafts. I lived in the Village and dressed the part. Hairy stockings and ballet slippers. And I answered the Borlika ad. I worked there almost a year and then married Tony." She turned and stared up at me. "You see, my best professional asset is a hell of a fantastic memory Sam. I can read an illustrated catalogue of a sale, and if five years later I come across something that appeared in that catalogue, I can recognize it, identify it, classify it, and remember what it brought at auction." She shook her Page 43

    head as though puzzled. "And I don't even have to work."
    "What do you mean?"
    "Maybe you read about it. It was such a weird accident it was in