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"He lied to you, we the great firm of Zumpe & Schwartzmuller we could not be tempted with millions to do such a thing." I went a step farther in my deductions. Somehow I had grasped the truth: this pair deliberately hoped to swindle me out of forty thousand dollars.
"It was years ago, before he was in such dire straits," he explained quickly. A terrible suspicion entered my head. I felt myself turn cold. If the frescoes were genuine they were worth all that Schwartzmuller declared; that being the case why should Hohendahl have let them come to me for practically nothing when there were dozens of collectors who would have paid him the full price?
I intercepted the swift look of apprehension that passed from him to the stolid Schwartzmuller, whose face turned a shade redder. "Impossible!" cried Tarnowsy sharply. "By no means impossible," I said calmly, now sure of my ground. "To be perfectly frank with you, I've known from the beginning that they are fakes. Your friend, Count Hohendahl, is nobler than you give him credit for being.
"Delays are dangerous," he said. "My judgment is that those gorgeous paintings will disintegrate more during the coming winter than in all the years gone by. They are at the critical stage. If not preserved now, well, I cannot bear to think of the consequences. Ah, here is Herr Schwartzmuller."
If you or any of your friends presume to trespass on the privacy of these grounds of mine, I'll kick the whole lot of you into the Danube. Hawkes! Either show or lead Count Tarnowsy to the gates. As for you, Mr. Schwartzmuller, I shall expose " But the last word in restorations had departed. My humblest apologies, dear reader, if I have led you to suspect that I want to be looked upon as a hero.
He was undeniably dressed up for the occasion. My critical eye, however, discovered a pair of well-worn striped trousers badly stained, slightly frayed at the bottom and inclined to bag outward at the knee. Perhaps I should have said that he was dressed up from the knee. "This is the great Herr Schwartzmuller, of the Imperial galleries in Munchen," said the Count introducing us.
A shrewd suspicion impelled me to take chances on a direct accusation. I looked straight into the German's eyes and said: "Now that I come to think of it, I am sure he mentioned the name of Schwartzmuller in connection with the " "It is not true! It is not true!" roared the expert, without waiting for me to finish.
It stamped him for what he really was: there is no mistaking a German who hands you his business card. He destroys all possible chance for discussion. In three languages the card announced that he was "August Schwartzmuller, of the Imperial galleries, Munchen, Zumpe & Schwartzmuller, proprietors. Restorations a specialty." There was much more, but I did not have time to read all of it.
"I'll not waste words. You are a damned scoundrel!" He measured the distance with his eye and then sprang swiftly forward, striking blindly at my face. I knocked him down! Schwartzmuller was near the door, looking over his shoulder as he felt for the great brass knob. "Mein Gott!" he bellowed. "Stop!" I shouted. "Come back here and take this fellow away with you!"
It appears that Herr Schwartzmuller had examined the frescoes no longer than six months before in the interests of a New York gentleman to whom Count Hohendahl had tried to sell them for a lump sum. He was unable to recall the gentleman's name.
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