1 - Artscape: Ike Schwartz Mystery 1 by Frederick Ramsay Page B

Red go to the Dogwood Motel, out on the highway, and wait. Angelo and I will go to the Old Dominion, south of here. We will move around, one motel to the other until we are paid. Then, we all go our separate ways.
    “I don’t like hanging around the area,” Red said. “Why can’t we all get out, go down to Roanoke and get lost in the crowd? Small-town motels are as private as army showers.”
    “We stay around,” Donati explained, “because we have the goods and they have to be kept hidden. To do that, they have to be moved, from one truck stop to another. That’s your job. I need to keep an eye on you, so I stay. Angelo won’t leave me, so he stays. That leaves Grafton here, who’s new to the business.” Donati’s green eyes swept across Harry’s face. “I think he might need some support as he begins his new career, don’t you agree?”
    “Okay,” Red complained, “but I still don’t like the motels.”
    “These places are as safe as you’ll find,” Donati said. “There are five of them we will use—one near Lexington, one just south of Natural Bridge, this one, the Lee Jackson, and one just south of here. We have two rooms available to us for as long as we need them and whenever we need them.”
    “You booked rooms in five motels for what, a week, two weeks? Donati, you’re crazy. The cops will be checking motels within hours. They’ll pick that up in no time. Even the bozos they have down here will figure that out,” Red fumed.
    Donati remained calm; his voice never rose or varied. “We are not booked anywhere, Red. I said we have some rooms. They will be very private because no one will know we’re here—or care. All of the motels are owned by, ah, a former business associate. He was having some domestic problems that I was able to alleviate. He bought up a string of motels in the area with the insurance money. He has visions of becoming a redneck Conrad Hilton. Right now, he owns about a dozen. This is one of them. They’re all fixed up with what passes for comfort and convenience, for a cracker. As far as anyone knows, we are not here. There will be no names on the register. The help will not be in and out. That means no room service, no fresh towels, no one to make your bed. Feel better?”
    “Yeah, I guess, but how long? When is this business over?”
    “Monday night, our employers get a yes or no on the TV. We turn over the pictures to them, and they pay us the money. That part will be Tuesday or Wednesday. The drop is arranged so all Dillon has to do is get his fifty million together, say yes and then pay.”
    “How do we know we’ll get paid?” Red asked.
    “Because we have the paintings and I have their names. If they don’t pay, I approach them as I would any client who’d welch on a deal. You understand?”
    Red shuddered and grinned, “What happens if Dillon won’t pay?”
    “He’ll pay,” said Donati. “We don’t just have five hundred million dollars’ worth of paintings—we have part of the cultural heritage of the Western world. He may not want to, but he will pay. He won’t stand by and let all that culture go up in smoke.”
    “Smoke?” asked Harry. “What do you mean, smoke?”
    “I mean, Grafton, that Dillon will be told to pay or the paintings will be burned—incinerated. He can get them back for fifty million dollars. He will have to pay. There is no way he, or anyone else, for that matter, could take the heat from the press, if he let them go. You see?”
    “But.…” Harry was going to ask a question, and then decided not to. He had enough of his money up front and did not care about problems in that area. Once the job was done, he was out of it.
    “But,” Donati said, picking up on Harry’s unspoken thought, “how do we know he’ll believe it? Because he will be sent one picture already burned. That’s it. Our employer will take the risks after the robbery. They will contact Dillon and make the exchange. If there is a screw-up, they