It would take a professional to know. Someone in the business. Not a mere collector.
Childan felt a tiny measure of relief. Then few others would detect. Perhaps no one else. Secret safe.
Let matter drop?
He considered. No. Must investigate. First of all, get back investment; get reimbursement from Ray Calvin. And—must have all other artifacts in stock examined by University lab.
But—suppose many of them are non-authentic?
Difficult matter.
Only way is this, he decided. He felt grim, even desperate. Go to Ray Calvin. Confront him. Insist that he pursue matter back to source. Maybe he is innocent, too. Maybe not. In any case, tell him no more fakes or I will not buy through him ever again.
He will have to absorb the loss, Childan decided. Not I. If he will not, then I will approach other retail dealers, tell them; ruin his reputation. Why should I be ruined alone? Pass it on to those responsible, hand hot potato back along line.
But it must be done with utmost secrecy. Keep matter strictly between ourselves.
5
The telephone call from Ray Calvin puzzled Wyndam-Matson. He could not make sense out of it, partly because of Calvin’s rapid manner of speech and partly because at the moment the call came—eleven-thirty in the evening—Wyndam-Matson was entertaining a lady visitor in his apartment at the Muromachi Hotel.
Calvin said, “Look here, my friend, we’re sending back that whole last shipment from you people. And I’d send back stuff before that, but we’ve paid for everything except the last shipment. Your billing date May eighteenth.”
Naturally, Wyndam-Matson wanted to know why.
“They’re lousy fakes,” Calvin said.
“But you knew that.” He was dumbfounded. “I mean, Ray, you’ve always been aware of the situation.” He glanced around; the girl was off somewhere, probably in the powder room.
Calvin said, “I knew they were fakes. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the lousy part. Look, I’m really not concerned whether some gun you send us really was used in the Civil War or not; all I care about is that it’s a satisfactory Colt .44, item whatever-it-is in your catalog: It has to meet standards. Look, do you know who Robert Childan is?”
“Yes.” He had a vague memory, although at the moment he could not quite pin the name down. Somebody important.
“He was in here today. To my office. I’m calling from my office, not home; we’re still going over it. Anyhow, he came in and rattled off some long account. He was mad as hell. Really agitated. Well, evidently some big customer of his, some Jap admiral, came in or had his man come in. Childan talked about a twenty-thousand-dollar order, but that’s probably an exaggeration. Anyhow, what did happen—I have no cause to doubt this part—is that the Japanese came in, wanted to buy, took one look at one of those Colt .44 items you people turn out, saw it to be a fake, put his money back in his pants pocket, and left. Now. What do you say?”
There was nothing that Wyndam-Matson could think of to say. But he thought to himself instantly. It’s Frink and McCarthy. They said they’d do something, and this is it. But—he could not figure out what they had done; he could not make sense out of Calvin’s account.
A kind of superstitious fright filled him. Those two—how could they doctor an item made last February? He had presumed they would go to the police or the newspapers, or even the pinoc government at Sac, and of course he had all those taken care of. Eerie. He did not know what to tell Calvin; he mumbled on for what seemed an endless time and at last managed to wind up the conversation and get off the phone.