"Anthony, crate two dozen paintings including the Van Gogh. We ship tomorrow." Simon was inspecting the 'Mountains at Saint-Remy' copy.
DeAngelo had transported a few dozen of his 'masterpieces' from his South Philly home.
Simon had just returned from Manhattan. Yesterday he had walked into the front door of the Guggenheim in broad daylight carrying a black messenger tube. He met Price Koch in the museum cafe. They ordered two cappuccinos and sat at table in the corner.
"Price, I want to thank you for a job well done."
"It's not like I had any choice in the matter." The expression on his face contradicted his words. Price actually looked semi-amused.
"Regardless." Simon passed him the messenger tube. "Inside you'll find ten million in bearer bonds along with those compromising photographs and all of the negatives. I apologize for the way this was handled; hope there are no hard feelings?"
Price answered with a low throated chuckle. "To be perfectly honest Simon, originally I was pissed off. In the end, however, everything has worked out for the best, thanks to you. I'm getting professional help and no longer feel as if I'm about to go over the precipice. You’re a man of your word, which is more than I can say about most of the business people I know."
The following morning at 10:00am Simon met Price on the steps of the Guggenheim. Price passed the empty messenger tube to Simon; the two men shook hands and went their separate ways.
Keller observed the entire transaction from down the block; across the street from a parked car. He lifted his camera, fitted with a telephoto lens and snapped off several shots.
Simon drove back to Philadelphia and met DeAngelo at the studio on Pine.
Anthony inquired, "How should I break up the shipment?"
"Send the first dozen with the copy to the shop in St. Moritz. Mark the shipping forms 'copies of master works' and insure them for ten thousand. Send the second dozen with the original to my home in London. Same thing on that set of forms. By the way Anthony, how can I tell the difference between Van Gogh's painting and yours?"
DeAngelo beckoned him over to the painting. "Look closely at the signature. The 'T' contains a small dot of pink paint. It's acrylic. Visible to the naked eye, but not obvious. An expert would consider it an accident."
Simon walked down the back stairway to the shop. He sat in a large antique wingchair; propped his feet on the ottoman and lit a fresh cigar.
Events were racing down to the wire. For better or worse this episode of his life would soon be over. He sat with his head back blowing smoke rings towards the ceiling. In his mind, moving the pieces around the board; anticipating his opponent’s moves.
That morning, a telegram arrived at his hotel:
Won auction for antique cane at Christie's London.
Hammer price of eight thousand pounds.
Forwarded to your shop St. Moritz.
Good luck.
Your brother,
Jean Pierre
After an hour or so, Simon reached a conclusion. By nature, he was a peaceful man. Live and let live would be one of his guiding principles if he stopped to list them at all. But men have always been at war; either in large numbers or one on one. In this instance, Simon Jones; the son of poor Irish Jews, found himself in an untenable situation. He would not lie down; would not roll over; there would be no concession. Simon Jones would fight to the end and let the cards fall where they may.
At last, satisfied with his plan, a realization of peace arose within him.
"Let's do this."