CHAPTER ELEVENVan Huysen had downed his first whiskey fast. The second, he nursed. When his green salad arrived he picked at it, carefully nibbling at the shiny leaves.
Between mouthfuls he told the story.
First of all—Lindsey hadn’t asked, but Van Huysen offered the information anyway—the chariot was real. It existed, or at least had existed, as recently as 1940. Lindsey’s information about its place in the Italian Pavilion was accurate, and there was ample documentation to support that.
On the other hand, if the chariot had indeed been returned to Italy on the Fior di Rimini it might have been destroyed in the c*****e of the next five years.
Or—Van Huysen had a habit of holding his hands just above the table-top, palms flat as if weighing opposing ideas, and tilting his head like the
