want you to test the signature," the director informed him.
Delgado kept his surprise to himself. "S薪, Senor Director."
He poured isopropyl alcohol onto a small cotton ball and set it on the table next to the painting. On a second cotton ball he poured petroleum distillate, the neutralizing agent.
"I am ready, se?or."
"Go ahead then. But be careful!"
Machada found that it was suddenly difficult for him to breathe. He watched Delgado. lift the first cotton ball and gently touch it to the G in Goya's signature. Instantly, Delgado picked up the second cotton ball and neutralized the area, so that the alcohol could not penetrate too deeply. The two men examined the canvas.
Delgado was frowning. "I'm sorry, but I cannot tell yet," he said. "I must use a stronger solvent."
"Do it," the director commanded.
Delgado opened another bottle. He carefully poured dimenthyl petone onto a fresh cotton ball and with it touched the first letter of the signature again, instantly applying the second cotton ball. The room was filled with a sharp, pungent odor from the chemicals. Christian Machada stood there staring at the painting, unable to believe what he was seeing. The G in Goya's name was fading, and in its place was a clearly visible L.
Delgado turned to him, his face pale. "Shall - shall I go on?"
"Yes," Machada said hoarsely. "Go on."
Slowly, letter by letter, Goya's signature faded under the application of the solvent, and the signature of Lucas materialized. Each letter was a blow to Machada's stomach. He, the head of one of the most important museums in the world, had been deceived. The board of directors would hear of it; the King of Spain would hear of it; the world would hear of it. He was ruined.
He stumbled back to his office and telephoned Henri Rendell.
The two men were seated in Machada's office.
"You were right," the director said heavily. "It is a Lucas. When word of this gets out, I shall be a laughing stock."
"Lucas has deceived many experts," Rendell said comfortingly. "His forgeries happen to be a hobby of mine."
"I paid three and a half million dollars for that painting."
Rendell shrugged. "Can you get your money back?"
The director shook his head in despair. "I purchased it directly from a widow who claimed it had been in her husband's family for three generations. If I sued her, the case would drag on through the courts and it would be bad publicity. Everything in this museum would become suspect."
Henri Rendell was thinking hard. "There is really no reason for the publicity at all. Why don't you explain to your superiors what has happened, and quietly get rid of the Lucas? You could send the painting to Sotheby's or Christie's and let them auction it off."
Machada shook his head. "No. Then the whole world would learn the story."
Rendell's face brightened. "You may be in luck. I might have a client who would be willing to purchase the Lucas. He collects them. He is a man of discretion."
"I would be glad to get rid of it. I never want to see it again. A fake among my beautiful treasures. I'd like to give it away," he added bitterly.
"That will not be necessary. My client would probably be willing to pay you, say, fifty thousand dollars for it. Shall I make a telephone call?"
"That would be most kind of you, Se?or Rendell."
At a hastily held meeting the stunned board of directors decided that the exposure of one of the Prado's prize paintings as a forgery had to be avoided at any cost. It was agreed that the prudent course of action would be to get rid of the painting as quietly and as quickly as possible. The dark-suited men filed out of the room silently. No one spoke a word to Machada, who stood there, sweltering in his misery.
That afternoon a deal was struck. Henri Rendell went to the Bank of Spain and returned with a certified check for $50,000, and the Eugenio Lucas y Padilla was handed over to him, wrapped in an inconspicuous piece of burlap.
"The board of directors would be very upset if this incident were to become public," Machada said delicately, "but I assured them that your client is a man of discretion."
"You can count on it," Rendell promised.
When Henri Rendell left the museum, he took a taxi to a residential area in the northern end of Madrid, carried the canvas up some stairs to a third-floor apartment, and knocked on the door. It was opened