A Fine Imitation Read Online Free PDF

still life with a white vase of daisies on a gingham tablecloth. Nice, clean lines. Competent, but nothing notable. The display work must have been intended for the casual shopper looking to decorate the walls of an office or bank. More valuable works would be kept in the back, viewed by request only.
    A sound from the far corner of the room startled Vera, but it was not the woman who had greeted her. A man emerged alone, as short and round as his gallery was long and thin. His mustache obscured his lips, and he had combed what was left of his hair over his scalp.
    “Can I help you?” he asked, smoothing the strands of hair with his palm.
    The flat sound of his vowels surprised Vera. She had expected someone with a gallery in Paris to be French, but this man was New York by way of the Bowery. Still, you never knew where the connoisseurs would come from these days. “Are you Mr. Fleming?” she asked.
    “I am.” He adjusted the small spectacles he wore on the bridge of his nose. “Mrs. Bellington, was it?”
    “Yes. My mother, Mrs. Joseph Longacre, sent me to see you about a painting.”
    His face lit up. “Yes, Mrs. Bellington. I’m sorry, I should have known. I spoke to your mother again this morning.” He thought for a moment. “Bellington…is that the Angelus Bellingtons, by any chance?”
    “Yes.” She could not be surprised. Arthur’s reputation always preceded her.
    “Well, welcome. Nice to meet you.” He offered her the hand he had been using to slick the hair on his scalp. His palm glistened in the beam of light from the single window. He must have imagined that the pomade gave him a sophisticated polish, but failed to realize it would come off on everything he touched. Vera took the tips of his fingers in hers and let go quickly.
    “The painting Mrs. Longacre asked about is in the storage room. Just arrived, but I’ve had it framed.” He started for the corner he had appeared from, waving at her to follow him. “Good walnut frame. I can add it into the price.”
    “Yes, well, she may want it redone. Who does your framing?” She did not really want to go with him to the back if that was where the woman from the desk had disappeared to, but she followed him anyway.
    “I got a guy, all framing is done in-house. Back here, watch your step.” Fleming led her through a door in the back wall. The woman was nowhere to be seen. The room had a high ceiling, like the gallery, and was divided into smaller areas by low plywood partitions. On the far wall, a door opened up to the alley, letting in sunlight and fresh air.
    Fleming stopped in front of a canvas, which was covered with a large piece of brown cloth. “Here we are,” he said, pulling the fabric off. “Fantastic, isn’t it?”
    Vera stepped closer, inspecting the work. A blond girl sat at a table composing a letter in a shaft of pale light. She was in three-quarter profile, and the shading in the background made objects against the far wall difficult to distinguish. The use of shadow and light was spot-on. The painting looked a bit worn, but the texture and richness of detail were apparent. “Vermeer? I’ve never seen this one before,” she said.
    Fleming beamed. “It was lost, very few records of it. Turned up in the south of France after the war. Painted around 1667, by my consultant’s guess.”
    “I see.” Vera studied the girl’s skirt. The painting’s composition did suggest Vermeer. And yet…
    Wood clattered behind Vera, and she jumped. She turned to the source of the noise, which had come from behind one of the plywood partitions, but saw nothing. Had the woman from the front been watching them? Fleming also turned to the sound, a deep frown darkening his features. He stepped between Vera and the space where the sound had come from, plastering on a cheery smile.
    “Sorry, that’s my framer. I told him if he breaks one more, he’s out of here.” He clapped his hands together. “So? Should I wrap it up for Mrs. Longacre?