Melting Clock Read Online Free PDF Page B

one finger came up—“I love American radio but your announcers, actors speak too fast. Second”—second finger—“I must have my paintings back, and Gala’s clocks.”
    His left hand went into the pocket of his clown suit and came out with an oddly shaped piece of wood. He played with the wood while we kept talking.
    “What were they paintings of and how big are they?” I asked.
    “One was the size of that one,” he said, pointing at a painting about the size of the front of a refrigerator. “Another was the size of that wall.”
    “Big picture,” I said.
    “Magnificent picture,” he agreed. “Months to paint.”
    “Third picture,” I said.
    His face went slack, the bug-eyed Huntz Hall look disappeared. The mask dropped and he looked human, frightened.
    “It is like this,” he said, standing and holding his arms out to show me that the missing painting was about a yard across and a yard and a half high.
    “They’ll be hard to find if I don’t’ know what they look like,” I prodded.
    “They are unmistakably Dali’s,” he said, a touch of the normal still there. “And that is the problem.”
    “I’m not an art critic or an artist,” I said.
    “And I am not a detective,” he said.
    I spent the next half hour asking him questions while he fidgeted with the piece of wood and paced around the room. The paintings and the clocks had been taken from his house in Carmel about a month ago. It had happened during the night when he and his wife were asleep. All of the paintings had been framed; they had been taken frame and all.
    “What can they do with these paintings?”
    “Probably nothing while Dali lives,” he said. “Nothing but show them to or sell them to people who will appreciate them. When Dali dies, they will be worth much and these … these insects can claim Dali sold the paintings to them or gave them.”
    “So you’re afraid they might kill you so they can sell them and kick the price up?”
    The reaction made it clear that Dali had never considered that possibility. He stopped pacing and looked at me. He blinked like an owl, his mouth opened. He froze.
    “You think they …?”
    “No,” I said. “Not a chance. These are art thieves, not people willing to risk a murder charge for a few thousand dollars.”
    “Many thousand dollars,” Dali corrected.
    “Many thousand dollars,” I agreed.
    “Your wife says you got a note. Can I see it?”
    Dali plunged his hand into the clown pocket and came up with a crumpled envelope. He handed it to me and stood back to watch my reaction. I pulled a sheet of paper out of the envelope. The words were typed and there weren’t many of them:
    Look for the second PLACE in Los Angeles to find the first painting. You have till midnight on New Year’s Day.
    I looked up at Dali.
    “You may keep it,” he said.
    I nodded sagely.
    “You know what it means, these words?” he asked.
    “Do you?” I asked right back with a knowing smile as I stood and pocketed the envelope and letter.
    “No,” he said. “But there is only one reason this ladron would send such a note. He wishes to toy with Dali, to drive Dali mad, but Dali is beyond madness. Madness is a word without meaning.”
    I asked some more questions but didn’t get very much that would help. He had no idea who would steal his paintings. It wasn’t that he didn’t suspect anyone. He started on a list of those he did not trust. I wrote the names but gave up after twenty when he began to include people from his childhood, some of whom were dead. The list included Pablo Picasso, Luis Bunuel, Andre Breton, Dali’s father, and Francisco Franco.
    “Zeman,” I tried.
    “Yes, I do not trust him,” Dali said emphatically. “I trust only Gala. I do not even trust Dali. He is totally unreliable.”
    “I’ll bear that in mind,” I said. “One hundred dollars in advance and I’ll call you every day.” I moved toward the door and Dali followed, his clown feet plopping on the hardwood