The Play of Light and Shadow & Writing Read Online Free PDF Page A

saw why.
    The gilt frame still reposed on the easel,
but it was empty now. On the floor below lay the wooden stretcher
from which the canvas had been removed.
    A lengthy hush enveloped the gallery as
though an ethereal, malign presence at its margins mocked our
collective sense of invasion and loss. In an astonished whisper,
Julian Lakehurst put the exclamation point to it: “My God, he’s
done it!”
    The others roused; their murmurs and
stirrings made the room hum again with apprehension. Darnell swore,
staring at the empty frame. The brackets around his mouth deepened.
“ No body got past us, Darnell,”
I said tightly.
    He didn’t reply. He looked at the assemblage,
from one of us to the other. Barton Gaines stared at the empty
frame in mortified consternation. Beside him, one hand on his
shoulder, her lips compressed, Marjorie was a portrait of shocked
outrage. Julian Lakehurst, shifting uneasily from foot to foot,
shook his head and muttered inaudibly. With a pained expression,
Carol Prentice moved stiffly to one of the padded benches and sat
down, her youthful buoyancy and litheness overcome by sudden
gravity.
    The soundless burst of light from Derek’s
camera might as well have been a thunderclap. We all started
nervously.
    “ Put it away,” Darnell ordered. Derek
lifted a conciliatory hand and lowered the camera. His face was
blank, but his eyes gleamed with satisfaction at having gotten his
picture.
    Sipping champagne, Alexis strolled
complacently among the guests. “Poor Bart and Carol,” she said.
“Their baby kidnapped. Probably by an art critic.”
    “ That‘s enough, Alexis,” Marjorie
snapped.
    Darnell moved to the closet door, then
signaled to me. He reached beneath his jacket and drew his gun,
provoking more gasps from the crowd.
    “ It’s all right,” Gaines told them.
“Mr. Darnell is a detective in my employ.”
    “ And a wonderful detective, at that,”
Alexis sneered.
    “ Handkerchief,” Darnell mouthed,
nodding toward the door.
    I took a handkerchief from my pocket and
wrapped it around the doorknob. The room fell silent. Darnell kept
the gun aimed at the door while I, from the hinged side, slowly
turned the knob, then, tensing, yanked the door open. The closet
was empty except for the vacuum hose nozzle-flat on the floor, the
ladder, and the duster. After a brief scrutiny, Darnell closed the
door. He holstered the gun and, moving to a corner, waved Gaines
and me over. Marjorie joined us.
    “ Who was in here while I was talking to
Chadwick?” Darnell asked.
    “ Eight of us,“ Marjorie said. “Derek
took some pictures of the girls and me.”
    “ Alexis, too, for a moment,“ I added.
“But the room was empty before we locked it. You saw it
yourself.”
    Darnell nodded sourly. “Maybe we’d better
invite the cops.”
    “ Absolutely not.” Marjorie’s voice was
low but intense. “We’re paying you to handle this.”
    “ A felony’s been committed, Mrs.
Gaines.”
    “ I don’t care. I told you I wanted this
to be low-profile. I won’t have policemen, and possibly reporters,
crawling all over my home.”
    “ And I have no authority to detain your guests.”
    “ Why should that be necessary?
Obviously Paul Marchand succeeded in stealing the
painting.”
    “ Obviously?”
    “ Stop fencing, Mr. Darnell.”
    “ Okay. Suppose Marchand’s not your
thief. Suppose it’s someone here in the house now.”
    With one instinct we looked at the
people thronging the room. Some of our university colleagues were
talking among themselves; others communed with their own thoughts.
Lakehurst lingered by the plundered easel, his glance fastened on
the empty stretcher that lay on the floor, perhaps staring through
and beyond it. Carol still sat on the bench, hunched over now,
right hand abstractedly rubbing her knee, left elbow on her thigh,
left hand shielding her eyes as if against the unbearable glare
of Nomad ’s absence. Two of the
art students huddled with her, offering solace.