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

Alexis's expression
combined insouciance and arrogance as she sat down on another
bench, sipped her champagne, and surveyed the room. Derek,
forbidden to use his camera, moved about with apparent aimlessness,
yet with eyes that seemed to be framing shots of people and
paintings. The Gaines and Crowell family members formed a
protective knot against outsiders.
    “ That‘s nonsense,” Marjorie
said.
    “ Is it? Everyone here today knew about
the painting. Plenty of them—maybe all—know the Marchand story.
Someone might’ve used it to his advantage.”
    “ Once again, nonsense.”
    Darnell let out a breath. “What do you want
me to do, Mrs. Gaines?”
    “ Recover the painting. It would still
be here if you’d been more alert.”
    “ Then I’ll have to talk to some of your
guests and the help. You’ll have to keep everyone in the house or
on the grounds. I can’t detain them.”
    Barton Gaines’s face brightened with feverish
hope. “Then you think the painting is somewhere in the house?”
    “ I don‘t know. But if it is and people
start leaving, the odds are greater it’ll go, too.”
    Gaines, looking at Marjorie, spoke to
Darnell: “We’ll try to convince them to stay.”
    A moment later they were entreating their
guests to partake of lunch and not to let the regrettable event put
a damper on the party.
    “ You don’t exactly endear yourself to
your clients, do you?” I said as guests and hosts left the
gallery.
    “ Detectives are like proctologists.
Sometimes they’re necessary, but nobody likes them poking around.”
He rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “Okay, Professor,
tell me what happened while I was chasing Chadwick.”
    I did, including every detail I could recall,
right up to his return during our final inspection of the room.
Uncertain as to its relevance, I told him about the argument
between Derek and Alexis I had overheard.
    “ You say Derek took a picture of the
gallery from the doorway after everyone was out. A picture of what? And why?”
    I shrugged. “Maybe he wanted a panoramic shot
of the gallery.”
    “ Mm-hmm. Look around, Professor. This
room is full of paintings worth a lot more than the Riveau. Why
weren’t any of them taken?
    “ Marchand didn’t have time?” I asked
lamely.
    “ Yeah, sure. This master thief comes
and goes invisibly, gets in and out of locked, guarded rooms, has a
history of stealing masterpieces, but only has time to rip off what
looks like something Hieronymus Bosch did after a three-day
bender—the least valuable piece in the place.”
    “ It’s his style, as Bart
said.”
    “ And why today? Why grab it in a house
full of people?”
    “ Once again: style. He’s a
showman.”
    “ Mm-hmm. C’mon.” He went to the closet
and opened it. “See anything different?”
    After further examination, I admitted I
didn’t.
    “ Look at the shelf.”
    Doing so, I noticed a crescent-shaped
disturbance in the dust at the front edge. “I see it, but I don’t
understand it. It wasn’t there this morning, and I’d swear it
wasn’t there when we looked before we locked up.”
    “ What about this?” He pointed at a
small blue smudge a few inches above shelf level on the left-hand
wall.

    “ It wasn’t there.”
    “ I know.”
    “ Then how did it get there?” I asked
exasperatedly.
    “ Good question.” He closed the door.
“Let’s have a talk with Derek. I want to see the picture on that
disk.”
    A funereal rather than celebratory atmosphere
shadowed the living room, the mood somber and subdued, infecting
even the black-clad student hostesses who served robotically,
bereft of their earlier sprightliness. Only Lakehurst showed signs
of animation, excitedly telling a small group of people about Paul
Marchand: “As art thieves go, he’s among the best. He’s never been
caught, there’s no evidence outside of Riveau’s journal to link him
to any crimes, and yet his audacity is spectacular. Why, he once
looted a museum in Paris