Page 57 of The Art of Theft
She nodded.
“I have heard that our French counterparts sometimes use the services of a thief who has made a specialty out of making away with valuableobjetsbefore a crowd. In fact, that is the price for his current freedom, that he must come when called. He is said to have spent some time in prison as a juvenile and hasDieu, ne me quitte pastattooed across the fingers of his left hand.”
“I see,” she said.
She was known for having a pleasantly blank countenance, reputed to be highly unreadable. But Lieutenant Atwood, after a quick glance, said, “You don’t agree?”
Before she could answer, she spied Monsieur Plantier, their host, advancing toward them. “Surely,mes amis,” he cried heartily, “you have not already tired of champagne and beauty!”
Lieutenant Atwood smiled indulgently. “The champagne is first-rate. The art, well, I will not deny that I am surrounded by beauty. But I must say, I’d hoped to be surrounded by beauty of a far greater caliber.”
Monsieur Plantier was not only not offended by his complaint, but he smiled more brilliantly and seemingly with more approval. “Monsieur Nariman is a connoisseur. Please wait a moment. Let me see what I can do.”
A few minutes later, a footman discreetly guided them behind a screen at the far end of the gallery. Beyond the screen was a door. Through the door, they were led out to a corridor and then into an ornatesalle, which still didn’t contain the Van Dyck or their companions.
But it did contain the young man and his grandmaman.
Standing under a Frans Hals portrait, Charlotte murmured to Lieutenant Atwood, “Watch the guards. Who are they looking at?”
Lieutenant Atwood turned around nonchalantly to walk to a Bruegel on the opposite side of thesalle. When he returned, he said, “Our thief.”
And then, “Which someone of his caliber should never allow to happen. You think he isn’t the thief I mentioned?”
“There are very faint dots of discoloration on the inside corners of his eyes. Very slightly reddish dots.”
Lieutenant Atwood’s eyes widened. He lowered his voice further. “He’s anactor?”
Stage performers painted red dots in the inside corners of their eyes to counteract the overbrightness of footlights.
If the apple of Grandmaman’s eye was an actor hired to play the part of the thief, the real thief must be walking about the reception, thus far unremarked.
This point no doubt occurred to Lieutenant Atwood. He frowned. Then he turned to Charlotte. “Butyouknow which one he is.”
“I have a guess. The bit about visible tattoos on his left hand might be a rumor he himself deliberately spread. That way, when he shows up with a perfectly unmarked left hand, no one will suspect him of any intention toward or expertise in theft. And knowingthat he had already outsmarted his quarries at the outset, he might even brandish his left hand a little more than the average person.”
“The man playing magic tricks in the gallery.”
The one Lieutenant Atwood had remarked as being too good. Who happened to have been standing directly under the David portrait.
After a quarter of an hour, during which they diligently studied all the paintings in thesalle, they were brought back to the gallery.
The solicitor was still there, staring moodily at a window. The “uncle” and his “nieces” were there, all looking bored, as if they also hoped to catch Monsieur Plantier’s attention and be brought before greater artistic treasures. Grandmaman and Monsieur du Vernay were still in the othersalle, but the tattoo-less thief was now at the buffet table, merrily chatting with a pair of very respectable-looking ladies.
Then the ladies screamed, a tower of glasses toppled over, and pandemonium ensued.
Thirteen
There was no danger that wasn’t made worse by dirt.
Lord Ingram, as a rule, didn’t mind dirt. He’d been excavating major, minor, and absolutely trivial archeological sites since he was a child. The careful removal of rock and soil from historical relics was one of his great pleasures in life.
But he sincerely and wholeheartedly deplored dirt, especially the wet, smelly sort, when it was not affixed to historical relics, but to whatever godforsaken task he found himself performing under the guise of archeology.
The only conclusion he could draw was that he was vain enough to want to die a clean man.
Compared to the worst mud he’d experienced, this tunnel was practically luxurious. Still, he longed feverishly for marble, stone, or even brick surfaces, anything that didn’t let earthworms wiggle through or a slug fall on his neck.
His picture had been in the papers recently, a merciful excuse to remain behind at Hôtel Papillon. But had he contented himself with a game in the warm, dry, spotless billiard room? No, he’d had to volunteer for the worst task of the night, one that no one had asked him to do.
