The Black Painting. Neil Olson

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СКАЧАТЬ in Madrid. Dim rooms on the second floor of the Prado. Luisa had dragged him in to see something else, but he was taken hostage by those nightmare images by Goya. If they were Goya, no one knew for sure. Maybe his son, or the son painting over the father. Maybe the Devil himself. That was easy to believe when you stood before the works. Fourteen of them. Mad pilgrims with white eyes, screaming a song. Saturn’s dark maw devouring a bloody corpse. Witches floating in the air, the black shadow of the He-Goat before his coven. Fourteen, and one missing. A ghost painting, a rumor. For Dave, an obsession. Three years later Alfred Morse called Luisa’s father, Dave’s boss. There had been a theft. An indescribably precious work. He had no faith in the police. Luisa’s father gave the job to Dave, and his life unraveled. Not at that moment, but inexorably over the months and years that followed. And you ask why I’m here.

      “You don’t even know why,” Morse said contemptuously.

      “Let’s say out of respect for your father. And your loss.”

      “I don’t need your respect,” said the attorney. “I need your assistance. I would not ask if it wasn’t necessary, but it’s you who created this mess.”

      “Me?” said Dave, amused. “Do you think I took the painting, Mr. Morse?”

      “No, but you apparently thought I did,” the attorney raged, straining forward in his chair. Dave wondered if the man was about to attack him. “You destroyed my father’s trust in me. Ruined our relationship. And now you can sit in my house and smirk at me like that, you pathetic fraud.”

      That didn’t take long, thought Dave.

      “Even if any of that is true,” he answered, “it’s a couple of days too late to fix it.”

      That was cruel, he thought, surprised at himself. Why was he provoking the man? Did he want a fight? Did he want to roll around on the spotless tile floor with the lawyer, trading punches? Dave did not like Philip Morse. Fine. But the man had just lost his father, and there was some truth in his words.

      Used to being provoked, or maybe embarrassed by his outburst, the attorney grew calm. He smoothed his hair and put his glasses back on. Like Superman becoming Clark Kent.

      “Sadly, that is the case,” he said. “I can’t express my hurt at the idea my father died believing me guilty. Another man might feel shame, but I can see you aren’t such a man.”

      “You have it wrong, Philip.”

      “Then set me straight,” the attorney insisted. “How does your silence serve anyone?”

      How indeed? He should beg the man’s pardon and leave. But he knew that he was not going to do that.

      “Why now?” he asked. “Why after all this time did you call me two days ago?”

      “Why should I answer that?”

      “You don’t have to,” Dave said. The attorney eyed him closely, sensing an unspoken deal. He rose from his chair and went to the sink, gazing out the window there.

      “My father had no use for his children,” Morse said. “The feeling was more or less mutual. So his coldness toward me in the last decade didn’t really register. It was only a few days ago that I learned he suspected me of stealing the painting.”

      “You had no suspicion before?”

      “Why would I?” the attorney demanded, wheeling around on him. “He was upset with all of us when it happened. Like it was some group failure. But I didn’t feel it was directed specifically at me.”

      “You think I put that idea in his head.”

      “You’re free to deny it.”

      And who will you blame, then, Dave wondered.

      “How did you hear? Who waited until the last couple of days to tell you?”

      “That person only just heard it, as well,” the attorney replied. “I’m not free to say who.”

      The man desperately wanted Dave to talk. If he would not reveal his source under that inducement, it was pointless to push.

      “I can only speak about the investigation as it related to you,” Dave said. “No one else.”

      The attorney moved back to the table and sat.

      “Understood.”

      His expression was so eager that Dave hesitated. But it was too late to hold back.

      “I didn’t come to any conclusions,” he said. “For that matter, I didn’t submit a report. There was nothing on paper, it was all verbal.”

      “What, on the telephone?”

      “Never,” Dave replied. “In person. In his study. I think we met three times.” The big mahogany desk, the blue eyes even colder than his son’s, a crown of white hair swept back from his forehead. And that empty space above where the demon portrait so recently hung. “That’s how he wanted it done. I reported on my progress and he asked questions.”

      “About me,” Morse said.

      “All the children,” Dave admitted. “Spouses, the help, the caterers for the wake, dealers and collectors. It was a long list, and I didn’t get through half of them.”

      “Why not?”

      “I can only conjecture. We didn’t trade theories. Your father kept his own council.”

      “Tell me about it,” said Morse, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Conjecture away.”

      “He didn’t believe the groundskeeper was the thief. Or if he was, he acted on someone else’s behalf.”

      “We all suspected that,” the attorney said dismissively. “But whose?”

      “There was a collector who wanted the work very badly,” Dave replied, violating his own conditions. “A man named Charles DeGross.”

      “That’s right. He made my father at least two offers. Generous offers, I understood.”

      “You encouraged your father to sell to him,” Dave stated, rather than asked.

      “And that makes me suspect? My mother, my brother and his own lawyer encouraged the exact same thing.”

      “Yes, but they didn’t meet secretly with Mr. DeGross. You did. Twice.”

      Morse took a deep breath. Far from looking angry, he seemed relieved to have arrived at the heart of the matter.

      “It wasn’t secret. For heaven’s sake, we were in a restaurant.”

      “You were in a private room. Alone except for the waiter. And on at least one of those occasions you lied to others about where you would be.”

      Morse sighed again and shook his head.

      “Your memory is better than you claim,” he said ruefully. “Fibbing to my secretary is not a crime. It was essential that it СКАЧАТЬ