JACK BEST AND THE PROMISE OF TOMORROW

By Steve Olley

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When the call came, it just seemed like every other job, another run of the mill investigation. But the sequence of events that were about to unfold, would leave me in no doubt that fate isn't guided by what we believe should happen; the universe holds too many variables to ever be so simple.

It all began in a sunroom fall of flowers; the case that I know I will never forget, the case that left me with thoughts that I know will always haunt me, wounds that I know will never heal

Major Harrington sat before me in a wheelchair, an old man, wrapped in blankets, warming his cold blood in the pale October sun. I had been summoned to the Harrington Mansion by the Major, put forward as a man to trust on the recommendation of Detective Lou Harry of the New Dresden Police Department. The promise of a well healed client had set me in a good mood. If only I had known.

“Mr. Best, good of you to come,” he said. His hand came out from beneath the blanket; polished skin stretched tight over old bones. Despite his age his handshake was firm and steady.

The room was warm and humid. I took off my hat and fanned myself with it.

“You'll have to excuse the air,” the Major said; “a combination of sun and the humidifier. It makes for a perfect environment for these plants and crippled old men.”

“That's alright, Major,” I said, taking off my jacket and sitting down.

The Major looked around him at the blooms that filled the room with color, yet despite their beauty he sighed. “I'm 87 years old Mr. Best. One would be forgiven for thinking that with age would come a certain peace of mind, a relaxation of the responsibilities that life throws at us, but no, far from it.

“About six months ago my son and his wife died during a vacation in Italy . They were driving down the Almafi Coast , when they lost control of their vehicle and it went off the edge of a cliff into the sea below; a nasty way to die; the car sinking, filling up with water, unable to get the doors open.

“They had a daughter, my granddaughter, Laura. She was at college in the city when it happened; she's in her last year there now. After the accident, she moved in with me here. At first we were inseparable, shared grief I suppose, but in the last few months we seem to have drifted apart.

“Can I show you something?” he said, extending his hand towards the door. I stood and followed him as he wheeled his chair out of the sunroom and across the spacious hallway to some large impressive double doors towards the back of the house.

“I am not sure whether Detective Harry told you, Mr. Best, but I have a passion for art. In the years after the war I had some small success with my own paintings, but that was years ago. My hands aren't steady enough to actually paint any more, but my eyes are still good.”

He unlocked the doors and then quickly wheeled himself over to an alarm keypad and punched in a code. It was a large room with high ceilings, there were four tall windows that let the sunlight fall across the polished hardwood floor.

“This room used to be the ballroom,” he said, “but times change. This is where I spend my time. I call it, The Gallery.”

Every available wall space was covered in paintings, from the floor to the ceiling, except for two small square spaces.

“Three days ago,” said the Major, stopping his wheelchair by the empty spaces, “one of my own compositions was taken from the wall. Then last night another painting was taken. This time it was by an English artist called, Peter Bavistock.”

“Two different artists, two different days?” I said.

The Major nodded his head.

“And the value of these paintings?”

“Not great, but enough to warrant the alarm system. The Bavistock would probably fetch $50,000 at auction. As for my own, well it isn't one of my best compositions, I have to say; a bit of a rushed job. I painted it while I was in Italy with the Fifth army in 1945. As you can imagine, this is all rather annoying, after all a collection is not complete if two of the pieces are missing.”

“So thieves get into the room twice, presumably without setting off the alarms and then only steal one painting each time. Tell me about the alarm system.”

“It's quite sophisticated; once it is on no one can move in here without setting it off.”

“So presumably someone disarmed it?”

“Yes, but there was no damage or any sign that it had been tampered with.”

“So they already knew the code? So other than yourself, who else knew that code?”

I looked at him. He already knew who had taken the paintings.

“That's why I wanted the help of a private detective and not the police. You see there is only one other person who knows that code, my granddaughter, Laura.”

“Have you asked her about it?”

“She claims not to know anything about it. She grew quite angry with me for suggesting that she might, but I'm not a fool, Mr. Best, I can tell when someone is lying, especially someone as young as Laura.”

I looked around the room; the amount of art here was staggering. So why had she taken just those two pieces and why on two separate occasions? She must have realized that they would suspect her, despite her denials. It was almost as if she didn't care – why?

“Tell me, Major, has anything else changed in her life since her parents death?”

“A few months ago she took up with a boyfriend. His name is Brad Thompson. I have to say he seemed an unsavory sort of character. She knew I disliked him. I guess that's when we began to drift apart.”

“What else can you tell me about him?”

“Not a great deal, I'm afraid. He's probably a few years older than Laura. He rides a motorbike and lives downtown somewhere.”

I wrote a few things down in my notebook.

“You understand, Mr. Best, it's not the loss of the paintings that concerns me, as much as the reason why she would need to take them in the first place. If she's in any kind of trouble I want to know about it.”

“I understand, Major.”

We shook hands and I left him in The Gallery, and made my way back to the entrance hall, thoughts running through my head. The Major had said that he was not easily fooled, but neither was I. I knew he was hiding something from me. He had given me the facts, but perhaps not all of them.

When I reached the hall, I looked up and saw her coming down the wide curving staircase. I don't think I'll ever forget Laura. She was one of those young women who men can't ignore. She descended the stairs as if she were auditioning for a part in Gone with the Wind .

She was beautiful, long light brown hair that framed a classic face, blue eyes, high cheek bones; she moved with a natural effortless grace. All that betrayed her was the frown on her face, it was almost a sneer. As I watched her, she became aware of me and the pout changed into a public smile.

“Hello,” she said, “and who are you?” Despite the smile, she couldn't hide the edge to her words, a precocious cynicism that she tried her best to make playful.

“My name's Jack Best and you must be Laura.”

She locked eyes with me and it felt like I could see forever. Windows to the soul someone once said and I knew what he meant. You can fake a smile, curl the lips upward, show some teeth, but the eyes, those you can't change; they'll betray you every time.

“Are you a private detective?”

“So they tell me.”

“Did Grandfather hire you to find his missing paintings?”

“Something like that.”

She laughed but it wasn't funny.

“Any clues?'

“Some.”

“You're not much of a talker are you?” She was flirting with me, but it was just an act, as if she could hide her real self behind this shield of words.

“That depends,” I said.

“On what?”

“On whether I've got something to say.”

“And have you?”

“Just a few questions.”

“Go ahead, Mr. Best, ask away.”

“What happened to the paintings?”

“Somebody stole them?”

“No kidding.”

“You asked.”

“So do you have any ideas?”

“Oh, yeah, I'm full of ideas.”

“I was talking about the paintings.”

“Smart.”

“What, in this shirt.”

“You're quick, Best. Maybe I should hire you?”

“What for?”

“So you can watch my Grandfather.”

“Why?”

“Because he's going nuts.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, didn't you figure it out? I thought you said you were a detective. Who do you think took those paintings?”

“You think it was your Grandfather?”

“Yeah.”

“Well that's funny, because he thinks it was you.”

“Well think again, detective.” A nerve twitched in her cheek and her lips trembled.

“So why would he do a thing like that?”

“Like I said, he's going nuts.” She began to move away from me, the act seemed to be wearing her out.

“Well I'll certainly think about your offer of employment,” I said with a smile. “Are you on your way out, can I give you a lift somewhere?”

“Thank you, Mr. Best, but I have my own car.”

She picked up a bag that sat by the door and we stepped out of the house. She made her way over to the garage, towards a lime green VW Bug and I turned towards my Sunfire.

“Is that your car?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said, “all mine.”

“It doesn't look much like a detective's car, aren't you supposed to have some fast foreign job?”

“That's only in the movies.”

“So there's no glamour in the private detective business?”

“It has its moments.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Sometimes I get to meet a beautiful woman.”

“Does that happen very often?”

“As a matter of fact it just happened today.”

It took her a moment; then the sneer faded away, the light came back into her eyes, and she beamed at me. As long as I live I don't think I'll ever allow myself to forget that look, I think that there'll always be a part of me that loves life because of that frozen moment in time when Laura smiled.

“Thank you,” she said gently.

I nodded my head, and then she turned and walked back to her car. I watched her climb in and drive away. The smile had gone. Her reality had returned, along with the sneer.

You can spend your whole life thinking you know a person, but everyone has something to hide; secrets that we keep to ourselves; secrets that perhaps we wished we never had. It's a dirty business searching for the truth, and sometimes what we find isn't what we want to hear.

I figured she knew that I'd follow her, but she didn't try to lose me, not yet anyway. We drove back down the hill, back into New Dresden, heading towards downtown. She pulled up outside a row of small stores, got out quickly and went into the launderette before I'd even come to a stop. It took me a few seconds to realize that she'd have no need of a launderette. I got out of my car and went into the place. She wasn't in there. There was a back door. I opened it just in time to see her climb into a cab that was waiting for fares across the street. There were more cabs waiting. Hers drove away so I ran over and climbed into the next taxi.

“Follow that cab,” I said to the driver.

“You're kidding,” he said, turning around to look back at me. “Oh you're not. OK.”

Her cab was already turning onto Main Street . Laura probably saw my car still sitting outside the launderette and thought she'd lost me. We followed her to the far side of downtown, over to the old Albion Hotel; a place famous for its live music, jazz mostly. It didn't strike me as Laura's thing. I watched her go into the bar, paid off my cab and followed her in.

It was beginning to get dark, but inside the Albion , the bar seemed darker. There was a jazz trio playing some lazy tune. A saxophone did its best to sound like Stan Getz, as it danced seductively with a piano. There seemed to be a lot of people in the place, which helped me slip in unnoticed, and I managed to find myself a place at the far end of the bar. It didn't take me long to see Laura. She sat alone at a table, looking like she was waiting for someone.

The trio finished their number and people clapped. The guy on piano slurred something into the microphone and they began on another song. I ordered a beer and watched Laura. After a few minutes I noticed a man move towards her out of the darkness. He looked old, at least in his seventies. He was dressed well and looked fit for his age.

Laura greeted him, but there was no warmth in it. And even in the dim light I could see contempt in the look she gave him. After a few minutes talking with him, she got up from the table and walked through the bar towards the hotel's lobby. She collected a key from the desk clerk and went over to the elevator. The old man remained seated and appeared ready to enjoy the jazz trio's next number.

After Laura got into the elevator I went over to the desk clerk, but he was reluctant to give me her room number; even the offer of a twenty couldn't change his mind. I looked across at the elevator. It was stopped on the fifth floor.

I went back to the bar and looked for the old man at Laura's table, maybe he was waiting for her to come back, but he was gone. I looked quickly around the bar, but he wasn't there.

Back out in the lobby a trio of people were waiting for the elevator now. Eventually it came down and I followed them in. By the time the elevator got up to the fifth floor, I was the only occupant. When the doors slid open, I found the fifth floor corridor in darkness. Someone had knocked out the lights. I could hear raised voices coming from the far end of the hallway. I moved carefully through the dark towards them. I could hear Laura's voice and a man answering back. Then his voice shouted something at her and I heard the sound of something crashing over, and then silence.

As I groped forwards, I tried to work out which side of the hallway the shouts had come from. A door suddenly opened ahead of me. In the light from the room I could see the silhouette of a man.

“Hey!” I shouted.

He shut the door and plunged us into the dark once more. Whoever it was didn't hang about. I heard him runaway from me to the far end of the corridor. I ran towards the sound of his steps. Suddenly another flash of light and a door opened to what looked a lit stairway, the fire escape. I reached the door before it closed and raced after him down the stairs. I could hear his footsteps below me. With each flight of steps I got closer. I heard the door to the street open and close. I reached it seconds later, pulled it open and burst out, but whoever it was, had vanished.

I searched around a bit but he was gone. I climbed slowly back up the stairs to the fifth floor. The corridor was still dark. I stumbled my way back to the door of the room he had come out of. I knocked but no one answered. I turned the knob and it slowly opened. One of the bedside lamps had been knocked onto the floor, from where its weak bulb lit the room. Long shadows ran across the ceiling. Laura wasn't in the room. I checked the bathroom, nothing. The window was open wide. The curtains had been ripped down and lay in a mess on the floor. A gust of cold wind blew into the room. I could hear the steady hum of traffic from below.

I moved over to the window and leaned out. Five floors below was a small parking lot. Laura lay on the ground, her hair splayed out around her. Her head twisted awkwardly to the side.

“Stay where you are.” It was a man's voice. I turned around. Standing in the doorway was a security guard, and behind him several other people, their shocked white faces staring at me through the gloom. From somewhere below, coming through the open window, I could hear the soulful sound of a siren as it wailed into the night.

“You got the wrong guy,” I said to the security guard.

“Save it for the police,” he said. He stayed at the door, afraid to come near me, as if I were contagious. A few minutes passed then a young uniformed cop appeared. He pulled out his gun and pointed it at me.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“You're coming with me,” he said.

“OK,” I said, “but put that gun away before you shoot someone with it.”

Back on the ground floor, I noticed a man who looked like a detective talking with the desk clerk. The clerk looked nervous, his eyes shot up when he saw me. The detective turned and watched me pass with dark shadowed eyes.

When we got to the station, the desk sergeant, Jeff Finnegan, looked surprised when he saw them bring me in. I was booked into interrogation room one, to be interviewed by Detective Sutton.

The room was small, just a battered looking table and a couple of chairs. There were no two way mirrors, no cameras, just an old tape recorder. The shadow eyed detective came in and sat opposite me at the table. I guessed this was Sutton. He didn't turn on the tape recorder.

“So why'd you do it?” he barked.

“I didn't do anything,” I said. “There was someone else in the room before me. I chased them down the fire-escape. When I got back up to the room, she wasn't there. She was down in the parking lot.”

“The security guard said that the only person he saw was you. The desk clerk said that you had tried to bribe him to find out what room she was in. So what were you doing there?”

“I was working a case.”

“So your case was to follow an attractive young woman up to her hotel room?”

“Where's Lou?”

“What happened, Best, did she turn you down. Is that why you killed her?”

“So she is dead then?”

“You take a nose dive out of a window five floors up, you ain't gonna fly!”

I sat there for a moment, only just becoming truly aware of what had happened.

“She was a pretty girl,” Sutton said. The memory of her broken body seemed to anger him, he turned on me. “So is that what happened, Best,” his voice angry and loud. “Did you want a piece of her? Did you follow her up to her room and try your luck? And when she refused you, you threw out the window!”

Suddenly the door burst open. It was Lou Harry.

“That'll do Sutton!” he said. Sutton was on his feet, his face inches from my own. His fists clenched. I knew what he was feeling, because I was feeling it too. Someone had done this to Laura. Someone had to pay.

“Why don't you go get a coffee,” Lou said to Sutton.

Sutton went out. Lou watched him go, and then turned to me. “Come on,” he said and led me out of the interrogation room back to his desk, where we sat down.

“Jeff Finnegan, the duty sergeant called me when he saw Sutton bring you in.”

“Thanks Lou.”

“Thank Finnegan.”

“I will.”

“So what happened, Jack?”

“I was working the Harrington case, that's Laura Harrington, the Major's granddaughter, dead at the Albion .”

“Yeah, I know. There are officers out at the mansion now, letting the Major know. So what did the Major want you to do for him?”

“There are two paintings missing from the Major's art gallery. He figured it was Laura. He wanted me to find out why she took them. He wanted to know if she was in any kind of trouble. I followed her to the Albion ; saw her get a room, but the desk clerk wouldn't tell me which one. By the time I figured out where she was and got up there, something had gone down. I chased a guy down the fire escape, but he got away, by the time I got back up to her room she was gone.”

“They found,” said Lou, “what I presume is one of those paintings. It was found rolled up inside a cardboard cylinder in her bag. Forensics says it's by a painter called Bavistock. So who do you think was up in that room with her?”

“The Major says there's a boyfriend by the name of Brad Thompson. He says he lives downtown somewhere. She met an old guy in the bar, but she didn't leave with him. So what do you think, Lou? A murder made to look like a suicide.”

“Could be. Did you get to talk to her? Did she seem suicidal to you?”

“I met her yesterday, she seemed OK to me. But the Major was right, there was something bothering her.”

Lou gave me a ride back to my car. There was a squad car already waiting at Laura's car. I went home, got something to eat and tried to sleep.

In the morning I drove back up the hill to see the Major. Mrs. Phillips, the housekeeper, a self important woman who had let her position become her life, told me the Major was still very upset; if I could just give her a few minutes to prepare him. It was a statement, not a question. She left me standing in the hallway.

As soon as she was gone, I sprang up the stairs and searched till I found Laura's room. It was dark, the curtains drawn. I knew this was a mark of respect for some people, but it just seemed wrong to me. I went to the window and drew back the drapes, and blinked at the sunshine that tried in vain to drive away the sadness in that room. The twin bed was made. An old soft doll with a smiling face lay on the pillow. The smile had been sewn in place to give the impression of happiness, just like the smile on Laura's lips that she put there to hide her bitterness.

An untidy array of makeup covered the top of the vanity. Various photographs slipped around the edge of the mirror held smiling faces that looked out at me from the past. Most notably were pictures of a man and a woman in their 40's. There was one of the same couple, a little younger, with a teenage Laura. I guessed they were her parents. The three of them looked very happy together.

Life can change so quickly, and there never seems to be any sense to it. I guess all we can know for certain is what we have right now, and try to live with no promise of tomorrow.

There was a gap in the column of photographs, as if one had been removed. I looked in the wastebasket but it was empty. I scanned the remaining photos and saw none of the boyfriend, Brad. Why was that? Didn't she like him anymore? On the bedside table there were various books, but no diary. I opened the closet. It was filled with clothes, some on hangers, and some haphazardly thrown onto shelves. There were two winter coats, and I could see something hidden behind them. I moved them aside, and there in the corner were the broken remains of picture frames. Beyond those I noticed a cardboard cylinder.

“Mr. Best!” Mrs. Phillips had come into the room. “The Major will see you now.” She said in an angry voice. I walked out of the room and waited for her while she stepped into the room and closed the curtains.

The Major met me in the gallery. He sat at the far end in the sunlight that streamed in through the large windows. There was a sad dignity to him. He stared out of the window at the maple trees, their amber leaves fell slowly in the cool October breeze.

I walked down the long room towards him.

“Major, I…”

He held up his hand to stop me.

“No, I know what you are going to say, Jack, and there's no need. One thing I've learned in my long life, is that there's nothing to be gained by wondering how things might have been if we'd acted differently. You debilitate yourself with recriminations and to what end?”

I didn't say anything; the words seemed to be more for his peace of mind not my own.

“Have you ever lost somebody close to you, Jack?”

“Yes, Major, I have.”

“Then you understand.”

I nodded my head.

Then the Major turned his chair around and wheeled it over to the blank spaces on the wall.

“I want you to continue,” he said. “I still want to know why she took those paintings. If someone is responsible for what happened to her, then I want you to find them for me.”

“The police found one of the paintings in the room with her.”

The Major looked up at me.

“Which one?” he said with an eagerness that surprised me.

“The Bavistock,” I said.

The eagerness left his face, replaced by disappointment.

“I thought you told me that the Bavistock was the more valuable of the two?”

The Major looked away from me.

“Major is there something you're not telling me?”

He turned back to face me.

“I…” he was about to speak when a scream filled the house.

It came from upstairs, from the housekeeper, Mrs. Phillips. The Major looked startled as I dashed away from him and up the stairs. Mrs. Phillips was standing at the open door to Laura's bedroom. The curtains had been yanked aside. A young man was climbing out of the window. I rushed over but he had already climbed halfway down a thick old vine that grew up the side of the house.

“Hey!” I shouted. He looked up at me, and then jumped to the ground. I climbed out onto the vine. He was running across the lawn. I jumped and gave chase. He had a cardboard cylinder under his arm that looked like the one from the closet in Laura's room. It had to be the other painting. He disappeared into some trees at the edge of the grounds. I heard a motorbike start up. I reached the trees. He was strapping the cylinder to the bike with a bungee cord. He saw me and pulled out a small hand gun and pointed it at me. I stopped. He climbed onto the bike and roared away back to the road.

After I had calmed Mrs. Phillips, I went back downstairs to the Major. He was by the window and had seen the intruder run across the lawn.

“That was the boyfriend, Brad Thompson,” he said.

“He came for the painting. I think Laura had it upstairs in her closet.”

“It was here all along!”

“Major, what is going on here?”

He looked at me. I could see the voices shouting in his head. He could deny them no longer. He wheeled himself over to a small desk in the corner of the room and from the drawer he pulled out a copy of Time Magazine , an issue a few months old. He opened it to an article titled: Retrieving Nazi Loot.

During the war years the Nazis confiscated many works of art, much of it from Jewish owners. After the war was over, a lot of these works disappeared; off to private owners, or reappearing in museums across Europe and North America . There was a push on now to repatriate that art to its original owners. There had been some success, especially with the museums. However, there was a list of pieces of art, whose whereabouts were still unknown, and for these there was a finder's fee that would be paid for their safe return.

“Towards the end of the list,” the Major said. “ The Angel of the Basilica by Antonio Allegri da Correggio.”

“Last believed to be in the possession of Herman Goering,” I read. “Not seen since June 1942, valued at $5,000,000.”

“Goering didn't have it,” said the Major. “I found it among the personal belongings of Hauptsturmfuhrer Gert Hoffman in northern Italy towards the end of April 1945. My company was just north of Genoa mopping up stray German holdouts. My men had shot Hoffman and his driver as they tried to escape north towards the Po River. Hoffman had a crate of wines in the car, so my men didn't even notice the painting; it was rolled up in the back of the vehicle.

The Major paused for a moment, his eyes glazed over.

“I took the paintings away from prying eyes, and unrolled it a little, just to see, you understand. And there was his name: Correggio. He was among a handful of Italian masters that I had studied at college, and there I was with his work in my hands, I touched what he touched; it was my own personal connection to the master. You have to understand,” he said, “it was as if Correggio was there with me. And then I unrolled the rest of the painting. My God! The Angel, her eyes, they looked right at you. And that look, there was something about it, as if Correggio had captured something that was not of this world, but from some realm beyond.”

He was silent once more and then he seemed to awake from its charm.

“I knew that the army would not let me take it back for myself. But they would if they thought it was mine. By then you see, I had already painted a few canvases. One more would go unnoticed. For the next few days the company rested in a small village, about 10 miles north of Genoa . I had a small deserted farmhouse as my billet. For the next two days I hid myself away there and painted over the top of the Correggio in paints that could easily be removed without damaging the painting underneath. For those two days I did not leave the Correggio. I was alone except for a young orphan boy who I paid to bring me food up from the village. And when I was finished, the Correggio was gone, hidden and safe beneath the Harrington. When I got it home I never felt the need to remove the disguise. It was enough to know that I had the Correggio; and there it hung all these years, until Laura took it.”

The Major finished talking, the mention of Laura's name had affected him, and he sat there staring up at the blank space on the wall where his beloved Correggio had once hung.

My phone rang. I took it out of my pocket and walked away from the Major over towards the window.

“Hello.”

“Jack?”

“Yeah.”

“It's Lou. I'm at Brad Thompson's apartment. He's not here.”

“I know.”

“You've see him?”

“He was here, uninvited. So, Lou, what did you find?”

“I think you need to come down here and take a look.”

“Sure, Lou, where are you?”

“540 Lincoln Boulevard .”

I hung up the phone. The Major looked lost in thought.

“I have to go, Major.”

I don't think he heard me. His confession after all these years seemed to have exhausted him. I told Mrs. Phillips, unnecessarily, that I would be back, and that she should keep an eye on the Major.

I parked the Sunfire behind the patrol cars on Lincoln Boulevard and made my way to Brad Thompson's apartment. Lou stood in the open doorway.

“What you got, Lou?”

“Seems our boyfriend is an addict.”

“Drugs?”

“Yeah. Into them heavy. But that's not why I called you down here. There's something you need to see.”

I followed Lou through an untidy living room, into a scruffy bedroom. On the bed was an evidence bag. Through the plastic I could see a small memory chip from a digital camera. On a desk in the corner, there was a laptop.

“We hadn't had a chance to look on the computer, but then we found this chip taped to the back of the closet.”

Lou hit a key and a nude photograph of a young woman appeared on the screen. It was Laura.

“They are all straight nude shots. By the look on her face I would say that it wasn't her idea. I guess he must have convinced her somehow.”

Lou closed the laptop.

“So what do you think?” he said.

“Thompson needed the money. Laura lives in a house full of valuable paintings. He uses the pictures to blackmail her into stealing them for him. Threatens to show the grandfather if she doesn't do what she's told. She knew it would probably kill him if he saw them.”

One of the uniformed cops came into the room.

“We found a box of shells for a .25 in the kitchen drawer, but no sign of a gun.”

“He's got it with him,” I said.

Lou nodded at the cop and he returned to his work and then he looked at me. I filled Lou in with all the developments out at the Harrington Mansion .

“Sounds like the boyfriend knows what the paintings worth,” said Lou.

“Or he has a buyer who does,” I said. “The buyer knows about Thompson's expensive addiction, offers him a lot of money, and he in turn blackmails Laura into stealing it.”

“Yeah, but why did she steal two?”

Clouds had moved in across the sky, and as I drove away the rain began to fall, hard and heavy against the windshield. Lou said they had all their units out looking for Thompson. Had he been the man in Laura's hotel room? Why would she have gone there to see him, why not the apartment?

Before I had even worked it out, I found myself driving to the hotel; trying to keep my speed down, wanting to race there at 100 miles an hour; my fingers gripped tight around the steering wheel; a burning anger in my head. The Albion was where I would find Brad Thompson, where I would find the Correggio, where I would find the killer, the guy who pushed Laura out of that window.

The same clerk was on the desk from the night before.

“Remember me?” I said.

He looked frightened. “She paid me not to tell anyone,” he said.

“Yeah and now she's dead!”

“I know.” He said and closed his eyes, trying to rid himself of a memory that would never go away.

“You liked her didn't you?”

“She didn't deserve to die,” he said.

“Then help me find her killer.”

He looked at me with wide eyes. “What do you want?”

“There was a man, yesterday, he was in the bar. An old guy, about 70 years old, but fit, you know? He was talking to Laura, sat with her at her table.”

I watched the clerk's eyes as I spoke. I saw the recognition.

“Who is it?”

“Nobody, I don't know.”

“You do know, so tell me.”

“It's nobody, I…I…”

“Why are you lying to me?”

“I'm not!”

“Don't you understand? He's the one.”

“The one?”

“The one who pushed her out that window.”

His face began to flush.

“He told me not to tell anyone. Said if I did he would be waiting for me. That he would come when I least expected it. There was something in his voice, in his eyes; this guy wasn't kidding around.”

“You're in a lot of trouble,” I said.

“I know.”

“Well this is your chance to redeem yourself.”

He closed his eyes again, probably wondering how the heck he got involved in all this.

“Mr. Rinaldi, he's in room 704. It's a suite, two bedrooms and a bathroom, on the top floor.”

“Right.”

“What shall I do?” he said. “Shall I call someone?”

“No, you just sit tight, and hope for your sake that it's me who comes back down and not Rinaldi.”

I left the now terrified desk clerk and headed for the elevator. As I rode up to the top floor, those damn pictures of Laura kept flashing through my head, haunting me with that look in her eye. That sneer. That utter despair of ever finding something to smile about in this life.

The doors of the elevator opened on the top floor. The long hallway was empty, and there was that feeling, that dread that hung like a weight in my gut. I crept slowly forwards towards room 704. The hallway was silent, but from inside the suite I could hear a kind of rubbing sound. I tried to think what it might be, but nothing came to mind.

I turned the handle of the door and found it unlocked. I pushed it open a few inches and listened. The rubbing noise wasn't coming from the first room, but from somewhere further into the suite, maybe the bathroom.

I pushed the door open another couple of inches and slipped quietly through the gap, and into 704. The room was large, two big windows, a king size bed, and there sitting in a chair looking right at me was Brad Thompson, a look of utter disbelief on his face. He didn't yell out. He didn't say anything. And then I saw why. His throat had been cut. His sweater soaked in blood.

“He thought because I was old he had nothing to fear.” The voice belonged to the old man I had seen with Laura in the bar. Through the open door to the bathroom, I saw him, bent over the sink cleaning the top layer of paint off from the original beneath – the rubbing sound. Beside him was Brad Thompson's gun.

“He came into the room when I was shaving.” He pointed at a cutthroat razor on the sink, blood still dripping from its blade. “He wanted more money, said that she had told him that the painting was worth millions. He said that he would keep quiet about my involvement with the girl. And when I refused, he pulled out the gun and threatened to shoot me.” The old man sniggered. “He really thought he had the upper hand. But you see I have something he never did have – the will. It was quite comical really. You see I looked into his eyes and knew that he did not have the guts to fire that gun; even when I came at him with the razor. You can see the look of surprise on his face. I walked right up to him, and in one quick movement sliced the blade across his throat, sat him down in the chair and took his gun. And now here I am with my prize. But you have spoiled my plans Mr. Best.

“Perhaps you have some questions before I shoot you? You see I think I can arrange it some how to look like a fight gone wrong between you and Mr. Thompson here. So, questions? Perhaps you are wondering how I knew about the painting?”

“I already know, Mr. Rinaldi, if indeed that is your real name?”

He smiled, so confident, after all he had the gun, the razor, what did he have to worry about?

“You were the orphan boy who brought food to the Major when he was painting over the Correggio. You didn't think much about it at the time, or since. Then one day you come across an article in a magazine about Nazi loot, and there is the Correggio painting, the same one you saw the Major painting over all those years before. And then when you read that there is a ten per cent reward, or finder's fee, you begin the task of tracking down the Major. You come to New Dresden and find that he still has the Correggio, that he still has it covered by his own work; and you know then that no one, other than the Major, knows the value of that small piece of art hanging on the wall at the Harrington Mansion . But how to get it; the alarm system is more than you can handle; you need to find another way. So you watch the house, learn all you can. You discover that the Major's granddaughter has a boyfriend with an addiction to expensive drugs. You easily corrupt him and promise him a large sum of money to convince Laura to steal the painting for him. They had no idea what the painting was really worth, but then when Laura removed the frame she could see along the edges that there were two layers of paint, that indeed there was something hidden beneath the Harrington landscape.”

“Quite right, Mr. Best, you can see here in the right hand corner where she cleaned the painting to try and find a signature.”

“And she found it,” I continued, “the mark of the painter – Correggio. She knew then that the painting was worth millions.”

“She tried to palm me off with another painting,” said the Major. “That made me very angry.”

“So you killed her; you threw her out the window.”

“No.”

“No!”

“I didn't kill her.”

“You're lying!”

“She was alive when I left the room. I smacked her face, yes, but I didn't kill her. I told her to get me the real one, told her she was a little slut and not to mess me about. You see the boyfriend told me how he had talked her in to posing for him, and how he had then threatened to show those pictures to her grandfather if she did not steal the painting for him. I knew what sort of girl she was: a slut!”

It was all clear to me now. All of them had let her down. Her parents were dead, her boyfriend had betrayed her, even her grandfather was a thief; and now they had dragged her down too. She must have felt that there was no way out; and when he called her a slut, it was just too much to bear.

Laura had jumped.

I looked at the painting in Rinaldi's hand, The Angel of the Basilica, appearing through the mess of the other painting. The angelic face, the light in her eyes, and all I could think about was that one moment in time when I had seen that same look in Laura's eyes; and now it was gone; her future had been lost to her, to me, to us.

I don't really understand why I did it. It seemed as if Laura appeared in that painting and Rinaldi had hold of her. I moved towards him. He held onto the painting with one hand, and picked up the gun with the other.

“Stay back!” he said.

I just kept walking towards him. He took a small step back, seemed to lose his balance, and then fired the gun. I felt the pain burn suddenly in my side. But nothing was going to stop me now. I got to him, punched him so hard he left the ground. He collapsed unconscious on the bathroom floor.

I knew by the pain that I didn't have much time. I looped his hands around the toilet bowl and secured them there with my belt. I picked up the painting and went back into the bedroom. I was losing a lot of blood. There was a towel on the bed. I held it up to the wound. I took out my phone and dialed.

“This is Lou Harry.”

“Lou, its Jack.” My voice was weak.

“Jack where are you?”

“Albion Hotel, room 704. I've been shot Lou.”

“Jack, what! Are you OK, Jack, Jack!”

The phone slipped from my hand. I thought about Laura and then everything went black.

When I opened my eyes I could see a maple tree. Its leaves were bright amber and the sky around it was blue and eternal. I could hear music playing and a woman's voice reading out loud from a detective novel. I was lying in a bed looking out of a window. I turned towards the sound of the voice and saw a nurse. When she saw that I was awake, she smiled.

Three days later, after they released me from the hospital, I drove down to the station house to see Lou, to thank him for getting to me in time.

“I tell you Jack, I don't usually see that much blood, even in this job. It was like a butcher's convention in there.”

I tried to laugh but it was painful. The bullet had hit one of my ribs and then glanced off into a fleshy part of my abdomen. I had been lucky.

“You know, Jack, there's always a job here for you, if you ever fancy rejoining the force.”

I smiled.

“Listen Lou, there's a big favor I want to ask of you.”

“Sure Jack.”

“Do you think we could do something about that memory chip?”

“I already did, Jack. Somehow by accident I wiped it clean, and the computer. Well you know how us old guys are with all this new technology.” He winked at me.

“Good man, Lou.”

When Major Harrington heard what happened he went to the police and confessed what he had done. The case was before the courts.

I found the Major sitting in his gallery. It was empty. Mrs. Phillips told me that the Major had shipped all the paintings off for auction; the proceeds to go to charity.

“Jack,” the Major said in that gravelly old voice of his. “It's good to see you on your feet again.”

“The paintings?”

“I couldn't bear to look at them anymore.”

“And the Correggio?”

“It was returned. They say it will be housed at an art museum in Milan .”

“I saw it,” I said, “just a brief glimpse. I can see why you loved it.”

“Pah! I wasted my whole life, Jack, loving the wrong things.”

“I think you know that isn't true.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I wouldn't be here if it was. You called me in because you were worried about Laura.”

“Did I? Or did I just want you to get my painting back?”

“You did it for Laura. Despite what you say, I know you loved her.”

“Maybe,” he said and then he sighed. “Why is it that some of us live forever, while others leave it way too soon?”

“I don't know, Major,” I said. “I just don't know.”

I left him in his empty gallery, with the tears rolling down his cheeks, and went out into the sunshine and drove down the hill back to town.