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white curving walls, and had entered what looked like a miniature museum. All
white walls and new brown carpet. As far as Thorn could tell, Seabright s mind
was still firmly on things other than vampirism.
Some of the things in this room are mine, the big man intoned, sounding
quite satisfied.
Were mine, I mean, even before last night s auction. Never seem to have room
in my own house in Santa Fe for all my stuff. What do you think of this?
It was a graceful silver ship, intricately modeled, standing alone on a low
cube of furniture. Thorn chose not to see his host s generous gesture inviting
him to pick it up. If he touched it the nonreflectable quality of his fingers
would be very plain in the curve of argent hull. Instead he bent his head and
walked around the object on its low stand, looking at it carefully.
German . . . almost certainly sixteenth century. It is some time since I have
seen a nef of this quality in private hands. Well, the piece was not really
all that impressive; but it did not seem likely that a little judicious
flattery would do any harm.
It seemed that he had passed the examination, or its first question anyway.
Seabright, a little more relaxed now, chatted some more. Still probing, doing
what seemed his best to probe cleverly. Finding out, as he must have thought,
a fair number of things about Thorn without giving away much about himself.
Thorn inclined more and more to the opinion that the mirror in the game
room-lounge had been completely accidental. He doubted more and more Mary
Rogers s estimation of this man as a Machiavellian murderer. Seabright simply
did not seem bright enough to carry off any such scheme successfully.
The portion of the Seabright collection here visible contained a couple of
really respectable things, not to mention the one in which Thorn was really
interested and which they had not come to yet. Also it contained some that
verged no, more than verged upon the pornographic. Those two young ladies
under the oddly rumpled coverlet had their eyes closed but were enjoying more
than sleep; the sculptured monk standing close behind the choirboy was, on
second glance, not really intent on music. These examples and others more
explicit appeared to be for the most part underground Victorian imitations of
earlier masters. Maybe the porn things were all Ellison Seabright s to start
with, for he discussed them roundly and seemed to take an extra pride in their
display. They were not really to
Mr. Thorn s taste, but he could be polite.
The walls of these underground rooms were thick, Mr. Thorn knew, inside their
earthen envelope. Even with only interior surfaces visible he could sense the
thickness all round him, virtually impenetrable, like the walls of a bomb
shelter or a bank vault. Faultless air conditioning, that even Thorn could
barely hear, maintained a good museum s silence, coolness, balanced humidity.
Yet there were soundless echoes of murder and violence in the air down here.
Death not all that old. The much-
publicized Seabright murder-kidnapping, of course. But Thorn had got the
impression from the news accounts that all those scenes had been in the upper
levels of the house.
Trading opinions, some of which may have made sense, about the Renaissance,
the two men presently moved farther into the gallery. Mr. Thorn came to a
halt. He saw with a pang the well-lighted, centrally located space on a wall
where the Magdalen should obviously be. She was not here, though she must have
been. The empty place of honor was marked by the very faint outline of her
frame.
He hoped, but did not immediately ask for, a quick explanation of where she
was right now. Feeling more disappointment than was entirely reasonable, he
continued his expected admiring commentary on the lesser works surrounding
him. A few of these he could recognize as having been at the auction room.
They had been brought back here afterwards, but she had not.
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At last he stopped talking, to stand gazing pointedly at that central gap.
His huge host gestured, with selfconscious drama. That s where the Verrocchio
was, of course. Naturally I m curious as to just what you meant when you
mentioned the question of its origins to my secretary on the phone. I
hope you re not going to try to cast any doubts on its authenticity? I d hate
to think that my confidence in that painting as an investment has been
misplaced.
Thorn smiled. Oh, by no means. It is extremely valuable.
I m glad you agree. I
will take your opinions on art fairly seriously, you know, now that we ve had
this little talk.
Though frankly some of the ideas you have on the Renaissance seem pretty
far-fetched, no offense, I m willing to concede there may be areas where you
know what you re talking about. Seabright emitted a calculated chuckle.
You mentioned the painting s origins. I ve already heard one crackpot theory
on that subject, which I hope you re not going to endorse. But there, I m sure
I do you an injustice, Thorn. You must have something sensible to say on the
subject. Possibly with evidence to back it up? The big man paused, in an
attitude of hopeful inquiry, of generous expectation that he was going to be
told something that made sense.
Thorn hesitated. I do have some ideas on the subject, as I told your
secretary. As for evidence . . . before I begin, Mr. Seabright, would you mind
telling me how long the painting has been here?
In this room? Why not? Since 1953. That s when my brother brought it home
from Argentina. Some Nazi who evidently saw the end coming sent it there from
Europe in 1944. During the war one of the collecting teams working
for Goering had evidently liberated it, shall we say, from a chateau in
Normandy. How long it had been at that particular chateau, or where it had
been before that, we were never able to discover. Only a tantalizing hint or
two . . . these things, the great ones, tend to have remarkable histories,
don t they? Seabright ran a hand back over his suntanned brow.
Thorn glanced at him, then back at the blank wall. Indeed they do. They also
have a habit of being stolen.
Had you ever laid eyes on it, yourself, before two nights ago? I don t
suppose you had the chance.
On the contrary. I saw it several times. Some years ago.
That had not been the answer Seabright was prepared for. The big man swung his
heavy arms, like a furniture salesman getting bored on floor duty. You saw it
here? Ah, I see, you were acquainted with my brother, then.
No, I regret, I did not know him. Or that he had the painting here . . . it
was in Europe.
Obviously calculating years, moving his lips very slightly as he counted,
Seabright gave a little shake of his head, whose thickness seemed to be
becoming more and more apparent. You must have been only a child.
Thorn had turned, was leaning with his arms folded against the blank space on
the wall, staring at things on the far side of the room. Yes . . . yes, I
suppose I was. An ill-tempered child. Though at the time I was quite sure of
my own power and wisdom, and there was no lack of people willing to humor me.
But then this painting
He came to a halt, not knowing how much he ought to say in the presence of
this fool. Talking to Seabright was helpful, in a way, as talking to a child
might be. But who else might be listening?
The painting, Thorn went on, acquired for me some special associations.
Special meanings, that even now I
find it difficult to explain. Yes, even difficult to explain to myself. He
looked closely into Seabright s uncomprehending face, and for the first time
the big man drew back a little. Thorn added: For a long time I have wondered
where it was. Then, more mildly, with a smile: My own collection runs
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