Free The Palace Guard by Charlotte MacLeod

pocket. Any idea where the paint remover came from, by the way?”
    “Yes, it was mine. I repair some of the frames, as Dolores may have mentioned, and do other small jobs of that sort. I prefer the liquid paint remover to the viscous kind because the work is often delicate and I find it easier to control. The bottle was simply taken off my workbench, which is also in the basement, of course.”
    “Is that supposed to mean somebody’s trying to frame the framer?”
    “Oh, I hardly think so. That would be a bit too obvious, wouldn’t it? I should be happy to know, though, that somebody isn’t trying to kill me. That’s why I felt I’d be well advised to have this little chat with you, sir. The police are showing an inclination to write Brown’s death off as suicide. I don’t want to be written off along with Brown.”
    “Have you any special reason to think you might be?”
    “Only that ignorance is always dangerous. Since I don’t know why Witherspoon and Brown were killed, I have no idea whether or not my having been in the palazzo on both occasions may constitute a threat to the murderer.”
    “Cousin Brooks,” cried Sarah, “you must give up that job this instant.”
    “What for?”
    “Because I’d feel perfectly awful if anything happened to you.”
    “Out of respect for your sensibilities, then, I shall try to keep from being bumped off. Or is it rubbed out? As to the job, I don’t think it’s quite the done thing to walk out at a time like this. I’m sure Bittersohn understands my feeling. Speaking of walking, do you think it would be in order for me to ask Mrs. Sorpende out for a little stroll some evening soon? I thought she might care to observe the nighthawks.”
    “All right, Brooks, be a hero if you must. As to the nighthawks, Mrs. Sorpende loves to walk and I’m sure she’d be enraptured.”
    “And as to the museum,” said Bittersohn, “just hang in there till we see what develops. I’m sending somebody over to have a look tomorrow. Keep me posted, and don’t leave anything eatable or drinkable in your locker.”

Chapter 8
    T HE NEXT NIGHT MR. Bittersohn brought a guest back to dinner. The guest was not dressed for the occasion. In fact he was hardly dressed at all. In addition to the filthy poplin raincoat he shed on arriving, he wore a nondescript sports shirt, shrunken chino pants, and a pair of run-down loafers. Tie, socks, and undershirt were blatantly absent. His face, on the other hand, was modestly veiled in a three days’ growth of blue-black whiskers. He was short, thin, and swarthy. His manners were polished as a duke’s, and he talked volubly throughout the meal in a confidential murmur, leaning far over the table and waving a fork or a bit of bread in an exquisite little hand. Sarah’s boarders, especially Jennifer LaValliere, found him entrancing.
    So this was Bill Jones, the hot painting expert. Sarah wondered how soon Bill would approach her with a nice bargain in Vuillards. After the ritual half hour for coffee in the library she went up to her sitting room, rather expecting that Bittersohn and his secret agent would soon follow. They did not. She’d just about decided that they’d gone downstairs to Bittersohn’s room or that Jones had eloped with Miss LaValliere when they appeared, Bittersohn beckoning mysteriously as he eased the door open, Jones sliding along the walls and slipping noiselessly into the room. Sarah waited breathless for one of them to produce the Maltese Falcon.
    Bill Jones, however, merely selected the seat farthest from the light, melted into the upholstery, and murmured almost inaudibly, “You called it, pal.”
    Bittersohn nodded. “What’s your count?”
    “I make it fifty-seven. Most professional job I ever saw.”
    “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me who’s involved.”
    Bill shook his head. “Nobody I know.”
    “Bill, old buddy, this is Max you’re talking to, remember?”
    “Pal, I’m leveling. I don’t