Free The Palace Guard by Charlotte MacLeod Page A

know.”
    “But, Jesus, Bill, don’t you even have a clue?”
    Jones shook his curly black locks. “I even”—he waggled his dainty hands and looked from under his lids as if he were about to utter an impropriety—“like, you know, asked around. All I can tell you is it’s a beautiful job. Clams by the bucket, man!”
    Sarah could bear it no longer. “Would you two please tell me precisely what you’re talking about?”
    Both men looked at her as if she were somewhat feebleminded. “Bill was explaining,” said Bittersohn, “that he has personal knowledge of fifty-seven originals from the Madam’s that have been sold out of Boston, that he hasn’t the faintest idea who stole them, and that the proceeds from the sales must have run into many millions of dollars unless the thief is an idiot, which doesn’t seem possible. Where did the paintings go, Bill?”
    “Around. You know.”
    “Any to New York?”
    “No, too close. The guy’s an artist,” said Jones with due respect.
    “Speaking of artists, who does the copies?”
    Bill shrugged. “I don’t know, but it’s all one guy.”
    “You sure of that?”
    Bill shrugged again.
    “Sorry,” Bittersohn apologized. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
    “But how could one person do so many?” cried Sarah. “I met someone who does that sort of thing and she says it takes ages because one has to be so careful about the details.”
    “Practically a life work,” Bill agreed, “but it’s been going on for a long time. That little Giotto hanging to the right of the fireplace in the music room was fenced on October first, 1959, through a sporting goods dealer named Mickey Brannigan down in the old neighborhood.”
    “Sporting goods dealer means a person who buys and sells stolen goods, Mrs. Kelling,” Bittersohn explained before she could embarrass him by asking. “Mickey’s dead now, I suppose.”
    “Su-ure. Long ago.”
    Otherwise Bill wouldn’t have ratted, Sarah thought. She wondered what Brannigan had died of but thought she’d better not ask.
    “How many of the Madam’s paintings did Brannigan fence?” said Bittersohn.
    “Just the one. Mickey wasn’t an art man. He handled like general merchandise. I can’t find anybody who’s handled more than one or two.”
    “Then who makes the contacts? That’s a hell of a job, Bill.”
    “You’re telling me, Maxie? I wish I knew. I’d like to shake his hand. Or hers.”
    “You sure it’s not theirs?”
    “Look, pal, this little caper’s been going on for a lot of years and there hasn’t been a leak yet. Like they say, two people can keep a secret if one of them’s dead, right?”
    Bittersohn nodded. “Fifty-seven fakes, eh?”
    “I’d say a lot more than fifty-seven, but that’s your department. The Madam probably got stuck with a bunch of old ones in the first place. Fifty-seven originals fenced within the past thirty years and fifty-seven copies all from the same hand hanging in the palazzo now. That’s all I can tell you for sure, Max. Well, I’ve got to blow. Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Kelling. Nice to have met you.” He managed to convey a subtle impression that the meeting had been a great deal more than nice. “If I find out any more, Maxie, I’ll be in touch.”
    “Do that. See you, Bill.”
    “Su-ure.” Their guest slunk off down the back stairs, keeping in the shadows.
    “I suppose he’s on his way to some den of vice,” Sarah observed rather wistfully.
    Bittersohn shook his head. “As a matter of fact, he’s going to a poetry reading at Wheelock College. How would you like to invite C. Edwald Palmerston to tea and crumpets or something?”
    “You can’t be serious! You have no idea what he’s like.”
    “That’s why I think it might be nice to get acquainted.”
    “Nice is not the operative word. If you’d said helpful or productive—”
    “Okay, helpful or productive, so how about it?”
    “If I must, but I’m not having him here without someone to back