Peters. You bought a book in my shop and my name stuck in your mind. Then you read something or heard something to the effect that I had a minor criminal career years ago before I became an antiquarian bookman. You made a mental connection, which I suppose is understandable, and—”
“I don’t think you stole the painting from my grandfather.”
“You don’t?”
“Why, did you?”
“No, but—”
“Because I suppose it’s possible, although you would have been a fairly young burglar yourself at the time, wouldn’t you? Personally I’ve always thought that my father was right and Uncle Billy took it, but for all I know Uncle Billy was right and my father took it. Whoever took it sold it, and do you know who bought it?”
“I could take a wild guess.”
“I’m sure you could.”
“J. McLendon Barlow.”
That was news to her. She stared at me. I repeated the name and it still didn’t seem to mean anything to her. “That was the man who loaned it to the Vermillion Galleries,” I said, “and later on he donated it to the Hewlett Collection. Remember?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “The painting—my painting—was on loan from the collection of a Mr. Gordon Kyle Onderdonk.”
“Oh,” I said.
“And I read newspapers, Mr. Rhodenbarr. That minor criminal career of yours doesn’t seem to have ceased with your entry into the book business. If the papers are to be believed, you were arrested for Mr. Onderdonk’s murder.”
“I suppose that’s technically true.”
“And now you’re out on bail?”
“More or less.”
“And you stole the painting from his apartment. My painting, my Mondrian.”
“Everyone seems to think that,” I said, “but it’s not true. The painting’s gone, I’ll admit that, but I never laid a glove on it. There’s some sort of traveling exhibit coming up and Onderdonk was going to lend them his painting. He sent it out for reframing.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“He wouldn’t?”
“The sponsors of the show would attend to that, if they felt the work needed reframing. I’m positive you took the painting.”
“It was gone when I got there.”
“That’s very difficult to believe.”
“I had trouble believing it myself, Ms. Peters. I still have trouble, but I was there and saw for myself. Or didn’t see for myself, since there was nothing to see except an empty space where a picture had been.”
“And Onderdonk told you he’d sent the picture out for framing?”
“I didn’t ask him. He was dead.”
“You killed him before you noticed the painting was gone?”
“I didn’t get a chance to kill him because somebody beat me to it. And I didn’t know he was dead because I didn’t look in the closet for his body, because I didn’t know there was a body to look for.”
“Someone else killed him.”
“Well, I don’t think it was suicide. If it was, it’s the worst case of suicide I ever heard of.”
She looked off into the middle distance and a couple of frown lines clouded her brow. “Whoever killed him,” she said, “took the painting.”
“Could be.”
“Who killed him?”
“I don’t know.”
“The police think you did it.”
“They probably know better,” I said. “At least the arresting officer does. He’s known me for years, he knows I don’t kill people. But they can prove I was in the apartment, so I’ll do for a suspect until they come up with a better one.”
“And how will that come about?”
I’d already thought of this. “Well, if I can figure out who did it, I suppose I could pass the word.”
“So you’re trying to learn the identity of the killer.”
“I’m just trying to get through the days one at a time,” I said, “but I’ll admit I’m keeping my eyes and ears open.”
“When you find the killer, you’ll find the painting.”
“It’s not when, it’s if. And even so, I may or may not find the painting at the same time.”
“When you do, I want it.”
“Well—”
“It’s rightfully mine. You must realize that. And I mean to have it.”
“You just expect me to hand it over to you?”
“That would be the smartest thing you could do.”
I stared at this delicate creature. “Good grief,” I said. “Was that a threat?”
She didn’t draw her eyes away, and what big eyes they were. “I would have killed Onderdonk,” she said, “to get that painting.”
“You’re really obsessed.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Listen, this may strike you as a wild idea, but have you ever thought about therapy? Obsessions just keep the focus off our real problems, you know, and if you could have the obsession lifted—”
“When I have my hands on my painting, the obsession