Sidney Sheldon - If Tomorrow Comes

The guard rushed over, calling out, “їQuй pasa? їQuй pasa?”

The accident had attracted the attention of the tourists, and they milled around the fallen woman, smearing the paints from the crushed tubes into grotesque images on the hardwood floor. It was an unholy mess, and the prince was due to appear at any moment. The guard was in a panic. He yelled out, “ЎSergio! iVen acб! iPronto!”

Tracy watched as the guard from the next room came running in to help. Cesar Porretta was alone in the salon with the Puerto.

Tracy was in the middle of the uproar. The two guards were dying vainly to push the tourists away from the area of the paint-smeared floor.

“Get the director,” Sergio yelled. “ЎEn seguida!”

The other guard hurried off toward the stairs. ЎQuй4 birria! What a mess!

Two minutes later Christian Machada was at the scene of the disaster. The director took one horrified look ad screamed, “Get some cleaning women down here — Quickly! Mops and cloths and turpentine. ЎPronto!”

A young aide rushed to do his bidding.

Machada turned to Sergio, “Get back to your post,” he snapped.

“Yes, sir.”

Tracy watched the guard push his way through the crowd to the room where Cesar Porretta was working.

Cooper had not taken his eyes off Tracy for an instant. He had waited for her next move. But it had not come. She had not gone near any of the paintings, nor had she made contact with an accomplice. All she had done was knock over an easel and spill some paints on the floor, but he was certain it had been done deliberately. But to what purpose? Somehow, Cooper felt that whatever had been planned had already happened. He looked around the walls of the salon. None of the paintings was missing.

Cooper hurried into the adjoining room. There was no one there but the guard and an elderly hunchback seated at his easel, copying the Clothed Maja. All the paintings were in place. But something was wrong. Cooper knew it.

He hurried back to the harassed director, whom he had met earlier. “I have reason to believe,” Cooper blurted out, “that a painting has been stolen from here in the past few minutes.”

Christian Machada stared at the wild-eyed American. “What are you talking about? If that were so, the guards would have sounded the alarm.”

“I think that somehow a fake painting was substituted for real one.”

The director gave him a tolerant smile. “There is one small thing wrong with your theory, seсor. It is not known to the general public, but there are sensors hidden behind each painting. If anyone tried to lift a painting from the wall — which they would certainly have to do to substitute another painting — the alarm would instantly sound.”

Daniel Cooper was still not satisfied. “Could your alarm be disconnected?”

“No. If someone cut the wire to the power, that also would cause the alarm to go off. Seсor, it is impossible for anyone to steal a painting from this museum. Our security is what you call proof from fools.”

Cooper stood there shaking with frustration. Everything the director said was convincing. It did seem impossible. But then why had Tracy Whitney deliberately spilled those paints?

Cooper would not give up. “Humor me. Would you ask your staff to go through the museum and check to make sure nothing is missing? I'll be at my hotel.”

There was nothing more Daniel Cooper could do.

At 7:00 that evening Christian Machada telephoned Cooper. “I have personally made an inspection, seсor. Every painting is in its proper place. Nothing is missing from the museum.”

So that was that. Seemingly, it had been an accident. But Daniel Cooper, with the instincts of a hunter, sensed that his quarry had escaped.

Jeff had invited Tracy to dinner in the main dining room of the Ritz Hotel.

“You're looking especially radiant this evening,” Jeff complimented her.

“Thank you. I feel absolutely wonderful.”

“It's the company. Come with me to Barcelona next week, Tracy. It's a fascinating city. You'd love —”

“I'm sorry, Jeff. I can't. I'm leaving Spain.”

“Really?” His voice was filled with regret. “When?”

“In a few days.”

“Ah. I'm disappointed.”

You're going to be more disappointed, Tracy thought, when you learn I've stolen the Puerto. She wondered how he had planned to steal the painting. Not that it mattered any longer. I've outwitted clever Jeff Stevens. Yet, for some inexplicable reason Tracy felt a faint trace of regret.

Christian Machada was seated in his office enjoying his morning cup of strong black coffee and congratulating himself on what a success the prince's visit had been. Except for the regrettable incident of the spilled paints, everything had gone off precisely as planned. He was grateful that the prince and his retinue had been diverted until the mess could be cleaned up. The director smiled when he thought about the idiot American investigator who had tried to convince him that someone had stolen a painting from the Prado. Not yesterday, not today, not tomorrow, he thought smugly.

His secretary walked into the office. “Excuse me, sir. There is a gentleman to see you. He asked me to give you this.”

She handed the director a letter. It was on the letterhead of the Kunsthaus Museum in Zurich:

My Esteemed Colleague:

This letter will serve to introduce Monsieur Henri Rendell, our senior art expert. Monsieur Rendell is making a tour of world museums and is particularly eager to see your incomparable collection. I would greatly appreciate any courtesies you extend him.

The letter was signed by the curator of the museum.

Sooner or later, the director thought happily, everyone comes to me.

“Send him in.”

Henri Rendell was a tall, distinguished-looking, balding man with a heavy Swiss accent. When they shook hands, Machada noticed that the index finger on the right hand of his visitor was missing.

Henri Rendell said, “I appreciate this. It is the first opportunity I have had to visit Madrid, and I am looking forward to seeing your renowned works of art.”

Christian Machada said modestly, “I do not think you will be disappointed, Monsieur Rendell. Please come with me. I shall personally escort you.”

They moved slowly, walking through the rotunda with its Flemish masters, and Rubens and his followers, and they visited the central gallery, filled with Spanish masters, and Henri Rendell studied each painting carefully. The two men spoke as one expert to another, evaluating the various artists' style and perspective and color sense.

“Now,” the director declared, “for the pride of Spain.” He led his visitor downstairs, into the gallery filled with Goyas.

“It is a feast for the eyes!” Rendell exclaimed, overwhelmed. “Please! Let me just stand and look.”

Christian Machada waited, enjoying the man's awe.

“Never have I seen anything so magnificent,” Rendell declared. He walked slowly through the salon, studying each painting in turn. “The Witches' Sabbath,” Rendell said. “Brilliant!”

They moved on.

“Goya's Self-Portrait — fantastic!”

Christian Machada beamed.

Rendell paused in front of the Puerto. “A nice fake.” He started to move on.

The director grabbed his arm. “What? What was it you said, seсor?”

“I said it is a nice fake.”

“You are very much mistaken.” He was filled with indignation.

“I do not think so.”

“You most certainly are,” Machada said stiffly. “I assure you, it is genuine. I have its provenance.”

Henri Rendell stepped up to the picture and examined it more closely. “Then its provenance has also been faked. This was done by Goya's disciple, Eugenio Lucas y Padilla. You must be aware, of course, that Lucas painted hundreds of fake Goyas.”