The Dark Lady (13 page)

He shook his head. “I hate to disappoint you, Leonardo, but it's been closed for renovations.”

“How can that be?” I said. “The article said that it was built only two years ago.”

“It seems that someone robbed it last week, and they're installing a more sophisticated security system.” He walked over to a chair and sat down. “So why don't we just spend the afternoon here?”

I stared at him for a moment, looking for telltale bulges in his clothing that would signify the presence of a weapon. I could not discern any, but I realized that it didn't matter anyway: He was far larger and stronger than I was.

Mustering my courage, I said: “Friend Valentine, my luggage has not yet arrived. I think I should go back down to the lobby to make sure that it has not been misplaced.”

“The porter will be bringing it along any minute now,” he assured me. “He's probably loaded it onto a cart with a bunch of other bags, and is dropping them off one room at a time.”

“Nevertheless,” I said, “I have some personal belongings that are quite dear to me.”

He pointed to the hotel intercom console. “If you're really worried about it, call up the reception desk and see if your luggage is on its way.”

“I would feel much more secure if I were to go in person,” I said truthfully, edging a step toward the door.

He shrugged. “If you're
that
worried, go ahead.”

“You don't intend to stop me?” I blurted out.

He seemed amused at the idea. “Why should I want to stop you?”

“I thought... that is, it seemed... ” Flustered and embarrassed, I was unable to form a cogent sentence.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “You just changed colors.”

“It is the Hue of Humiliation,” I explained. “I thought, for some reason, that you wanted to keep me here.”

Heath chuckled. “You're free to go anywhere you want.” He paused. “On the other hand, I'm afraid I'll have to take advantage of your hospitality until nightfall.”

“I don't understand.”

“It's quite simple, really,” he said. “The police are looking for me.”

“You are a fugitive?” I exclaimed, my fears returning.

“No, just a suspect.”

“Then why do you hide from the police?” I asked. “Surely the best course of action is to make yourself available to them and answer their questions truthfully.”

“That's only the best course of action if you're innocent,” he replied with a smile. “I happen to have done exactly what they think I did.” He paused. “I really hate to inconvenience you like this, Leonardo, but it's only for a few more hours. Once it's dark out, I'll have no difficulty eluding them.”

“Did you kill someone?” I asked, backing away from him.

“Certainly not! I'm an opportunist, not a murderer.”

Suddenly a thought occurred to me. “The painting— is it stolen?”

“I'd never steal anything so mundane,” he replied. “The brush strokes are really quite trite, you know.”

“But you
do
steal paintings?”

He took a sip of his drink, then looked up with an amused expression on his face. “You make me sound like an art thief, Leonardo.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“For a moment,” I said, relaxing somewhat but still ready to retreat again, “I thought you might be responsible for the closing of the art museum.”

“I am,” he replied calmly.

“But you just said you aren't an art thief!”

“'Art thief’ is too limited a description. I also steal jewelry and a number of other beautiful things.” He paused. “I prefer to think of myself as a master criminal. It sounds so much more professional.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

“Because I'm imposing on your hospitality,” he said. “And because an alien can't testify against a human being on Charlemagne.”

“But I can tell the police what I know.”

He shrugged. “They already know what I've done. Proving it is another matter altogether.” He smiled at me. “Besides, we're going to be friends, and that would be a decidedly unfriendly thing to do.”

“I cannot be friends with a thief,” I said adamantly.

“Of course you can. I'm actually a very likable fellow. In point of fact, it's my stock in trade. Without it, I'd have a much harder time in my chosen profession.”

“But why be a thief at all?”

“It's my parents’ fault. I personally view myself as a victim rather than a thief.”

“What have your parents to do with it?”

“They spent too much money.” He finished his drink and leaned forward in his chair. “You see, the Heaths have been a monied family for more generations than you can imagine, and of course, no Heath would ever stoop to working for a living. My own education prepared me to do nothing but squander the family fortune— so you can imagine my disappointment when I found out that Father's taste in women and Mother's passion for gambling had left me precious little to squander.” He paused. “I was totally unqualified for even the most menial position— but I do have a cultivated and exquisitely developed sense of taste, if I say so myself... and since I had been raised to expect certain of life's amenities, it was only natural that I should drift into the one profession for which I am temperamentally suited.”

“What makes you temperamentally suited to be a criminal?” I asked.

“Like all spoiled children, I was raised to care about no one except myself, of course,” he replied. “If I respected other people's rights, I would undergo enormous moral conflicts every time I plied my vocation. Fortunately, I suffer no such qualms, and of course, if it weren't for people like myself, the insurance industry would soon undergo a serious recession, so in my own way I'm actually benefiting the economy.”

“I knew there were thieves in some alien societies,” I said, “but I never thought to meet one who took such pride in his work.”

“Why not be proud of what I do? It's an art form, and I'm certainly a better thief than Sergio Mallachi is a painter.”

“I feel I must point out to you that I am carrying no currency with me,” I said.

“I'd never steal currency,” he said disdainfully. “It's much too easy to trace the serial numbers.”

“It is even easier to trace a stolen portrait,” I noted.

“Ah!” he said with a smile. “But people
spend
currency. They keep their art treasures under lock and key. The trick is to steal things that are so famous that their new owners would never display them publicly. That's why I deal with collectors, and why I never support public auctions.” He paused thoughtfully. “Of course, I make it my business to supply collectors with
anything
they want, including honestly procured artwork, and I frequently act as a middleman for them. And,” he concluded, “I occasionally act as a consultant for clients who have an abundance of wealth and an absence of taste. Usually I arrange for them to purchase paintings like
that,
” he said, pointing to an exceptionally poor abstract that hung behind the couch.

“But if you came by the Mallachi portrait honestly, you could have auctioned
it,
” I pointed out.

“Then people would want to know why I don't have everything auctioned,” he replied. “Consistency may be the hobgoblin of little minds, but inconsistency does tend to bring one to the attention of the police computers.”

“I don't know if I should even be talking to you,” I said, uncomfortably aware of the fact that I had been captivated by his manner and that my fear and apprehension had all but vanished. “You represent immorality and disorder and dishonor.”

“You overestimate my importance, Leonardo,” he replied easily. “I'm merely an opportunist in quest of opportunities, nothing more. If anything, you should feel some sympathy for me; I'm working harder than any Heath in the past five hundred years, doing my best to restore the depleted family treasury.” He paused and seemed to survey his surroundings for the first time. “God, what dreadful taste the decorator had! Bare walls would be better than this hideous metallic wallcovering!” He shook his head. “I'll wager they've hung sporting prints in the bedroom.”

“What did you steal from the museum?” I asked.

“Just one piece,” he said with a shrug. “You wouldn't think the police would become so incensed over a single piece of artwork, would you?”

“It all depends what it was,” I said.

“A Morita sculpture,” he answered.

“A Morita!” I exclaimed.

He nodded, looking quite pleased with himself. “One of his most innovative.”

“But surely the police will find it when they examine your home!”

“It all depends which home they examine,” said Heath with no show of concern. “I've got eleven of them, all under different names, and only three of them on Charlemagne. You don't mind if I pour myself another drink, do you?” He got to his feet and walked over to the bar. “You're sure I can't fix one for you?”

“No.”

“As you wish.” He smiled again. “But where are my manners? Can I order some native Bjornn drink for you? Room service has an adequate selection.”

“I am not thirsty, thank you.”

Just then the porter knocked at the door.

“Come in,” said Heath in a loud voice, and the door opened a moment later. “Just put everything in the bedroom,” he ordered, directing the porter through the room and tipping him on the way out.

“Thank you, Mr. Leonardo,” said the porter. “Enjoy your visit to Oceana.”

“I'm sure that I will,” answered Heath, ordering the door to close.

“But
I
am Leonardo,” I said.

“True,” agreed Heath. “But
I
am more likely to need an alibi than you are.”

“For what?”

“Who knows? The day is young yet.”

“You are a thoroughly reprehensible person,” I said.

He smiled. “But charming. Poppa Heath always held that if you couldn't cultivate a fortune, you should at least cultivate the illusion of one— and that, of course, requires charm.”

“Malcolm Abercrombie has a fortune, and is perhaps the least charming human I know,” I said.

“Abercrombie? He's the man who wants the portrait of the Dark Lady, isn't he?”

“Yes.”

“Why? It's an ugly piece of art. I was almost ashamed to offer it to Tai Chong, but my creditors have expensive tastes and I really must generate some income this week.”

“He collects representations of her.”

“I didn't know she posed for any other artists.”

“She did not pose for the portrait you have offered for sale,” I said. “She has been dead for more than six thousand years.”

“Nonsense,” he scoffed. “She was Mallachi's mistress. For all I know, she still is.”

“You must be mistaken,” I said. “I have seen a photograph of her from the days when Man was still Earthbound.”

He shook his head. “You may have seen someone who
looked
like her.”

“I could not be mistaken. I have seen the evidence.”

“I don't suppose Mallachi could be mistaken either,” replied Heath. “After all, he painted her.”

“I wonder if I could speak to this Mallachi,” I said.

“I don't see why not,” answered Heath. “Of course, I'll have to track him down. He doesn't live on Charlemagne.”

“I would appreciate it.”

“I'll see what I can do,” said Heath. “By the way, how many other portraits of the Dark Lady does Abercrombie own?”

“Twenty-seven.”

A predatory look passed across Heath's face. “Are any of them by well-known artists?”

“Why do you wish to know?” I asked.

He smiled disarmingly. “I'm just making conversation— unless you prefer sitting here in silence until nightfall.”

“You are an admitted art thief,” I replied. “I do not know if I can answer your question.”

“You're hurting my feelings, Leonardo.”

“If so, then I am sorry.”

“I'm a very sensitive person.”

“I have no doubt of it,” I said.

“But you still won't tell me anything about Abercrombie's collection?”

“I require ethical guidance from the House of Crsthionn before I reply.”

“Crsthionn,” he repeated. “That's not the word you used before.”

“Crsthionn is
my
House. Earlier I was speaking about the House of Ilsthni.”

“So you were,” he said. “They're the jewelers and you're the art dealers.” He paused. “Tell me something, Leonardo.”

“If I can.”

“Why do you look so different from the jewelers? After all, you're all members of the same race.”

“We are physically as similar to each other as human beings are,” I replied.

“Structurally, perhaps— but you're orange and violet, and you've got broad stripes all over you. The other Bjornns were covered with circles, and were green and black.”

“Men come in different colors, and yet you are all Men. It is our Pattern and our color that determine which of the thirty-one Houses we will enter, and yet we are all Bjornns.”

“You mean you're stuck with a profession based on the markings you have at birth?”

“Were you not, by your own admission, forced into your own immoral profession due to an accident of birth?” I asked.

“Touché.” He grinned. He paused for a moment. “Still, had my parents not squandered away my birthright, I would have had numerous fields open to me. You, evidently, did not.”

“You make it sound limiting, and I assure you it is not. Every profession has numerous different duties and disciplines connected with it.”

“But you still have to enter that profession,” he persisted.

“We become part of that House,” I said. “There is a difference.”

“I don't see it.”

“Unlike you, we are descended from herd animals, and so we have an overriding instinct to
belong,
to be a part of the Family. The greatest tragedy that can befall a Bjornn is to be born with a Pattern other than those of the thirty-one Houses.”

“Does it happen often?” asked Heath.

“Perhaps once in two thousand times,” I replied. “The child is ostracized, and dies almost immediately.”

“It sounds rather barbaric to me.”

“Far from it. The race strives for genetic purity, and to allow a non-Patterned into the society is to court disaster.”