London Art Chase (15 page)
He looked over at Maddie in amazement. “How in the world did you know?”
Maddie pulled Mr. Hughes out of sight as Aria checked over her shoulder, scanning the street. She must not have seen them, because she went inside and closed the door. Maddie doubled over, catching her breath.
When she finally could breathe again, she said, “I saw her at the National Gallery. She was talking on the phone about a Renoir, which caught my attention, because we'd just seen you take the Renoir. I thought her talking about a Renoir meant everyone knew about the robbery, but then the director didn't know anything about what had happened.”
“And he didn't explain our new procedure for bringing paintings to the Archival office, since that procedure is confidential,” Mr. Hughes said, nodding. “I see.”
“The director treated me like I was crazy, and didn't tell me anything at all,” Maddie said. “I noticed Aria in the first place because she had paint under her fingernails, the way my art teacher at school does. I've always thought that I'd know I'm a real artist when I have paint under my fingernails like that. You know, the kind that doesn't come out no matter how hard you try, because every time it's almost gone you paint again and cake more on.”
“You're an artist?” Mr. Hughes asked.
“I draw, and sometimes I paint.”
Mr. Hughes looked about to say something more when something caught his eye and he looked over Maddie's shoulder and seemed to remember they were
standing on a random street outside Aria's house, and that she had just stolen and sold a painting. “So . . . back to the point. How did you know Aria was the thief? And how did you know she'd be at Trafalgar Square today?”
“I saw her at your office earlier. She was on the phone again, talking to someone about meeting at the Square at three o'clock, and that
it
would be ready. After she'd been talking about the Renoir, I had this feeling I couldn't ignore, not even when I knew I should let it go. And you said the thief had to be someone who knew which paintings had come to your office. Since she was a messenger, Aria could poke around in both offices. Plus, she had a giant bag that could easily have hidden the painting. I asked Miss Julia to let me check if the painting was missing, but she said we couldn't bother you.”
“And if you'd come back in, we might have been able to stop Aria from selling the painting.”
“But now it's gone. She sold it to a man with two huge guards.”
“We can work on finding him later. But for now, I suppose we need to go speak to Aria.” Mr. Hughes started toward Aria's house and then stopped. “What am I thinking? Actually, what we need to do is to get you home.”
“But we can't let Aria go!” Maddie said. “She ran all the way homeâshe might have even seen us following her. She won't wait around long.”
“No one knows you're out here on your own, true?” Mr. Hughes asked, and then answered his own question. “Of course that's true. The minute someone realizes you're gone, trouble and lots and lots of worry are going to break out. They've probably already discovered you are gone. Do you have any way to contact Miss Twist? Her phone number, perhaps?”
A few blocks down, a bobby clip-clopped across the street on his horse.
“Officer!” Mr. Hughes called, but the bobby didn't turn back.
“I have my emergency phone,” Maddie said. “But it's only for emergencies . . .”
“I think this qualifies. Stay right here and call Miss Twist. I'll go down the block to see if I can catch that bobby.” He gave her a piercing look. “Promise me you'll stay right there. I'm not going so far that you won't be in clear sight. I'll know if you take one step toward that flat. Got it?”
“Got it,” Maddie said.
Her phone was heavy in her hands. She could already hear Miss Julia's voice on the other side of the phone, shocked, disappointed, angry. Maddie breathed deep and dialed. As the phone rang, Mr. Hughes came jogging back down the block, this time with the bobby in tow. The sight of Mr. Hughes running next to the sleek horse and its stern rider might have made Maddie laugh before, but not now, not while she waited for Miss Julia to pick up the phone.
H
ello?” came a groggy voice on the other end of the line.
“Miss Julia,” Maddie said.
“Maddie?” Miss Julia was immediately awake. “Is this your emergency phone? You know you're not supposed to . . . Where are you?”
Maddie heard rustling and shuffling, probably Miss Julia tossing off her covers, on her way to check the girls' room.
“I'm with Mr. Hughes,” Maddie blurted out as quickly as she could, hoping she'd said it before Miss Julia saw the room for herself, before she saw that Maddie was not lying next to Mia where she was supposed to be.
“What's happening?” Mia's voice asked in the background. “Where's Maddie?” and then “Oh no!”
“Oh no, what? Maddie, where are you? This isn't a funny joke!”
“What joke?” Lulu piped up.
“I'm with Mr. Hughes. On . . .” Maddie read the nearest street sign. “Jasper Avenue. There's a bobby here too,” she added quickly.
“You're not in the hotel room?” Miss Julia asked, her voice raising in pitch until it was so shrill it made Maddie's ears ring.
Maddie had known she would be in trouble, but she hadn't expected it to be quite like this. Her stomach tied itself into knot after knot until she felt like she might be sick.
“I want to speak to Mr. Hughes,” Miss Julia demanded.
Maddie handed the phone over, relieved not to be the one on the spot anymore.
“Hello?” Mr. Hughes said. “Yes, she's here and she's safe. She ran directly into me in Trafalgar Square. Oh, no, no, I had no idea . . . Yes, I know, and I think . . .” Mr. Hughes eyed Maddie's face. “I think she knows too. But listen, Miss Twist, the thing is that Maddie found our art thief. Aria was under our noses all alongâone of our delivery staff. We're just outside her flat now with a bobby.”
He waited a little longer, listening.
“Yes. We're at 1335 Jasper Street. As soon as you're here, ring the bell. Yes, we'll keep Maddie with us, never out of our sight. I promise.”
As he hung up and handed over the phone, the bobby was also hanging up his phone. “I've called for backup, but I've been cleared to go in on my own if the thief is unlikely to resist arrest. We don't want to give her time to escape, which may be the more pressing possibility.”
“I thought I knew Aria,” Mr. Hughes said. “But obviously, I didn't. That said, I'm sure she isn't a violent
person. She may run, but I don't think she will resist arrest.”
“You may come with me, then, to help me identify her. If there's the slightest hint of any trouble, I expect you and the girl to leave the flat, no questions asked,” the bobby said, hitching his horse to the nearest lamppost.
“Got it,” Mr. Hughes said, and in spite of her nervous stomach, Maddie smiled at the echo of the conversation she and Mr. Hughes had just moments before. The chain of command was clear, and now the bobby was in charge.
“This way,” he said, marching up the stairs to the flat.
Rather than ringing Aria's buzzer, he rang another tenant and told them he was a police officer. “Please buzz us in. We need access to another tenant's flat.”
The door clicked open and they hurried into the foyer. Straight ahead, a brass number one hung on the door.
“Number three must be on the third floor,” the bobby said. “Let's head on up.”
He led the way, and soon they were standing outside flat number three. “Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” Mr. Hughes and Maddie both whispered.
He banged on the door. “Open up, by order of Her Majesty's Metropolitan Police.”
No answer. Maddie held her breath. She'd done just about everything wrong, and she was in miles and
miles of trouble. If only one thing could go right, and she could know for sure that Aria would be stopped. If Aria had seen Maddie following her, Maddie would have been the reason Aria had run before she could be caught. If so, Aria's escape would be Maddie's fault too.
“I'll be opening your door in three,” the bobby said. “One . . . two . . .”
The door swung open. Aria stood there a little behind the door, not willing to step forward.
Aria's eyes were wide, her face terribly pale. “What . . . How . . .?”
“I'm afraid we must come in,” the bobby said, not waiting for her answer.
Aria took a step back, and then another. She had no living room furniture, only easels, tarps, and art materials. A number of half-finished paintings ringed the room. One looked especially familiar.
“That looks like âSun-Splattered Afternoon'!” Maddie said, pointing.
“I'm sorry, who are you?” Aria said, frowning at Maddie. Then her eyes sparked with recognition. “You're the girl who I saw at the Archiveâ” She broke off, realizing she shouldn't say more.
“Aria, how could you?” Mr. Hughes said. “You're an artist. You know the value of paintingsâ”
“How could I what?” Aria asked, but her heart didn't seem to be in her words. She clearly knew she was caught.
She glanced over her shoulder, as though she was looking for somewhere to run.
“I wouldn't go anywhere, if I were you,” the bobby said.
“How could you steal paintings that belonged to the people of England and sell them for your own gain?” Mr. Hughes pushed.
“Not for my own gain,” Aria said, gesturing around her flat. “Look at this flat. Do I look like I live in luxury?”
“For what, then?”
Aria eyed Maddie, and then sighed, a deep, full-body sigh. Oddly, it didn't seem to Maddie that Aria was angry about having been caught. In fact, she seemed almost relieved.
“You'll find all the money in my safe,” Aria said, gesturing to the wall. “I've never been able to spend even a penny of it. Couldn't bear to.”
“If you weren't stealing the paintings for the money, what then?” Mr. Hughes asked.
“Keep in mind that anything you say may be used against you in court,” the bobby said, clipping handcuffs on Aria. “I arrest you in the Queen's name as being concerned in the theft and sale of artwork which belongs to the National Gallery.”
A
s though she hadn't heard the bobby, Aria pushed on, turning to Mr. Hughes. “Why did it take you so long to figure out what was happening?”
“I . . . It . . .” Taken aback, Mr. Hughes stumbled to find words. “Well, it was Maddie who figured it out, actually, in the end.”
“I just wanted to be seen,” Aria said. “I stole painting after painting, and no one even noticed.”
Mr. Hughes looked completely taken aback by this. “We noticed paintings were being taken, of course! We just didn't know . . .”
“Do you know what it feels like to be an artist?” Aria demanded, stepping toward Mr. Hughes, even though the bobby had a firm grasp on her hands behind her back. “You spend hours and hours, weeks, months, years even, creating something beautiful. You put your creation out into the world and what happens? Nothing. Not one thing. No one notices. No one cares. Or, if you're lucky, someone notices but they tear you and your work apart. We're supposed to feel grateful that an expert paid our work a moment's attention, someone who has probably never lifted a paintbrush in his whole life. We're supposed to be grateful for his feedback, even when he stomps our hearts into the ground.”
“But if you're an artist, you know how priceless a painting can be, how irreplaceable,” Mr. Hughes said.
“A painting is simply an object, one that can be owned, bought, and sold, but we treat some like they matter and others like they're dirt. Sounds like the way we treat people, doesn't it?” Aria's eyes glittered, her face dark with hatred.
“So, this was only about making a point? You stole and sold priceless paintings, and will probably go to jail forever to prove . . . what?”
Aria didn't answer. Silence filled the room.
“To prove that every person matters,” Maddie said, the words cold and frightening to speak out loud. Cold and frightening because she understood them, heard the same words echoing in her own heart.
“Yes.” Aria slumped back against the police officer, no longer straining against her handcuffs. “Yes, that's exactly it.”
“Let's go,” the bobby said to Aria. “Where are your keys? We'll lock up your flat for now.”
The hatred had already faded from Aria's face, but now her cheeks went truly pale. She looked around her flat, at all of her unfinished work.
Maddie crossed the room to look at the painting that looked like “Sun-Splattered Afternoon.” “How did you get so much done on this, when you just stole the painting today? And how could you sell it before you were finished?”
