Sadie's Secret: 3 (The Secret Lives of Will Tucker) (35 page)

Twenty-Six

F
ind a lamp, Julia,” Sadie called over her shoulder. “Or a candle. Anything that will help me see.”

“Yes, miss,” she said before hurrying away.

A moment later she returned with a beeswax candle and matches. Sadie struck a match to light the candle and then handed the matches back to Julia.

She turned slowly, mindful of not losing the flame that offered a flickering light into the dark chamber. Noting the shopkeeper’s huddled form, she set the candle on a nearby table and made her way toward him.

It appeared as though the man had tripped over a wrinkle in the rug and landed facedown. Resting her palm against his back, she could feel his even breathing.

When he groaned, she patted his back. “Sir, have you suffered harm?”

It was a stupid question, and yet the first thing that came to mind. Of course he had suffered harm. He’d fallen in a darkened room and knocked himself senseless.

“Open the curtains,” she said to Julia. “We need daylight in here.”

A moment later the room was flooded with sunshine. Amid unopened crates and stacks of paper-wrapped parcels, the shopkeeper attempted to climb to his feet.

“Slowly now,” Sadie said. “Perhaps it would be best not to try to stand just yet.”

He maneuvered into a sitting position and then gingerly shook his head. “What happened?”

“I think you took a tumble.” She reached past him to press down the wrinkle in the carpet but it wouldn’t budge. “That is odd. I thought perhaps there was a problem with the rug, but now I think there’s something beneath it.”

Sadie picked up the edge and retrieved a parcel wrapped in brown paper. It matched others she saw strewn around the room. With nothing to indicate the contents or to whom the package might belong, she set it aside and returned her attention to the shopkeeper slumped before her.

While the poor fellow held his head in his hand, Sadie rocked back on her heels and looked around the room. A once-grand apartment, the chamber filled the entire back of the building and looked out over a small courtyard with a fountain that had seen better days.

A glance overhead revealed a ceiling that had been decorated with cherubs and clouds, a rather impressive fresco for the upper floor of an antiquities shop. So this was the place where the theft had occurred.

She stood and moved toward an armoire that rose to an impressive height well above her head. Even if she spread her arms out, she could not have possibly reached the edges of the massive piece.

Louis XV, she decided. The curlicues and carvings certainly marked it as a piece of substantial value. Indeed it looked very much like the armoire Mama brought with her to Callum Plantation upon the occasion of her marriage to Daddy.

Sadie moved closer and turned the ornamental key. Both doors opened, revealing the wardrobe’s contents.

The interior had been filled with shelves, and each was stacked to overflowing with framed pieces of art. Of pastoral scenes, sea battles, and portraits of long-dead persons of obviously noble birth.

She picked up a small watercolor approximately ten inches in length and nine inches in width and gasped. Albrecht Durer’s
A Young Hare.
Indeed, there was his unique signature along with the year. “Hmm…1502,” she whispered as she ran her index finger over the ancient frame.

This should be in Vienna. It certainly had been several years ago when she last visited the city’s museums.

And yet it was here. On a dusty shelf in a New Orleans antiquities shop.

Sadie let out a long breath. Either the painting had changed hands recently or it was a clever forgery. She would stake money on the latter.

When she noticed the shopkeeper watching her from a now-standing position, she put away the painting of the fat brown rabbit.

“That is a lovely fresco,” she commented with a casualness she did not feel. A glance around the room told her Julia was no longer in sight. Sadie made a point of gesturing toward the ceiling. “And quite rare to see something of such beauty hidden away, is it not?”

He shrugged as he brushed the dust off the front of his purple velvet coat. “A century ago this building was not in use as a shop. It was a ballroom where kept ladies danced for gentlemen. At least, that’s what Monsieur Valletta claims.”

“It is what Monsieur Valletta knows to be true.”

The man froze, the color draining from his face. “Monsieur Valletta!”

Sadie turned to find a wiry fellow of indeterminable age standing just inside the door, his arms crossed over his chest and a gold watch fob with what appeared to be diamonds encrusted on it glittering in the light. And though he smiled, there was no humor in the dark eyes that watched her closely.

As she was well and truly caught, the only response was to bluff her way out of the situation. She made her way toward the man, her hand outstretched.

“You must be Monsieur Valletta.” Sadie upped her smile as his slipped. “I am so very glad to meet you. I had hoped I would make your acquaintance, and yet your assistant said you were not here. I was very disappointed, of course.”

“Of course.” He leaned over to blow out the candle, its light now unneeded. “And exactly what are you doing up here in my private apartment, Miss…? I’m sorry. I do not believe we have yet made complete our exchange of names.”

“Callum,” she said with the authority of a woman well trained to handle these situations. “Sarah Callum. And this is Julia.”

“Sarah Callum,” he echoed. “I do not believe I have made your acquaintance. And yet, I never forget a face. From where do I know you?”

She thought of the photograph in the
Picayune
and prayed that
Monsieur Valletta had not seen it. “Perhaps we have attended some of the same auctions? I adore finding the loveliest pieces of art. Most of my buying is done in Paris or London, although recently I came upon an exquisite Rembrandt. My dear friend purchased it before I could.”

“Her friend is Mrs. Astor,” the man in the purple coat interjected.

Monsieur Valletta’s dark brows rose. “Which Mrs. Astor? There are two, you know.”

“Of course,” she said lightly. “And while Caroline is a dear, Mary Astor is the woman to whom I refer. Although her friends call her Mamie.”

“And you are one of that number?”

“I am.”

Julia suddenly appeared in the doorway behind Valletta, her expression stricken. There would be time later to extract an explanation from the maid as to where she had gone. Sadie forced her attention back to the antiquities dealer.

“Well, be that as it may, I regret you’ve been brought up to my private apartment, Madame Callum—”

“That would be Mademoiselle Callum,” Sadie corrected.

“Yes, well. In any case, I would like it very much if you and Mademoiselle Oakman would take your leave now.”

Sadie took a stuttering step backward and collided with the armoire. The contents shifted but thankfully nothing slipped or fell. “But I had hoped to purchase a—”

“There is nothing here for sale. Albert should have told you this. And yet I must wonder how you got in here unless he showed you the way.”

She turned to allow her gaze to capture the details of the room, committing the particulars of its contents to memory as best she could.

“Please do not blame Albert,” she said when her attention returned to the older man. “The fault is all mine. I can be quite persuasive when I set my mind to it, and I did so want to have a purchase I could compare to the Rembrandt when I see Mamie again. She’s ever so proud of that painting.”

The bells on the front door downstairs rang out, and Monsieur Valletta turned sharply. “See who it is, Albert,” he said brusquely before returning his attention to Sadie. “And you, Mademoiselle Callum, shall remain where you are.”

“I beg your pardon?” She reached down to touch her skirt, calculating how much time she needed to retrieve the revolver from its pocket. “I find I do not like your tone, sir. Julia, I believe it is time we made our exit. May I trouble you to alert the driver?”

“Stay where you are, Miss Oakman,” he snapped.

Sadie fixed her with a stare that told her she meant business and then nodded toward the stairs. Julia’s nod was barely discernable as she picked up her skirts and scurried away.

“Monsieur Valletta,” Sadie said without inflection, “I fear I have upset you. That is unfortunate. However, should you persist in this manner of behavior, I will be forced to take my business elsewhere.” As she spoke, she moved toward him, her attention never wavering from his eyes.

The pretense worked, for as she reached the door, he stepped aside and allowed her to pass. She made a point of moving elegantly down the steps, as if she might be arriving at a ball rather than fleeing a crime scene. Knowledge that the art dealer could at any moment cause her great harm or prevent her exit did not keep her from holding her head high, though her heart was pounding.

As Henry said, sometimes the one with the bigger weapon is the one who has no weapon at all other than the power of the bluff.

When her feet reached the ground floor, Sadie allowed a quick glance up at the top of the stairs where Monsieur Valletta remained. An idea occurred, and she decided to chance one more ruse.

She turned to face him, her hands on her hips in a show of exasperation. “I will offer one last chance for you to redeem yourself. The Egyptian feline is a fine specimen. Should you wish to earn my good favor once more, I would hear a combined price for it and the lovely Durer in the armoire.”

At the mention of the Durer painting—or perhaps it was a moment before when she spoke of the Egyptian piece—Valletta’s posture went rigid. Then he turned his back on her and disappeared inside his apartment. The sound of the door slamming shut brought Julia running.

“The mister, he’s here!”

Sadie shook her head. “Albert?”

“No, it is I,” came a familiar and decidedly male voice from the other
side of the curtains. “And if Albert is the little man who nearly knocked me down exiting the building, then my guess is he is halfway to the river by now.”

She groaned. “Jefferson? What are you doing here?”

He moved into the room quietly, his attention focused up the stairs behind her. “I heard a door slam. Was that—”

“Valletta? It was. He’s closed himself inside the apartment. The place is filled with art. For a man who reported a robbery, he certainly has plenty of pieces left for sale. Although he said repeatedly that the items were not to be purchased.”

“I’ll bet he did.” He pressed past her to hurry up the stairs to the door. As she predicted, he found it locked. While he toyed with the latch, she acted on a hunch and slipped outside into the courtyard. There she spied Monsieur Valletta halfway down an emergency staircase, a burlap bag slung over his shoulder.

Retrieving her weapon, she aimed it at the art dealer. “I am a Pinkerton agent, Monsieur Valletta. Stop right there.”

He stopped moving and turned toward her, holding the sack at arm’s length.

“I’ll have the bag first, and then you can climb down.”

The man lifted the burlap bundle in his fist and threw it at her. Though Sadie made a passable attempt at dodging it, the heavy bag caught her on the shoulder and struck her down. Her head hit the ground hard.

The impact knocked the breath out of her as the revolver skittered across the uneven stepping-stones to disappear beneath the fountain. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear the ringing from her head as she raised herself up on one elbow and saw Valletta coming swiftly toward her.

Her hand searched for the revolver under the dense ferns that covered the base of the fountain but connected with nothing but dirt. Rolling out of the way, she avoided his hand as he grabbed for her arm.

Or was it the bag he wanted?

She grasped at the burlap, snagged the corner, and then hauled it across the cobblestones toward her. Valletta stomped his foot on the other end and held fast, creating a tug of war.

Sadie might have won had the art dealer not pulled a knife from his pocket with his free hand. “Release the bag, Agent Callum.”

Rotating on her hip, she mustered her strength to kick at the side of his knee, sending him hurtling toward the fountain. As he fell, he released his grip and a gilded mummy mask of Syros rolled toward her.