Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [33]
“No. What about it?”
His partner shrugged. “Columbus, that’s all. That painting had something to do with Columbus, and the guy in D.C. was an expert.”
“On Columbus?”
“Yeah. Lucianne Huston was there reporting.”
“Where?”
“In D.C. She’s everywhere these days, huh? Never sleeps, it looks like.”
“Who with, that’s what I’d like to know. She’s a real fox.”
“Not my type. We going back out to the museum again?”
“No. Jankowski wants us on that automotive parts break-in. The after-market in car hardware is big bucks. Bigger than C-plus paintings. Finish your coffee.”
The man in the white jacket and straw hat who’d relieved Warren Munsch of the painting on the terrace of Ivy on the Shore in Santa Monica had, as instructed, taken the rolled-up canvas home with him that night to his Venice apartment and put it in a closet. The next morning, with the painting on the seat next to him in his BMW convertible, he drove into downtown Los Angeles and parked in a garage on Olvera Street, near the El Pueblo de Los Angeles monument, the historic core of the city. The cafes, shops, and stalls along the brick sidewalks were busy, the surrounding streets swimming in go-to-work traffic.
He walked a block until reaching the entrance to a three-story building with a plaque announcing its architectural significance, went up the stairs to the second floor, and opened a door at the end of a short hallway. A sign on the door read: ABRAHAM WIDLITZ, ART RESTORATION AND CONSERVATION.
Entering, he stood alone in the room, surrounded by easels on which large canvases in various stages awaited the next step. A lengthy table lined a wall with windows that overlooked the bustling plaza.
The sound of a door from a second room opening caused the visitor to turn. Through it came a wizened old man barely five feet tall who walked with a pronounced limp. His white hair was thin and unruly, his glasses thick and in need of cleaning. He wore a dirty white shirt covered by an equally shapeless sleeveless black sweater. His pants were baggy. His shoes were of the molded variety and looked as if badly drawn.
“Ah hah, Mr. Conrad,” he said, smiling. “I see you brought me something.”
Conrad laid the rolled-up Reyes painting on the table. “He called ahead, right? You knew I was bringing this.”
“Of course, of course. Sit down. Tea?”
“No, thanks.”
“Let me see what we have here.”
Widlitz carefully removed the brown wrapping paper from the painting, then unfurled the painting itself. Its being rolled had caused hundreds of cracks to appear.
“It should never be rolled like this,” he said.
“That’s the way it was given to me.”
“What do people know? This will take time, Mr. Conrad. It won’t be easy.”
“Well, you tell him that. All I do is deliver it.”
“Of course.”
“I need to call him, tell him it’s here.”
“By all means,” Widlitz said, pointing to a phone in the corner.
“It’s Conrad,” he said after being connected. “It’s here at Widlitz’s place.”
“Good,” the man said. “Were there any problems?”
“No. The guy was nervous, though. Real nervous. Where did you find him?”
“It doesn’t matter. Did he indicate whether he was staying in California?”
“A day or two,” Conrad replied, running fingers through his mane of greasy, sun-bleached hair.
“I need you to pick someone up this evening at the airport.”
“All right.” He wrote down the information on the back of an envelope. Conrad Syms was often called upon by his employer to chauffeur people from the airport to the house.
“That’s all for the moment, Conrad.”
Conrad said, “Any chance of getting some money for meeting the guy last night? I’m a little short.”
“I’ll pay you tonight when you deliver my guest.” He hung up.
Conrad waved at Widlitz and left. He hung around the plaza for a while before driving home, where he lounged at the pool that was part of his apartment complex. He met the plane at nine, took his passenger to the house in the tony Brentwood section, received his pay in cash from a Filipino houseboy, and drove to Sunset Boulevard,