Red Dragon - Thomas Harris [118]
“You called about the Blake watercolor,” she said. “Let's go upstairs and I'll show it to you. We'll take the staff elevator - this way.”
She led him past the dark museum shop and through a small room lined with primitive weapons. He looked around fast to keep his bearings. In the corner of the Americas section was a corridor which led to the small elevator.
Miss Harper pushed the button. She hugged her elbows and waited. The clear blue eyes fell on the pass, pink on white, clipped to Dolarhyde's lapel.
“That's a sixthfloor pass he gave you,” she said. “It doesn't matter - there aren't any guards on five today. What kind of research are you doing?”
Dolarhyde had made it on smiles and nods until now. “A paper on Butts,” he said.
“On William Butts?”
He nodded.
“I've never read much on him. You only see him in footnotes as a patron of Blake's. Is he interesting?”
“I'm just beginning. I'll have to go to England.”
“I think the National Gallery has two watercolors he did for Butts. Have you seen them yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Better write ahead of time.”
He nodded. The elevator came.
Fifth floor. He was tingling a little, but he had blood in his arms and legs. Soon it would be just yes or no. If it went wrong, he wouldn't let them take him.
She led him down the corridor of American portraits. This wasn't the way he came before. He could tell where he was. It was all right.
But something waited in the corridor for him, and when he saw it he stopped dead still.
Paula Harper realized he wasn't following and turned around. He was rigid before a niche in the wall of portraits. She came back to him and saw what he was staring at. “That's a Gilbert Stuart portrait of George Washington,” she said.
No it wasn't.
“You see a similar one on the dollar bill. They call it a Lansdowne portrait because Stuart did one for the Marquis of Lansdowne to thank him for his support in the American Revolution . . . Are you all right, Mr. Crane?”
Dolarhyde was pale. This was worse than all the dollar bills he had ever seen. Washington with his hooded eyes and bad false teeth stared out of the frame. My God he looked like Grandmother. Dolarhyde felt like a child with a rubber knife.
“Mr. Crane, are you okay?”
Answer or blow it all. Get past this. My God, man, that's so sweeeet. YOU'RE THE DIRTIEST. . . No.
Say something.
“I'm taking cobalt,” he said. “Would you like to sit down for a few minutes?” There was a faint medicinal smell about him.
“No. Go ahead. I'm coming.”
And you are not going to cut me, Grandmother. God damn you, I'd kill you if you weren't already dead. Already dead. Already dead. Grandmother was already dead! Dead now, dead for always. My God, man, that's so sweeeet.
The other wasn't dead though, and Dolarhyde knew it
He followed Miss Harper through thickets of fear.
They went through double doors into the Painting Study and Storage Department. Dolarhyde looked around qulckly. It was a long, peaceful room, welllighted and filled with carousel racks of draped paintings. A row of small office cubicles was partitioned off along the wall. The door to the cubicle on the far end was ajar, and he heard typing.
He saw no one but Paula Harper.
She took him to a counterheight work table and brought him a stool.
“Wait here. I'll bring the painting to you.”
She disappeared behind the racks.
Dolarhyde undid a button at his belly.
Miss Harper was coming. She carried a flat black case no bigger than a briefcase. It was in there. How did she have the strength to carry the picture? He had never thought of it as flat. He had seen the dimensions in the catalogs - 17 1/8 by 13 1/2 inches - but he had paid no attention to them. He expected it to be immense. But it was small. It was small and it was here in a quiet room. He had never realized how much strength the Dragon drew from the old house in the orchard.
Miss Harper was saying something “. . . have to keep it in this solander box because light will fade it. That's why it's not