Don't Catch Me (Prologue Books) by Richard Powell

Author:Richard Powell [Powell, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781440558474
Publisher: F+W Media, Inc.
Published: 2012-09-01T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I HAD wondered how the morning papers would handle the story of the fire at Meredith Hall, and whether Horstmann would be able to convince reporters that there was no news in the fact that Meredith was home after so many years’ absence.

Once again I underestimated the guy. The stories not only had no hint of arson, but also none of them had the fact that Meredith was home. Horstmann had smuggled him away somewhere. The stories merely said that two servants and Horstmann, who was renting Meredith Hall, were home at the time of the fire.

The guy was smart. He wasn’t taking any chances. Of course, the only reason Meredith had been brought back to the United States was to get the collection released by the Museum. Nobody else could do that, and the Museum probably wouldn’t have released the collection on the strength of any document Meredith might have been forced to sign. Meredith had to appear in person. If the scheme had worked perfectly, nobody but Billy Cadwalader and the Museum directors would have known Meredith was back … and they were keeping quiet because they thought they were sparing Meredith from unwelcome sob stories.

So Arab and I had to go through with our plan to be on hand when the collection was moved. We had to find out where it was to be taken, and then we could tip off the F.B.I, that Horstmann was helping to thaw out some foreign frozen assets.

Right after dark the next night we eased the green coupé into a parking space along the Schuylkill River. The Grecian bulk of the Parkside Museum loomed above us on its hill, etched against the glow from downtown Philadelphia. The northern side of the Museum has the only entrance where trucks can load and unload. We sauntered around to a position where we could watch the entrance, and found an unoccupied park bench back under the trees.

I had brought along a pretty good pair of night-glasses. I got back in the shadows of a tree and took a good look around. Everything seemed peaceful. I didn’t spot any suspicious loiterers. Other couples were strolling along the walks, or holding hands on nearby benches. There was just enough snap in the air to make you want to sit close for warmth, if you didn’t know any better reasons.

The night sky was overcast. To the south-east of us the piled-up masonry around Broad and Market had no substance. The moon-face of Billy Penn’s clock floated all by itself in the air, and the skyscrapers wasted away to skeletons of light. The distant glow gilded a ripple of Arab’s hair and a curve of cheek and throat and the long slim lines of her legs. Her loveliness made me ache. Philosophers will tell you that it’s no use trying to capture such beauty, to experience it fully, with man’s imperfect sense. Philosophers will tell you that you will fail, and be left with a faint aching discontent.

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