The Dark Lady

trace a stolen portrait,” I noted.
    “Ah!” he said with a smile. “But people spend currency. They keep their art treasures under lock and key. The trick is to steal things that are so famous that their new owners would never display them publicly. That's why I deal with collectors, and why I never support public auctions.” He paused thoughtfully. “Of course, I make it my business to supply collectors with anything they want, including honestly procured artwork, and I frequently act as a middleman for them. And,” he concluded, “I occasionally act as a consultant for clients who have an abundance of wealth and an absence of taste. Usually I arrange for them to purchase paintings like that, ” he said, pointing to an exceptionally poor abstract that hung behind the couch.
    “But if you came by the Mallachi portrait honestly, you could have auctioned it, ” I pointed out.
    “Then people would want to know why I don't have everything auctioned,” he replied. “Consistency may be the hobgoblin of little minds, but inconsistency does tend to bring one to the attention of the police computers.”
    “I don't know if I should even be talking to you,” I said, uncomfortably aware of the fact that I had been captivated by his manner and that my fear and apprehension had all but vanished. “You represent immorality and disorder and dishonor.”
    “You overestimate my importance, Leonardo,” he replied easily. “I'm merely an opportunist in quest of opportunities, nothing more. If anything, you should feel some sympathy for me; I'm working harder than any Heath in the past five hundred years, doing my best to restore the depleted family treasury.” He paused and seemed to survey his surroundings for the first time. “God, what dreadful taste the decorator had! Bare walls would be better than this hideous metallic wallcovering!” He shook his head. “I'll wager they've hung sporting prints in the bedroom.”
    “What did you steal from the museum?” I asked.
    “Just one piece,” he said with a shrug. “You wouldn't think the police would become so incensed over a single piece of artwork, would you?”
    “It all depends what it was,” I said.
    “A Morita sculpture,” he answered.
    “A Morita!” I exclaimed.
    He nodded, looking quite pleased with himself. “One of his most innovative.”
    “But surely the police will find it when they examine your home!”
    “It all depends which home they examine,” said Heath with no show of concern. “I've got eleven of them, all under different names, and only three of them on Charlemagne. You don't mind if I pour myself another drink, do you?” He got to his feet and walked over to the bar. “You're sure I can't fix one for you?”
    “No.”
    “As you wish.” He smiled again. “But where are my manners? Can I order some native Bjornn drink for you? Room service has an adequate selection.”
    “I am not thirsty, thank you.”
    Just then the porter knocked at the door.
    “Come in,” said Heath in a loud voice, and the door opened a moment later. “Just put everything in the bedroom,” he ordered, directing the porter through the room and tipping him on the way out.
    “Thank you, Mr. Leonardo,” said the porter. “Enjoy your visit to Oceana.”
    “I'm sure that I will,” answered Heath, ordering the door to close.
    “But I am Leonardo,” I said.
    “True,” agreed Heath. “But I am more likely to need an alibi than you are.”
    “For what?”
    “Who knows? The day is young yet.”
    “You are a thoroughly reprehensible person,” I said.
    He smiled. “But charming. Poppa Heath always held that if you couldn't cultivate a fortune, you should at least cultivate the illusion of one— and that, of course, requires charm.”
    “Malcolm Abercrombie has a fortune, and is perhaps the least charming human I know,” I said.
    “Abercrombie? He's the man who wants the portrait of the Dark Lady, isn't he?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why? It's an ugly piece of art. I was almost ashamed to offer it to Tai Chong, but my creditors have expensive tastes and I really must generate some income this week.”
    “He collects representations of her.”
    “I didn't know she posed for any other artists.”
    “She did not pose for the portrait you have offered for sale,” I said. “She has been dead for more than six thousand years.”
    “Nonsense,” he scoffed. “She was Mallachi's mistress. For all I know, she still is.”
    “You must be mistaken,”