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"Are you sure dragging me out of the gallery right in front of André was a good idea?" Noelle asked, rubbing her palms together before the sitting-room fire.
Ashford leaned back against the closed door, watching her. "Oh, I think it was an excellent idea. It will convey a message. And we'll be rid of Sardo. I only wish I could say the same for Baricci."
He began pacing about the room, his brow furrowed in concentration as he pondered all Noelle had told him in the past ten minutes, since he'd finally convinced Grace to leave them alone. "You're saying Sardo crafted nearly every painting in the Franco?" he reiterated.
"All but two or three—and yes, that's exactly what I'm saying." Noelle paused, abandoning the fireplace to walk over to Ashford. "Whatever other artists' works might once have been displayed at Baricci's gallery are essentially gone. The Franco is now, in effect, a one-man exhibition of André's paintings. And that includes one of the unsigned works. The new one, that striking abstract hidden away on the far wall."
Ashford halted. "What abstract? There's nothing on that wall but landscapes. I know every painting in that gallery."
"André only recently completed it. Maybe he hadn't delivered it yet the last time you were there. Or maybe it was still being framed."
A pensive frown knitted Ashford's brows. "I thought you said Sardo framed all his own paintings."
"He does. At least all those paintings that brandish his special frame. The others…" Noelle shook her head. "No. I distinctly recall that when I asked why the abstract wasn't framed like the others, he said it couldn't be helped, but that it disturbed him to watch such a bulky frame being placed on his work. He spoke as an observer, not as a participant."
"Then someone else framed it. Williams, would be my guess."
"Is that meaningful?"
Ashford raked a hand through his hair. "I'm not sure what's meaningful. I know Baricci's a thief. I always assumed his gallery was a front; that behind its legitimate facade, he was conducting his seedy business: finding out which valuable paintings were ripe for stealing. But now it occurs to me that the gallery itself is part of the whole process. And if that's so, then Sardo is up to his debonair neck in all this."
"How?"
"When you questioned him about the unusual frame on his abstract, how did he react?"
Noelle pursed her lips. "Like an annoyed artist."
"Or a man with something to hide." Ashford caught Noelle's shoulders. "Describe the abstract to me—not the picture, but the shape, the dimensions."
"Rectangular. Very long, over four feet perhaps, and nearly that wide—three feet, I should say."
Ashford's eyes glittered with the triumph of discovery. "The Rembrandt stolen from Lord Mannering was three by four."
Realization jolted through Noelle. "You think André's painting is covering the Rembrandt?"
"It certainly makes sense. And it would explain quite a few things: why Sardo is the prime if not sole artist featured at the Franco Gallery; why he evades questions about his competitors and about specific valuable paintings that might have crossed his path; why Baricci is so cooperative with the police—right down to his magnanimity with regard to their searching his gallery. They can't find what they can't see. The paintings are concealed, framed, and hung where everyone—yet no one—can see them. Baricci doesn't have to worry about surprise visits from either the police or from me, nor does he have to hurry the process of finding the highest bidder for his stolen merchandise. It's a foolproof plan."
Noelle was nodding more rapidly with each of Ashford's words. "It also follows suit, then, that the other three paintings I saw with thicker frames are being used in the same vein: to hide stolen paintings. I'd bet a lifetime of piquet winnings that André painted every one of those veneers, despite their thicker frames."
"I'm sure you'd win that bet." Abruptly, Ashford scowled. "Something doesn't fit though. If Sardo is supplying Baricci with his entire gallery of paintings—many of which are fashioned specifically to conceal valuable, stolen masterpieces—what is he getting out of it?"
"Money, I suppose."
"No." Ashford shook his head. "Sardo is dirt poor. When I first investigated him, that's one of the things that made me discount him as a suspect. He might not be a brilliant businessman, but he isn't a total fool. If he were as heavily entrenched in Baricci's scheme as we're surmising, he'd be demanding a king's ransom. Well, where is it?"
Noelle waved an impatient hand. "Perhaps he's one of those people who stores his life savings beneath his mattress."
Ashford's scowl deepened. "No. Something doesn't feel right here. I don't know what it is, but we're missing at least one piece of the puzzle."
"But what? André certainly isn't going to confide in me, not after you blatantly staked your claim in the gallery."
Ashford clutched Noelle's shoulders more securely, unwilling to frighten her, but less willing to keep her ignorant of the potential dangers involved—especially since those dangers were directed at her. "I did that for a reason, Noelle. Baricci made some rather pointed remarks about your well-being, and how I'd best ensure it by backing off."
Rather than frightened, Noelle looked angry. "Did he now? Well, I'm not afraid of Mr. Baricci, or his insipid threats."
If he weren't so uneasy about Baricci's intentions, Ashford would have smiled. That was his Noelle: bold, reckless, ready to take on the world and damn the risk.
