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Pembroke, hearing of Gaskill's interest in the elusive art thief from the nineteen twenties and thirties, sent him the yellowed, dog-eared pages of the manuscript he had painstakingly compiled, one that had been rejected by over thirty editors in as many years. Gaskill could not put it down. He was totally absorbed in the masterful investigative work by Pembroke, who was now in his late eighties. The Englishman had been the lead investigator on the Specter's last known heist, which took place in London in 1939. The stolen art consisted of a Joshua Reynolds, a pair of Constables, and three Turners. Like all the other brilliantly executed thefts by the Specter, the case was never solved and none of the art was recovered. Pembroke, stubbornly insisting there was no such thing as a perfect crime, became obsessed with discovering the Specter's identity.
For half a century his obsession never dimmed, and he refused to give up the chase. Only a few months before his health failed, and he was forced to enter a nursing home, did he make a breakthrough that enabled him to write the end to his superbly narrated account.
A great pity, Gaskill thought, that no editor thought it worth publishing. He could think of at least ten famous art thefts that might have been solved if The Thief Who Was Never Caught had been printed and distributed.
Gaskill finished the last page an hour before dawn. He lay back on his pillow staring at the ceiling, fitting the pieces into neat little slots, until the sun's rays crept above the windowsill of his bedroom in the town of Cicero just outside Chicago. Suddenly, he felt as if a logjam had broken free and was rushing into open water.
Gaskill smiled like a man who held a winning lottery ticket as he reached for the phone. He dialed a number from memory and fluffed the pillows so he could sit up while waiting for an answer.
A very sleepy voice croaked, "Francis Ragsdale here."
"Gaskill."
"Jesus, Dave. Why so early?"
"Who's that?" came the slurred voice of Ragsdale's wife over the receiver.
"Dave Gaskill."
"Doesn't he know it's Sunday?"
"Sorry to wake you," said Gaskill, "but I have good news that couldn't wait."
"All right," Ragsdale mumbled through a yawn. "Let's hear it."
"I can tell you the name of the Specter."
"Who?"
"Our favorite art thief."
Ragsdale came fully awake. "The Specter? You made an I.D.?"
"Not me. A retired inspector from Scotland Yard."
"A limey made him?"
"He spent a lifetime writing an entire book on the Specter. Some of it's conjecture but he's compiled some pretty convincing evidence."
"What does he have?"
Gaskill cleared his throat for effect. "The name of the greatest art thief in history was Mansfield Zolar."
"Say again?"
"Mansfield Zolar. Mean anything to you?"
"You're running me around the park."
"Swear on my badge."
"I'm afraid to ask--"
"Don't bother," Gaskill interrupted. "I know what you're thinking. He was the father."
"Good lord, Zolar International. This is like finding the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle that fell on matching carpet. The Zolars, or whatever cockamamie names they call themselves. It all begins to fit."
"Like bread crumbs to the front door."
