As she moved to assist the startled artist, Tracy’s heels stamped into the scattered paints, smearing them into the floor. Daniel Cooper, who had seen everything, hurried closer, every sense alert. He was sure Tracy Whitney had made her first move.
The guard rushed over, calling out, “¿Qué pasa? ¿Qué pasa?”
The accident had attracted the attention of the tourists, and they milled around the fallen woman, smearing the paints from the crushed tubes into grotesque images on the hardwood floor. It was an unholy mess, and the prince was due to appear at any moment. The guard was in a panic. He yelled out, “¡Ser-gio! ¡Ven acá! ¡Pronto!”
Tracy watched as the guard from the next room came running in to help. Cesar Porretta was alone in the salon with the Puerto.
Tracy was in the middle of the uproar. The two guards were trying vainly to push the tourists away from the area of the paint-smeared floor.
“Get the director,” Sergio yelled. “¡En seguida!”
The other guard hurried off toward the stairs. ¡Qué birria! What a mess!
Two minutes later Christian Machada was at the scene of the disaster. The director took one horrified look and screamed, “Get some cleaning women down here—quickly! Mops and cloths and turpentine. ¡Pronto!”
A young aide rushed to do his bidding.
Machada turned to Sergio. “Get back to your post,” he snapped.
“Yes, sir.”
Tracy watched the guard push his way through the crowd to the room where Cesar Porretta was working.
Cooper had not taken his eyes off Tracy for an instant. He had waited for her next move. But it had not come. She had not gone near any of the paintings, nor had she made contact with an accomplice. All she had done was knock over an easel and spill some paints on the floor, but he was certain it had been done deliberately. But to what purpose? Somehow, Cooper felt that whatever had been planned had already happened. He looked around the walls of the salon. None of the paintings was missing.
Cooper hurried into the adjoining room. There was no one there but the guard and an elderly hunchback seated at his easel, copying the Clothed Maja. All the paintings were in place. But something was wrong. Cooper knew it.
He hurried back to the harassed director, whom he had met earlier. “I have reason to believe,” Cooper blurted out, “that a painting has been stolen from here in the past few minutes.”
Christian Machada stared at the wild-eyed American. “What are you talking about? If that were so, the guards would have sounded the alarm.”
“I think that somehow a fake painting was substituted for a real one.”
The director gave him a tolerant smile. “There is one small thing wrong with your theory, señor. It is not known to the general public, but there are sensors hidden behind each painting. If anyone tried to lift a painting from the wall—which they would certainly have to do to substitute another painting—the alarm would instantly sound.”
Daniel Cooper was still not satisfied. “Could your alarm be disconnected?”
“No. If someone cut the wire to the power, that also would cause the alarm to go off. Señor, it is impossible for anyone to steal a painting from this museum. Our security is what you call proof from fools.”
Cooper stood there shaking with frustration. Everything the director said was convincing. It did seem impossible. But then why had Tracy Whitney deliberately spilled those paints?
Cooper would not give up. “Humor me. Would you ask your staff to go through the museum and check to make sure nothing is missing? I’ll be at my hotel ”
There was nothing more Daniel Cooper could do.
At 7:00 that evening Christian Machada telephoned Cooper. “I have personally made an inspection, señor. Every painting is in its proper place. Nothing is missing from the museum.”
So that was that. Seemingly, it had been an accident. But Daniel Cooper, with the instincts of a hunter, sensed that his quarry had escaped.
Jeff had invited Tracy to dinner in the main dining room of the Ritz Hotel.
“You’re looking especially radiant this evening,” Jeff complimented her.