A Victim Must Be Found Read Online Free Page A

meant that you belonged to them foreigners who came after 1800. The UEL list was an important list for some people, but it wasn’t the one I was looking for because it excluded Jonah Abraham, the well-known and well-fixed distiller of just about everything but attar of roses.
    “Pambos, none of these guys are picking up butts from the gutter. And you say the others on the list are just as rich? Why do you think they would stoop to petty larceny? Now grand larceny is another matter.” Pambos looked uncomfortable. He got up and paced the room, finally stopping to fix a few slats in a shutter that had fallen half out of the frame. Very tidily, he picked up the falling pieces and slipped them into their grooves. But he didn’t answer my question. It gave me a moment to wonder why I had used those old-fashioned terms for theft. I took a deep breath and tried again. “Isn’t Jonah Abraham sniffing around trying to get a Senate appointment?”
    “The only Senate appointment he’ll get is an appointment to see a senator,” Pambos said, with uncharacteristic cynicism. “And since your memory is so good, you’ll recall that MacCulloch is a leading candidate for a future lieutenant-governor here in Ontario.”
    “Noted,” I said with a scowl. And when that had sunk in I added, “Which all adds up to the fact that you have more talking to do, Pambos, before I can tell you whether or not I can help you find this thing.” Pambos sat down on the edge of my bed. He looked like he had avoided all of the hard questions he was capable of avoiding. From now on he would have to play with the facts or not play at all. “Tell me about the list,” I said.
    He sucked at something caught in his teeth for a few moments, trying to turn the thing over in his mind sufficiently to find the best starting point. When he had it, he said, “Have you ever heard of the painter Wallace Lamb?” I thought about that and shook my head.
    “No, but that doesn’t mean anything. I only heard about Picasso a year ago. How does he figure?”
    “His dealer gave me the list. The people on it all have pictures on loan from Tallon’s collection.”
    “Tallon?”
    “Arthur Tallon. He ran the Contemporary Gallery on Church Street.”
    “Oh, yeah. I’ve walked by it.” The Contemporary Gallery, which I had actually been in, although Pambos didn’t have to know how I spend my spare time, was an honest-to-goodness art gallery just like the ones in Toronto or Buffalo. To indicate sales, they used the little red dot system like all the big-league galleries. It was the only gallery in town where picture-framing wasn’t the big deal. The only other large gallery was for exhibitions only. It was located in the mansion built by the man who built the Welland Canal. They didn’t sell pictures at Rodman Hall, you just got to look at travelling exhibitions. The only things for sale were dainty little hasty notes which were just the thing for sending “regrets only” on.
    “Why did Tallon give you the list, Pambos? Was he worried about it getting lost?”
    “I was buying a Lamb from him. He gave me the list of local people he had lent a few Lambs to.” I was beginning to feel more shepherd than investigator, but at least I thought, now, we are beginning to get somewhere.
    “Now, we are beginning to get somewhere. All you have to do is ask Tallon to give you a duplicate list.” Pambos didn’t like my idea. His smile faded on his face and he began shaking his head.
    “I can see you don’t read the Beacon as thoroughly as you should. Arthur Tallon died in Grantham General four weeks ago.” Light was beginning to sift through the slats in Pambos’s story. If Tallon was dead, that could complicate things.
    “We’re still getting somewhere,” I said. “Has Tallon’s death got anything to do with the value of the list?”
    Pambos Kiriakis looked at me like he’d been patiently teaching me the two-times-table for the last three hours and I still was