The painting was John Ransome's self-portrait that had been hanging in the artist's library on Kincairn when Echo had last seen it.
Echo turned it over. On the back Ransome had inscribed, 'Given to Mary Catherine Halloran as a remembrance of our friendship.' It was signed and dated two days before Ransome's disappearance.
She turned suddenly, shoving Peter aside, and ran to the loft windows that overlooked a cobbled mews and afforded a partial view of the Brooklyn Bridge, with lower Manhattan beyond.
'Peterrrr!'
He caught up to her, looked over her shoulder and down at the mews. There were kids playing, a couple of women with strollers. And a man in a black topcoat getting into a cab on the corner where the fruit and vegetable stand was doing brisk business. The man had shoulder-length gray hair and wore dark glasses.
That was all they could see of him.
Peter looked at Echo as the cab drove away. Touched her shoulder until she focused on him, on the here and now.
'He drowned, Echo.'
She turned with a broad gesture in the direction of the portrait. 'But—'
'Maybe his body never turned up, but the water—we nearly froze ourselves on the boat. His hands were tied. Telling you, no way he survived.'
'John told me he swam the Hellespont once. The Dardanelles strait. That's at least a couple miles across.
And hypothermia— everybody's tolerance of cold is different. Sailors have survived for hours in seas that probably would kill you or me in fifteen minutes.' She gestured again, excited. 'Peter— who else?'
'Maybe it was somebody works for Cy Mellichamp. That slick son of a bitch. Just having his little joke.
Listen, I don't want the damn picture in our house. I don't want to be reminded, Echo. How you got short- changed on your contract. None of it.' He waited. 'Do you?'
'Well—' She looked around their loft. Shrugged. 'I guess it wouldn't be, uh, appropriate. But obviously—it was meant as a wedding gift.' She smiled strangely. 'All I did was say how much I admired his self- portrait. John told me all about it. There's quite a story goes with it, which would make the painting especially valuable to a collector. It's unique in the Ransome canon.'
'Yeah? How valuable?'
'Hard to say. I know a Ransome was knocked down recently at Christie's for just under five million dollars.'
Peter didn't say anything.
'The fact that his body hasn't been recovered complicated matters for his estate. But,' Echo said judiciously, 'as Stefan put it, 'it certainly has done no harm to the value of his art.''
'You want a beer?'
'I would love a beer.'
Echo remained by the windows looking out while Peter went to the refrigerator. While he was popping tops he said, 'So—figure we just put the portrait away in a closet a couple years, then it could be worth a shitload?'
'Oh baby,' Echo replied.
'Then, also in a couple years,' Peter said, coming back to her and carefully fitting a can of Heineken into her hand, 'when Ransome's estate gets settled, that cottage in Bedford, which looks like a pretty nice investment, will go on the market?'
'Might.' Echo took a long drink of the beer and began laughing softly, ironically, to herself.
'All this could depend on, you know, he doesn't turn up.' Peter looked out the window. 'Again.'
The last Ransome woman was silent. Wondering, lost in a private rapture.
Peter said, 'You want to order in Chinese for Rosemay and Julia tonight? I've still got a few bucks left on my MasterCard.'
'Yeah,' Echo said, and leaned her head on his shoulder. 'Chinese. Sounds good.'
