Thorn by Fred Saberhagen (reading like a writer TXT) 📕

      “Anything to drink, Thorn? Then let’s go take a look at a few things. Right through here.”

      Just as he was leaving the lounge, Thorn was granted a last unexpected glimpse of the swim-damp lady, in a mirror that had been almost concealed, for some reason, in a niche. She was still on her stool, eyes gazing back with vague puzzlement at the same area of reflective glass. Perhaps she noticed that the mirror bore no image of the lean man who had just pressed her fingers in a way that could be taken to mean something if she wanted to think about it.

      More likely, Thorn considered, the oddity of what was lacking in the glass escaped her. Experience had long ago proved to him that people usually accepted such accidental non-perceptions without thought, or sometimes rejected them completely as being caused by momentary aberrations of their own senses. Of course there was a chance that the mirror had been placed there deliberately, and Seabright might have looked into it to check out his guest. Thorn himself, of course, could tell a vampire without any such subterfuges; but even the wisest breathing folk might have difficulties sometimes in doing so.

      Fortunately for him.

      Meanwhile the two men had walked through an odd little curving tunnel, with white curving walls, and had entered what looked like a miniature museum. All white walls and new brown carpet. As far as Thorn could tell, Seabright’s mind was still firmly on things other than vampirism.

      “Some of the things in this room are mine,” the big man intoned, sounding quite satisfied. “Were mine, I mean, even before last night’s auction. Never seem to have room in my own house in Santa Fe for all my stuff. What do you think of this?”

      It was a graceful silver ship, intricately modeled, standing alone on a low cube of furniture. Thorn chose not to see his host’s generous gesture inviting him to pick it up. If he touched it the non-reflectable quality of his fingers would be very plain in the curve of argent hull. Instead he bent his head and walked around the object on its low stand, looking at it carefully.

      “German … almost certainly sixteenth century. It is some time since I have seen a nef of this quality in private hands.” Well, the piece was not really all that impressive; but it did not seem likely that a little judicious flattery would do any harm.

      It seemed that he had passed the examination, or its first question anyway. Seabright, a little more relaxed now, chatted some more. Still probing, doing what seemed his best to probe cleverly. Finding out, as he must have thought, a fair number of things about Thorn without giving away much about himself. Thorn inclined more and more to the opinion that the mirror in the game room-lounge had been completely accidental. He doubted more and more Mary Rogers’s estimation of this man as a Machiavellian murderer. Seabright simply did not seem bright enough to carry off any such scheme successfully.

      The portion of the Seabright collection here visible contained a couple of really respectable things, not to mention the one in which Thorn was really interested and which they had not come to yet. Also it contained some that verged—no, more than verged—upon the pornographic. Those two young ladies under the oddly rumpled coverlet had their eyes closed but were enjoying more than sleep; the sculptured monk standing close behind the choirboy was, on second glance, not really intent on music. These examples and others more explicit appeared to be for the most part underground Victorian imitations of earlier masters. Maybe the porn things were all Ellison Seabright’s to start with, for he discussed them roundly and seemed to take an extra pride in their display. They were not really to Mr. Thorn’s taste, but he could be polite.

      The walls of these underground rooms were thick, Mr. Thorn knew, inside their earthen envelope. Even with only interior surfaces visible he could sense the thickness all round him, virtually impenetrable, like the walls of a bomb shelter or a bank vault. Faultless air conditioning, that even Thorn could barely hear, maintained a good museum’s silence, coolness, balanced humidity.

      Yet there were soundless echoes of murder and violence in the air down here. Death not all that old. The much-publicized Seabright murder-kidnapping, of course. But Thorn had got the impression from the news accounts that all those scenes had been in the upper levels of the house.

      Trading opinions, some of which may have made sense, about the Renaissance, the two men presently moved farther into the gallery. Mr. Thorn came to a halt. He saw with a pang the well lighted, centrally located space on a wall where the Magdalen should obviously be. She was not here, though she must have been. The empty place of honor was marked by the very faint outline of her frame.

      He hoped, but did not immediately ask for, a quick explanation of where she was right now. Feeling more disappointment than was entirely reasonable, he continued his expected admiring commentary on the lesser works surrounding him. A few of these he could recognize as having been at the auction room. They had been brought back here afterwards, but she had not.

      At last he stopped talking, to stand gazing pointedly at that central gap.

      His huge host gestured, with self conscious drama. “That’s where the Verrocchio was, of course. Naturally I’m curious as to just what you meant when you mentioned the question of its origins to my secretary on the phone. I hope you’re not going to try to cast any doubts on its authenticity? I’d hate to think that my confidence in that painting as an investment has been misplaced.”

      Thorn smiled. “Oh, by no means. It is extremely valuable.”

      “I’m glad you agree. I will take your opinions on art fairly seriously, you know, now that we’ve had this little talk. Though frankly some of the