“Just passing through. I figured as much when I saw you didn’t even bring a bag. Safe travels, Hanna. Goodbye.”
Jorge stayed planted on the platform, watching as the train pulled away and Hanna leaned out to blow him a kiss.
Back in Paris, Hanna opened the cylinder and carefully unrolled the canvases on her hotel room bed. Once more, her father had proven wise and farsighted by using the waterproof tube; the paintings were completely undamaged. One by one, Hanna examined each of them, a sense of dread growing in the pit of her stomach as she made a chilling discovery.
There were only nine paintings. One was missing. Hopper’s Girl by the Window had vanished into thin air.
The next morning, Hanna paid for her hotel room, boarded an Air France Constellation flight to New York, and never looked back.
34
ELEANOR-RIGBY
October 2016, Baltimore
That was it, the end of the chapter. George-Harrison finished just moments later and suggested grabbing a coffee, but all I wanted was to find out the rest of the story and to understand why Morrison hadn’t written it down. Why would it end so abruptly? I checked my watch. It was almost six . . . Still a slim chance we’d have time to corner the slippery professor in his office.
“Follow me,” I said, my commanding tone catching George-Harrison off guard.
“You’re certainly your grandmother’s granddaughter,” he said, rolling his eyes.
We bolted straight out of the library and sprinted down the campus walkways side by side without slowing for a single moment. If not for our clothes, we could have been mistaken for a pair of runners vying for the finish line, which was how our wild chase actually came to an end. George-Harrison and I ran neck and neck until I spotted a shortcut and split off, leaving him in the dust, with him yelling that I was a cheater. We burst straight into Morrison’s office without bothering to knock, out of breath and triumphant. The professor nearly leapt out of his chair, shocked to find us panting and dripping with sweat in his office.
“Somehow, I doubt it was my manuscript that left you two in such a state,” he said, wryly.
“No, it’s what it was missing! Why would you decide to cut the story off like that, right in the middle of the chapter?” I implored.
“It wasn’t a decision at all, as I told you. Hanna strictly forbade Robert to proceed any further with the project. But our friendship did continue thereafter.” Morrison glanced at his watch with a sigh. “I’m famished, and eating too late wreaks havoc on my digestion.”
“Fine, let’s have dinner together,” George-Harrison offered. “You choose the spot. Our treat.”
“Hmm . . . in that case, might I suggest the Charleston?” Morrison replied, averting his eyes. “It’s a fine establishment. Since you seem unable to wait until tomorrow, I’ll accept your offer.”
One glance at the menu and I knew why the professor had been so sheepish about his restaurant choice. The prices nearly made me faint. And there was no way I’d be able to get the meal cleared as an expense, even if I managed to bring my editor Edgar Allan Poe’s femur in a takeaway bag. But the table was now set, with something in store that was far more valuable than the market-price lobster Morrison had ordered. As soon as the waiter delivered our food and left our table, I fired the opening salvo.
“What happened to the missing painting? What did Hanna do when she got back from Europe?”
“One question at a time, please,” the professor replied, as he wrapped a napkin around his neck like a bib.
Morrison devoured over half his lobster without coming up for air. Watching him crack through the shell and lick his own fingertips instantly killed my appetite. George-Harrison seemed fine, though, judging from the way he attacked his T-bone steak.