When I burst into the crowded auction room and stumble up the middle aisle, the entire crowd jumps to its feet and lets out a gasp of alarm, as if a werewolf with bloody fangs has crashed their party.
“Where’s Untitled Number 14?” I gasp between rapid breaths.
The well-dressed crowd just stares at me, not believing what they’re seeing.
“Isn’t he a little old for an Inspector Wink-Wink shirt?” somebody whispers.
“And why is his zipper down?” someone else adds.
“Does anyone have a net?” a man calls out nervously.
At the front of the room I see Stone Head. He’s standing at the microphone at the front of the room. He’s holding a large wooden hammer, probably for just such an occasion.
“Do I look that bad?” I ask the man who asked for the net. He nods uncertainly.
“Maybe he just got hit by a car,” a woman says, pointing. “His eyes look like glazed donuts.”
“They do?” I croak.
Stone Head pushes his way through the crowd. “This is most unusual! Sherlock, isn’t it?” He starts circling me. He’s got a wooden hammer, and I’ve got nothing but a broken zipper. “We’re here to help you,” he says.
I’ve seen enough movies to know that when someone says this, it means you’re about to be pounced on and beaten like a rented mule.
So I make a run for it.
The next minute is complete chaos.
The crowd shrieks. Chairs are overturned. Several men join the chase. But none of them has my kind of speed.
I sprint around the outside of the room. The paintings whiz by my face. I glance at the name on each sticker under each painting as it flies by: Flight of Fancy. Somber Night. Eternal Embrace.
Where the heck is Untitled Number 14?
I’m forced to zigzag through several men who try to catch me in their coats like I’m some kind of runaway chimp. They’ve obviously never seen a chimp as fast as me.
Then I see it. Untitled Number 14! I stop short and grab the huge painting’s frame to help me regain my balance. The immense painting swings wildly on the wall with a loud scraping sound.
The crowd lets out a cry.
“Is there a zookeeper in the house?” somebody shouts.
Realizing that a mob is closing in fast, I lift the painting away from the wall, reach up with my free hand, and unhook Man with a Cat from its hiding place behind Untitled Number 14, where it hangs on its own hook. I hold up all twelve-by-twenty-two inches for everyone to see.
The crowd surrounding me gasps at the painting’s unexpected appearance.
But nobody looks as surprised, or as pleased, as Stone Head. From the emotion that registers on his rocklike features, I know that he had nothing to do with this “vanishing” masterpiece.
“You found it,” Stone Head says, breaking into what must be a rare smile. “You really did it.”
“And he has a photo that proves it’s a true Artie McGuffin masterpiece,” Hailey says, squeezing into the circle of bodies.
“But who hid it behind there?” Stone Head asks, his eyes burning.
I hesitate, unsure about how much I should reveal. The thought of speaking in front of this many people makes me dizzy. My mouth feels like it’s full of sand. My legs feel like noodles. I’d faint right now if I knew how.
“Great work, Sherlock,” I hear Officer Lestrade’s voice call out from somewhere in the back of the room.
Somebody starts clapping. And soon the room explodes with nervous laughter, applause, and calls of “Bravo!”
As I hand the painting over to Stone Head, I know it will surely be the night’s most popular auction item.
It’s a moment that would make even Sherlock Holmes jealous.