Clint decided to leave his packages at the desk, eat in the dining room, and then pick them up before going to his room to change.
He found the same waiter and was taken to the same table, and ordered the same meal—the steak plate. He was still determined to eat outside of the hotel, where he knew he’d find even better steaks, but for now this was convenient, since he wanted to end up at the gallery, only a few blocks away.
~*~
After his meal, as he dressed in his new suit in his room, he walked to the window and looked out. The problem with city streets like these was that they were pretty much always busy. Somebody following him could very easily blend in, especially if he knew what he was doing. Clint could spot somebody following him on the trail, but he wasn’t as good at it on a city street. He was going to have to rely on his instincts, and so far they hadn’t helped him. If not for the doorman, he wouldn’t even have known somebody was trailing him. That made him very unhappy.
He finished dressing, figuring that hanging paintings would not be as dirty as uncrating them had been. He tucked the New Line behind his back, put on the new jacket he’d bought, and left the room.
~*~
He walked to the gallery, without looking behind him once. But now that he knew what the doorman had told him, he felt there was somebody behind him. Hopefully, their only aim was to keep following him.
Nobody he could think of had a motive for following him, except perhaps for Emory Bates. Since he had rousted Bates’ men—his nephews—the man would probably want to know who he was.
He tried the door to the gallery, found it locked, and knocked loudly. Nadine appeared from the rear, waved, hurried to the door and let him in. She gave him a short hug.
“I was thinking you might not come,” she said.
“Why not? I said I would.”
“Look at your new clothes,” she said. “This is how you dress to hang paintings?”
“I thought we did the dirty work already,” he said, “the uncrating. I thought after we finished hanging maybe we’d go and have a late meal.”
“That sounds good.”
She locked the door and started walking toward the back of the gallery again, but she stopped when she realized he wasn’t with her. When she turned she saw him looking out a window.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Huh? Oh, nothing,” he said, moving away from the window. He hurried across the room. “I’m with you.”
As they continued to the back of the room he saw some blank spaces on the wall.
“I see you got started already, taking some paintings down.”
“Yes,” she said, “I have to make room for the new.”
“What happens to the old paintings?”
“I have to send them back to the artist,” she said.
“Won’t they be disappointed?”
“Yes,” she said, as they reached the back room. “I’m disappointed, too.”
In the back room the paintings they had uncrated were still leaning against the walls.
“If you’ll grab that one,” she said, pointing, “we can get started hanging them.”
“Gotcha,” he said, and picked it up.
~*~
“About time you got back!” Griff complained when George walked in. “I’m starvin’!”
George moved to the window.
“Did he go in?”
“You didn’t bring any food?”
“I said did he go in?”
“Somebody went in,” Griff said.
“It was the same man!”
“The one who pulled a gun on us?’
“Yeah!”
“Did you find out who he is?”
“No,” George said. “I followed him to his hotel, but the doorman wasn’t talkin’.”
“Uncle E. ain’t gonna like that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” George said. “I’m gonna go into the hotel and talk to the desk clerk. He’ll tell me who this feller is. Meanwhile, you keep watchin’.”
“What?” Griff said. “I gotta eat, George.”
“Look,” George said, turning to face his cousin, “I’m just gonna walk up to that hotel and talk to the clerk. When I come back I’ll bring you some food.” He stuck his forefinger in Griff’s face. “Don’t you move from here. Got it?”
“I got it, George.”
George headed for the door.
“George?”
“Yeah?”
“What do I do if he comes out?”
“Just let him go,” George said. “He’ll be back.”
George left and Griff put his hand to his stomach, which was growling something fierce.