her face turning almost as red as her name. âHow did it come into my fatherâs possession?â
âWell, thatâs the mystery, isnât it?â The detective tilted his head. âIt reminds me of a case I once had involving a sketch by Rembrandt, a South American shrunken head and a baby elephant.â
Jack interrupted. âIs it valuable?â
âValuable?â Mr Doyle mused. âHmm. Jack, you understand the value of a pound? You know what you can buy with it?â
Jack had never had so much money. âYes. A lot.â
âWell, you would need more than a million of them to purchase this masterpiece,â Mr Doyle said. âPossibly a great deal more.â
Jackâs mouth fell open. âFor a painting?â
âLeonardoâs works are exceedingly rare. Only a handful of them are known to exist.â
They stood in silence looking at the amazing piece. The half-light of the chamber seemed to give more authenticity to the battle scene. Jack had not seen many paintings in his life, and most of them were of men and women standing around in rooms looking like they wanted either to drink tea or break into a ballroom waltz.
This painting was different. The firebird was a bright, flaming creature arcing across the sky. It seemed almost alive.
Mr da Vinci knew a thing or two about painting.
âWait a moment,â Mr Doyle said. âThere is something else.â
âAnother picture?â Scarlet asked.
âNo,â he said. âSomething that may provide us with a lead.â
A writing pad lay on one of the lower shelves. None of them had noticed it before because of the gloom.
Mr Doyle picked up the pad. âI think we need to examine this properly.â
They exited to the main parlour. Mr Doyle held the first page up to the light and threw on his goggles. He activated the magnification switch. âI can make out some impressions. They appear to be an address, a date and a time. Scarlet, could you assist me?â
âOf course.â
Mr Doyle continued to peer at the page. âA pencil should bring out the impression on this piece of stationery.â
Scarlet sneezed.
âBless you, my dear,â Mr Doyle said.
âItâs turned right cold,â Jack said.
âIt has rather, hasnât it?â Mr Doyle said. âIs the front door open?â
They turned to see a figure in the doorway. He wore a long ebony cloak with a high-backed collar that shielded most of his face. The rest of his clothing was unremarkable: black pants, white shirt and red vest, a charcoal slouch hat pulled low across his brow. Only upon closer examination did Jack realise he was not looking at a human face but at a porcelain mask.
CHAPTER SIX
The mask was perfect in every detail. It was not a handsome face. Nor was it ugly. It had a plain nose. The lips were ordinary. At a glance, it looked like any other face on the street. Slits in the porcelain would allow sight and speech, but the mask would have allowed the wearer to blend with any crowd. He was hidden in plain sight.
âGive me that!â he said.
The man had a gravel voice. He did not wait for a reply. Instead, he moved like lightning, crashing into Mr Doyle and grabbing the page. The detective fell to the floor as the assailant turned and ran.
âThe paper!â Mr Doyle yelled. âWe must not lose it!â
Jack gave chase. The assailant headed down the stairs two and three at a time. Jack matched him step for step.
Heâs so fast , he marvelled. The man moved like an athlete as he reached the bottom and sprinted towards the street.
Outside, Jack saw the thief moving at great speed. The storm had now broken and the rain fell in a mighty downpour. Jack splashed through enormous puddles, spraying water in all directions. The man raced through a tunnel ahead. An old drunk wandering in the opposite direction got in his way and the thief gave him a shove, sending him