The Pegasus Secret by Gregg Loomis Read Free Book Online Page B

what you have there is a picture of a copy, and not a particularly authentic copy, either. Ah, there . . . Not quite the same, is it?”
    He was pointing to a photo of a similar picture. At first Lang saw no difference. He looked more closely. The background was smoother; there was no upside down profile of Washington.
    “Religious art, late Renaissance, not my specialty,” Seitz continued, shutting the book with a thump. He brought Lang’s copy closer to his face. “Those letters on the structure, they look like Latin.”
    Lang moved to look over his shoulder. “I think so, yes.”
    “Obviously, they mean something. For that matter, the whole painting may well be symbolistic. Artists of that era often had messages in their paintings.”
    “You mean, like a code?”
    “Sort of, but less sophisticated. For instance, you’ve seena still life, flowers or vegetables with a bug or two, perhaps a wilted blossom?”
    Lang shrugged noncommittally. It wasn’t the sort of art he would remember.
    “It was popular about the time Poussin painted. A certain flower or plant—rosemary for memory, for example. A beetle might be reminiscent of an Egyptian scarab, symbolic of death or the afterlife or whatever.”
    Lang went back and sat down. “So you’re saying this painting has a message of some sort.”
    This time it was the director who shrugged. “I’m saying it’s possible.”
    “Who might know?”
    Seitz slowly spun his chair to face the window behind him and gazed out in silence for a moment. “I don’t really have an idea.” He flashed the Rolex. “And I fear we’re running out of time.”
    Lang didn’t budge from his seat. “Give me a name, if you would. Somebody likely to be familiar with Poussin, preferably somebody who might be able to decipher whatever symbolism there might be. Believe me, it’s important. This is no academic exercise.”
    Seitz turned back to stare at him, a frown tugging at his mouth, no doubt because he wasn’t used to being delayed. Then he returned to the row of books from which he had taken the first one before snatching another one up and paging through it, too.
    “It would appear,” the art director said, “that the leading authority on Poussin and on late Renaissance religious art, too, is a Guiedo Marcenni. He’s written quite a lot about your man Poussin.”
    Lang pulled a legal pad out of his briefcase. “And where do I find Mr. Marcenni?”
    The frown had become a sardonic smile. “Not ‘mister,’but ‘Fra.’ Brother Marcenni is a monk, an art historian with the Vatican Museum. Vatican, as in Rome.” He stood. “Now I really must ask you to excuse me, Mr. Reilly. One of the young ladies will show you out.”
    He was gone before Lang could thank him. Thank him for nothing. Lang was more puzzled than ever.
3
     
    Atlanta
That evening
     
    Lang was so absorbed in his thoughts that he almost missed the elevator’s stop at his floor. Still thinking, he took the few steps to his door and stooped to pick up the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
. He froze, key in hand.
    “ FIRE GUTS MIDTOWN DISTRICT ,” the above-the-fold headline screamed. An aerial view showed a pillar of smoke towering from a block of one-story, flat-roofed buildings. The one in the middle was—had been—Ansley Galleries.
    Lang let himself in and dropped into the nearest chair, oblivious to Grumps, who was more than ready to go outside.
A fire leveled an entire block of Seventh Street early this afternoon as the result of a faulty gas stove, according to Capt. Jewal Abbar, Chief Investigator for the Atlanta Fire Department.
Three shops, Ansley Galleries, Dwight’s Interiors and Afternoon Delites, were totally destroyed. Other establishments in the popular in-town shopping area were severely damaged.
Abbar said there were no serious injuries, although several people were treated at Grady Memorial Hospital for smoke inhalation.
Maurice Wiser, manager of Afternoon Delites, a vegetarian restaurant, was