Murder at the Library of Congress by Margaret Truman Page A

the door read: ABRAHAM WIDLITZ, ART RESTORATION AND CONSERVATION.
    Entering, he stood alone in the room, surrounded by easels on which large canvases in various stages awaited the next step. A lengthy table lined a wall with windows that overlooked the bustling plaza.
    The sound of a door from a second room opening caused the visitor to turn. Through it came a wizened old man barely five feet tall who walked with a pronounced limp. His white hair was thin and unruly, his glasses thick and in need of cleaning. He wore a dirty white shirt covered by an equally shapeless sleeveless black sweater. His pants were baggy. His shoes were of the molded variety and looked as if badly drawn.
    “Ah hah, Mr. Conrad,” he said, smiling. “I see you brought me something.”
    Conrad laid the rolled-up Reyes painting on the table. “He called ahead, right? You knew I was bringing this.”
    “Of course, of course. Sit down. Tea?”
    “No, thanks.”
    “Let me see what we have here.”
    Widlitz carefully removed the brown wrapping paper from the painting, then unfurled the painting itself. Its being rolled had caused hundreds of cracks to appear.
    “It should never be rolled like this,” he said.
    “That’s the way it was given to me.”
    “What do people know? This will take time, Mr. Conrad. It won’t be easy.”
    “Well, you tell him that. All I do is deliver it.”
    “Of course.”
    “I need to call him, tell him it’s here.”
    “By all means,” Widlitz said, pointing to a phone in the corner.
    “It’s Conrad,” he said after being connected. “It’s here at Widlitz’s place.”
    “Good,” the man said. “Were there any problems?”
    “No. The guy was nervous, though. Real nervous. Where did you find him?”
    “It doesn’t matter. Did he indicate whether he was staying in California?”
    “A day or two,” Conrad replied, running fingers through his mane of greasy, sun-bleached hair.
    “I need you to pick someone up this evening at the airport.”
    “All right.” He wrote down the information on the back of an envelope. Conrad Syms was often called upon by his employer to chauffeur people from the airport to the house.
    “That’s all for the moment, Conrad.”
    Conrad said, “Any chance of getting some money for meeting the guy last night? I’m a little short.”
    “I’ll pay you tonight when you deliver my guest.” He hung up.
    Conrad waved at Widlitz and left. He hung around the plaza for a while before driving home, where he lounged at the pool that was part of his apartment complex. He met the plane at nine, took his passenger to the house in the tony Brentwood section, received his pay in cash from a Filipino houseboy, and drove to Sunset Boulevard, where he handed over the BMW to a parking lot attendant at Carlos ’n Charlie’s. Maybe today he’d get lucky and meet a producer or director looking for his type. When he’d come to Hollywood from Minnesota after acting in some community theater productions, he was told he was a natural for motion pictures. So far, three years later, his only starring roles were in three pornographic movies and walk-ons in industrial films. Maybe it was time to change agents, he thought as he checked his appearance in the window, readjusted his straw hat to a more rakish angle, and made his entrance.

12
    Usually, it was Mac who was up first, often before the sun. But this morning, he awoke to find his wife missing from their bed.
    He found her in the kitchen.
    “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
    “No,” she said, looking up from where she sat at the table, a steaming cup of black coffee before her. “The impact of what happened last night has hit home.”
    He poured himself a cup and joined her.
    “I’ve only been at LC for two days. I was given a desk next to his, and interviewed him for the article. I saw him at the cocktail party. And now he’s dead. Something inside me says it didn’t happen, but I know it did because I was the one who found him. I