Mourner by Richard Stark

Parker tested it out, and it worked fine. He backed the Cadillac out of its parking slot and drove it slowly out on to Wisconsin Avenue.
    Kapor's house, when they got there, was in darkness, the way it was supposed to be. Parker spun the wheel and the Cadillac entered the driveway. The tyres crunched on the gravel. The Cadillac looked right at home here as Parker tooled it around behind the house and left it in front of the garage, hidden from the street by the house.
    It was eight-thirty. They were right on schedule.
    There were two back doors to choose from and they picked the one that Clara had reported led to the kitchen. Handy went to work on it. He was very good with doors. It opened almost immediately.
    They went in, and Parker turned on the pencil flash. From Clara, through Menlo, they now had a good ground plan of the house. His voice soft, Parker asked, "All right, Menlo. What room do we want?"
    "We'll get your statuette first," Menlo said. "I have a desire to see it. This bit of romanticism you will not deprive me of."
    Parker shrugged. It didn't make any difference. He crossed the kitchen and opened the door on the other side, which led to the rear staircase, the servants' stairs.
    The staircase ended on a squarish room, with a large table along one wall. On the other side was a doorless entranceway, leading to an L-shaped hall. Parker opened the third door on the left, and because this room faced the rear of the house, he switched on the light.
    It was a long and narrow room, with a dark-red paper covering the walls. The lighting was soft, furnished by fluorescent tubes in troughs spaced along the upper walls, and a rich green carpet covered the entire floor.
    It resembled a room in a museum. Glass-topped cases contained coins, resting on green velvet, and on squarish pedestals of varying height were statues of varying styles of plaster, bronze, terra cotta, alabaster, wood none over three feet tall. Around the walls fancy swords were hung, and a tall, narrow, glass-doored book-case at one end of the room was half full of ancient-looking volumes. Most of them were thick and squat, with peeling bindings.
    "It is all garbage," Menlo said, with something like contempt in his voice. "Kapor is indiscriminate in his artistic affections. He buys because a particular item is for sale, not because it adds anything artistically. Look at this gibberish! What a confusion of styles and periods. What would Kapor do with a hundred thousand dollars, if he were allowed to retain it? Create an entire house of monstrosities such as this? Such tastelessness deserves no hundred thousand dollars!"
    He moved deeper into the room, frowning. "There are good pieces here," he said. "A few, but only a few. There's a Gardner over there, one of the better moderns. But in such surroundings, how can anything reveal its true value? Ah! Here is your mourner!"
    It stood in a corner, near the bookcase, on a low pedestal nearly hidden from view. White, small, alone, bent by grief, the mourner stood, his face turned away. A young monk, soft-faced, his cowl back to reveal his clipped hair, his hands slender and long-fingered, the toes of his right foot peeking out from under his rough white robe. His eyes stared at the floor, large, full of sorrow. His left arm was bent, the hand up alongside his cheek, palm outward and shielding his face. His right hand, the fingers straight, almost taut, cupped his left elbow, the forearm across his midsection. The broad sleeve had slipped down his left forearm, showing a thin and delicate wrist. His whole body was twisted to the left, and bent slightly forward, as though grief had instantaneously aged him. It was as if he grieved for every mournful thing that had ever happened in the world, from one end of time to the other.
    "I see," said Menlo softly, gazing at the mourner. He reached out gently and picked the statue up, turning it in his hands carefully. "Yes, I see. I understand your Mr Harrow's craving. Yes, I