His head was resting against a stack of discarded drywall.

A dark bruise was forming over his left eye, and his lip was split and bleeding.

“Marcus,” Adrian said, kneeling beside his chauffeur. “Can you stand?”

Marcus blinked slowly, trying to focus on his employer.

“I tried to stop them, Mr. Vale,” Marcus whispered, his voice hoarse. “There were three of them.”

“We need to get him to a hospital,” I said, putting the manila folder under my arm.

“No time,” Marcus muttered, clutching his ribs. “The boat. They’re loading it now.”

He coughed, a wet, painful sound that made him wince.

“They brought the crate from the warehouse an hour ago,” Marcus said. “The one with the gold trim.”

I looked at Adrian.

“That’s my family’s painting,” Adrian said. “The Portrait of the Lost Lady.”

“Grant is moving fast,” I said, checking my watch again. “It’s 1:15 AM.”

We each took one of Marcus’s arms and helped him to his feet.

He groaned, leaning heavily on Adrian’s shoulder.

We walked slowly down the narrow, dark staircase of the tenement building.