Girl with Pencil, Drawing

We picked our way through the rubble and broken bottles left by the toppled wine rack. There, gaping open, was the door to the vault. The vault looked very much like a smaller version of a bank vault. 
“Go on through,” urged Lt. Red, who was behind us. We entered the vault. Lit up before us, was a mini-museum. We gasped. 
There were easily twenty paintings, each illuminated from above by its own spotlight. The secret chamber, I liked the sound of that, was wood-paneled and softly lit. The floor was covered with rich carpets with oriental designs. I knew they were oriental because my mother had a passion for them, and had tried to give me a little history lesson about them when I was a child. The paintings were mostly portraits. They were not the usual stiff poses you see in museums. The people in them seemed about to speak, or pick up a musical instrument or cut a flower from its bed. There were statues in marble and bronze placed around the chamber. A large pair of wing chairs bracketed a rosewood table with a brandy decanter and two snifters. I understood the meaning of the chamber to Frau Helriegel, but why two chairs, two brandy glasses? Did she have an accomplice amassing her collection? 
As dumbstruck as I was, it was Francesca, who appeared the most spellbound. 
“This is unbelievable,” she uttered finally. “I recognize some of these paintings. These two were stolen two years ago from the Boston Museum.” She walked from painting to painting. At one, she stopped, a moan escaping her lips as she reached out to touch the canvas. “This is my work,” she cried in anguish. “That bastard, DiCristiani! He was passing my work off as authentic. This is some kind of secret collection.”