Where Is the Blue Rider

My name is Morgan Brownell, and I’m a successful art gallery owner. When I broke into Miller’s Greenwich Village apartment it was in expectation of finding my favorite painting that my estranged wife Phyllis had stolen from me two weeks before. She’d gone off with her lover, Charles Miller, the actor, and through the services of a private detective had tracked him down to this cold-water tenement flat on Perry Street.

The daub, an oil painting by Franz Marc, the German Expressionist painter had been my good luck totem for over thirty years, and was worth in the neighborhood of $1.5 million. 

I had looked through all the rest of the flat and had come up empty, and had now come to the bathroom. However, still no picture. The only thing there was a near empty bottle of scotch with barely enough left to wet a fly’s ass.