The Art of Deception

by Leonard Goldberg

  “And growing by the day, Dr. Watson,” Lestrade said, and taking a deep breath, gazed over to Joanna. “I wonder if you and the Watsons would be good enough to lend assistance in this most important case. This being the holiday season, I know you must have other obligations, but your help in bringing this matter to a close would be greatly appreciated.”

  “We should be happy to do so,” Joanna agreed without hesitation. “Where was the very last act of vandalism committed?”

  “At the Hawke and Evans gallery,” Lestrade replied. “It was here that the most extensive damage was done. A total of five paintings were defaced.”

  “Then that is the place we shall begin,” Joanna said. “I take it the crime scene is still intact?”

  “It has been cordoned off and the gallery closed.”

  “Please see that it stays that way,” Joanna requested. “If it is convenient, Inspector, we shall meet you there within the hour.”

  Lestrade departed our rooms with a step that was far livelier than the one he entered with. My father followed the inspector out with his gaze, then came back to us. He waited to hear the sound of the front door closing before he spoke. “This is certainly not the most interesting of cases, but then senseless vandalism seldom is.”

  “There is more to this than meets the eye,” Joanna said mysteriously. “It is not simple vandalism.”

  “Based on what?” I asked.

  “Everything Lestrade has told us,” Joanna answered. “There is a plan afoot here and there is a method to the man’s apparent madness.”

  “Do you believe it will reveal itself at Hawke and Evans?” my father asked.

  “There and other places where the acts of vandalism occurred.”

  “What makes you so certain the vandal will leave other clues behind?”

  “Because he is careless and obviously new at the game,” Joanna replied. “An experienced criminal, particularly one on hard times, would never depart without his valued scarf.”

  “But it snagged on a door chain.”

  “Pshaw, Watson! One good pull and it would have immediately freed itself.”

  “The failure to do so also tells of his carelessness,” I opined.

  “That and the fact he overlooked something on his first visit to Hawke and Evans, and had to return a second time.”

  “But to what end?”

  “That is what must be determined, for it is the key to resolution,” Joanna stated. “All seemingly senseless crimes, if carefully observed, will be found to have a common denominator which will connect all loose threads into a recognizable pattern, and that is what we must search for here. Show me the common denominator and I will show you the vandal.”

  2

  Hawke and Evans

  On our arrival at Hawke and Evans, Joanna did not hurry to the crime scene, as was her usual custom, but rather took a slow, deliberate walk down a footpath that ran alongside the art gallery. The path held no noticeable clues, for it was covered with the early morning snowfall, yet Joanna stepped off every foot of it, staying close to the two-story, sandstone building itself. Just ahead was the side entrance that rested within a small alcove and was thus free of snow.

  “Note the footprints by the door,” Joanna observed, as she knelt down to examine the muddy impressions with a magnifying glass. “They are most instructive.”

  I moved in for a closer view and could only see a jumble of footprints, many superimposed upon one another, with none standing out as a whole. “It would appear that a sizable number of men assembled here for some reason.”

  “There were only three when you count the distinct toes of the shoes,” Joanna informed. “One was a working man as evidenced by the square toe of his boots and the roughness of their soles. The other two members wore pointed shoes of different sizes, indicating they belonged to a higher economic class.”

  “But why were they stepping over one another?”

  “Because they were here at different times,” replied Joanna. “There is no other plausible explanation.”

  She gave the muddy imprints a final look and, carefully avoiding them, moved to the heavy, brass door lock that had been recently shined. Again using her magnifying glass, she meticulously examined it, paying particular attention to the keyhole itself. “I can detect tiny nicks, some no larger than a pinprick.”

  “From a key perhaps?” my father suggested.

  Joanna smiled at the answer, then twisted the knob, but the door did not give. “Yes, my dear Watson, it was a key of sorts.”

  My father considered the clues further before saying, “In all likelihood, the door was opened by the owner or a trusted employee, for they alone would have such a key.”

  Joanna waved away the explanation. “The tiny nicks were made by a lockpick who accompanied the vandal. He was the individual wearing the boots belonging to a working man. The vandal had on shoes with pointed toes.”

  “And the third man wearing pointed shoes?”

  “Undoubtedly Lestrade or one of his men who trudged over the evidence and may have mucked up important clues in the process.”

  “Surely this combination of happenings is no more than an educated guess,” said I.

  “It is based on several very sound assumptions that are backed up by clear-cut observations,” Joanna replied. “First, you will note there is a lamppost near the front of the gallery. Only a fool, which our vandal is not, would attempt to break in through a well-lighted entrance where he could be easily noticed. Thus, he would plan to enter via a side door that is situated on a darkened alleyway. But here he encounters a lock of the best type. He cannot smash the door down, for this activity would cause a great ruckus that would be heard by all in the vicinity. So our vandal has to hire an expert lockpick to do the deed for him.”

  “But our vandal is a man of limited means,” I argued.

  “Lockpicks come cheap, particularly those who pick and run,” Joanna explained. “So, here is the crime at the very beginning, as I see it. The vandal and his hired lockpick sneak down the alleyway in the dark of night. Snow is falling, so their footprints will be covered should some passerby happen to glance down the footpath. In the alcove, the light is poor which causes the lockpick to miss the keyhole as he tries to insert the pick. This accounts for the tiny nicks that can only be seen with a magnifying glass. The position of the working man’s shoes tells us this is where he leaned over to pick the lock. Once the door is opened, the lockpick is paid no more than a crown or two, then quickly departs so the vandal can get on with his work. Lestrade came to the scene later and tramples on the footprints of our vandal and his lockpick. This scenario accounts for all the clues left behind.”

  “Your observations and conclusions are very astute, Joanna, but I do not see how it brings us any closer to the vandal,” said my father.

  “It is the lockpick which should draw your attention, Watson.” With a final look at the door lock, Joanna led the way down the footpath to the front of the art gallery. Only then did I notice the nearby lamppost that would have illuminated the gallery to such an extent that a break-in could have been witnessed from half a block away. And across the street were dwellings above the stores and shops, the occupants of which would have surely heard any disturbance in the late night. Thus, all of Joanna’s conclusions seemed spot-on, but I still wondered how a lockpick might lead us to the vandal. Lockpicks were commonplace in London and could disappear into the shadows before an eye could blink.

  Our attention was abruptly drawn to the crisp sound of a ringing bell. Just down the footpath a jolly Father Christmas, with a flowing white beard and dressed in bright red attire, was attempting to attract shoppers into nearby stores, most of whose entrances were adorned with strings of glittering lights. By contrast, the expansive frontage of Hawke and Evans was far more reserved, with only boughs of holly trimming its wide window, behind which stood a striking painting of Jesus ascending into heaven. As we entered, we had to lower our heads to avoid the hanging mistl
etoe in the doorway.

  The interior of the gallery was richly appointed and clearly spoke of refined wealth. Its floor was constructed of burnished wood and its walls paneled in mahogany that provided an ideal backdrop for the splendid hanging paintings. Above, a pearly white ceiling was lined with exquisitely carved crown molding. Despite the opulence and captivating display, not a single customer was to be seen.

  At the rear of the spacious gallery, Inspector Lestrade was waiting for us near a row of hanging paintings that were replete with dazzling colors and religious icons. None were defaced, but then none featured the portraits of women. At Lestrade’s side was a tall, well-built man, in his middle years, with silver gray hair and sharp, aristocratic features. His perfectly fitted suit was dark, with pinstripes, and highlighted by a bright red tie and an equally bright boutonniere. His gray attire could not hide the worry on the face of Simon Hawke, the owner of the gallery.

  Joanna nodded ever so briefly at the introductions, and instead focused her attention on a large painting that showed the interior of a massive cathedral, with a stained-glass image of Jesus Christ looming over the altar. “From the Italian Renaissance period, I would guess.”

  “You are correct, madam,” Hawke agreed. “This particular work is by Francesco Albani, a quite good artist of that period.”

  “But certainly not a Michelangelo or Leonardo da Vinci.”

  “Nor a Raphael for that matter, but then again, who is? Nevertheless, Albani’s paintings are still highly sought after.”

  Joanna glanced about at other, nearby works of art before commenting, “They all seem so similar with their religious connotations, with some being signed and others not.”

  “They are all from the same period, madam,” Hawke informed, and began to point. “This one is by Carlo Cignani, and that by Pietro da Cortona who is much better known for his depictions in The Rape of the Sabine Women. All are signed in one way or another, for that was how the artist could prove the work was truly his.”

  “May I inquire as to their price?”

  “The lesser ones would begin at a thousand pounds, madam.”

  Joanna smiled thinly to my father and I as we grasped the reason behind her line of questioning. The intruder was interested in vandalizing and nothing more, for it would have been a simple matter to snatch and roll up a number of valuable paintings and quickly sell them on the London black market, where such merchandise could be purchased for a quarter of its worth and then never seen again. So here was a vandal of limited means, who once enjoyed a comfortable income, yet he ignores the golden opportunity to return to his previous status. It all appeared to be the work of a crazed vandal, but I kept remembering Joanna’s statement that there was a method and meaning to these destructive acts.

  Simon Hawke broke the silence by asking, “Do you believe these valuable paintings are in any way connected to the break-ins?”

  “Were any of the gallery’s paintings missing?” Joanna inquired.

  “None,” Hawke replied at once. “We immediately performed a thorough inventory and every piece was accounted for.”

  “Then your other paintings have no connection to the break-ins,” said Joanna. “Which leads us to the question of how the vandal gained entrance to your gallery. I take it there are only two doors. Correct?”

  Hawke nodded. “One is to the front, the other to a side alleyway, neither of which has been tampered with.”

  “Oh, the lock on the side door has been tampered with, for that is where our vandal entered.”

  “Impossible!” Hawke raised his voice at the notion. “That door is secured by a Chubb detector lock which is unopenable unless one has the key.”

  “How many keys to the door exist?”

  “Two,” Hawke replied and reached for a gold chain on his waistcoat that held a large key on its end. “I have one; the other belonged to my former partner, Andrew Evans, who died from consumption several years ago.”

  “Did you retrieve his key?”

  “I—I saw no need,” Hawke stammered. “Shall I inquire to his widow about the key?”

  “As you have stated, there is no need,” Joanna answered. “Were this key to fall into the wrong hands, they would not wait years to use it, nor would they employ it for the sole purpose of apparent vandalism. And most importantly, our vandal entered by having the lock picked and thus had no requirement for a key.”

  “I fear you are on the wrong track here,” Hawke disagreed. “As I just mentioned, that door, like the one on the front, is secured by an impenetrable Chubb detector lock. Any attempt to pick it causes the lock to immediately seize up.”

  “What one man has invented, another can circumvent.” Joanna carefully laid out the evidence showing that the lock had indeed been picked, with particular emphasis on the tiny nicks and pinpoint markings around the keyhole. “It was not quickly picked and may have required hours to undo this formidable lock. Allow me to give you a brief history on the best of Chubb locks, which applies in this instance.”

  All present gathered in to hear this most interesting story, for it no doubt could account for the entire series of break-ins by the vandal.

  “You are correct, Mr. Hawke, in your statement that the Chubb detector lock will seize up if incorrectly picked,” Joanna began. “It was not just unbreakable, but designed to alert the owner if someone attempted to open it. So impenetrable was their lock that the Chubb company held a contest to determine if the lock could be picked, with a reward of a hundred pounds to the individual who was successful. According to my father’s unpublished monograph on the subject, no one succeeded until a young American came along and performed this task. But it required multiple attempts and nearly an hour to open it. The Chubb people then improved the lock further. But the lesson here was learned. A highly skilled lockpick can open any lock.”

  “Did Sherlock Holmes mention how this American was able to perform such a difficult task?” asked Lestrade.

  “Not in detail,” Joanna replied. “He only stated that the man who was successful intentionally tripped the detector mechanism, which caused the lock to seize up. He then picked the lock in the opposite direction to reset the detector. He repeated this maneuver over and over until he learned the lock’s inner mechanisms so well he could devise a method to overcome it.”

  “Ingenious,” Lestrade remarked.

  “Quite,” Joanna agreed. “And now that we have established his mode of entrance, let us examine the vandal’s work.”

  “To the restoration area, then,” said Hawke.

  We followed him down a long staircase that led to the expansive basement of the gallery. Several dozen paintings were strewn about, many in frames, others on their stretchers and leaning against the wall like folding chairs. Standing alone were two obviously vandalized works of art. Both were torn apart, with half of a woman’s face still recognizable on one. Off to the side and under a bright light, a young man was diligently at work on a large painting that showed a teenaged lad peeling fresh fruit. The restorer was quite short—no more than five feet two—with a kind, yet serious face and the physique of a well-trained athlete. As we quietly moved in closer, the strong odor of turpentine reached our nostrils.

  “What is the purpose of the solvent?” asked Joanna.

  “It is used to remove old varnish that diminishes the colors,” Hawke explained, then went into detail. “Artists often apply varnish to their paintings to protect them from dust, light, and weather. Unfortunately, with time, the varnish takes on a yellowish hue which dulls the colors and can significantly lessen the value of the work. The best of restorers have their own formula for solvents to remove the varnish, but even they must use it carefully to avoid damaging the original coloration.”

  Joanna studied the restoration at length before saying, “The fruit in the painting is so lifelike one can almost feel it.”

  Hawke nodded at Joanna’s assessment. “Which exemplifies the magnificent skill of Caravaggio, madam. The painting before us
is entitled Boy Peeling Fruit and is considered by some to be his very best work. It has been said that the fruit painted by Caravaggio was so real one could taste it and smell it as well as see it.”

  “Does it have a price?” asked Joanna.

  “Caravaggios are so valued and rare they never come to auction,” Hawke answered. “But if one did, its asking price would be beyond extraordinary.”

  Joanna gave my father and me a knowing glance, for once again the vandal showed no interest in precious art, not even one as priceless as a Caravaggio. She came back to Hawke and said, “I take it your restorer is one of the highest quality.”

  Hawke nodded once more, his eyes never leaving the restorer’s hand as he used a damp cotton swab to gently rub away the dark yellow discoloration caused by aged varnish. Now we had a clear view of the fruit the boy was peeling. It appeared to be a delicious pear which was beautifully shaded in brown. Hawke was correct. One could almost taste it.

  Joanna watched the restorer reach for and wet another cotton swab, then quietly commented, “From his Mediterranean complexion, I would think your restorer is Italian.”

  “He is.”

  “Southern Italy, then.”

  “He was born in Naples, but spent his formative years in Florence.”

  “Where he no doubt learned his trade.”

  Hawke nodded a third time. “His name is Giuseppe Delvecchio and he comes to us via the Uffizi where he studied under the master Zinetti.”

  Joanna and I exchanged warm smiles, for on our honeymoon in Italy we visited the renowned Uffizi Gallery which housed some of the world’s greatest art. In our estimation, it clearly surpassed the Louvre. One could easily spend a week there and never tire of viewing the works of Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Botticelli, and Raphael, just to name a few.

  “Are all the restorers so young?” I asked.

  “Some of the very best are,” Hawke replied, before tiptoeing up to Delvecchio and introducing us.

  The restorer discarded a wet, discolored swab in a slow, easy motion, giving the indication he was not to be hurried. He used another swab to remove the stains from his fingers, then bowed gracefully to Joanna. “Ah, the daughter of Sherlock Holmes.”