“But the restorer Delvecchio said they were pristine and unscarred.”
“That was the curious nature,” Joanna remarked and turned to watch the snow fall.
3
Felix Dubose
With Lestrade having made the arrangements, we visited the home of the renowned jeweler Felix Dubose later that afternoon. It was a most handsome structure that was located on Bayswater Road and overlooked the northern edge of Hyde Park. Mr. Dubose, who was portly and balding and well into his middle years, received us in an elegant, spacious parlor which spoke of both wealth and taste. The furnishings were fine French antique upholstered in blue silk, whilst the walls were decorated with impressive paintings of landscapes and children with angelic faces. Only the slashed canvas showed a woman’s portrait. But Joanna’s attention was riveted on a mahogany door off to the far side that had a most unusual feature. It had a small, round porthole, much like those seen on ocean liners.
Dubose followed her line of gaze and commented, “That strange door came with the house that I purchased some years ago from an admiral in the Royal Navy. There was a small room behind it that the admiral used to store his military memorabilia. I had no use for it, but my wife thought it would be a fine place to display her collection of antique Staffordshire figurines and sterling silver miniatures. If you wish to have a look, please feel free to do so.”
Joanna, as well as my father and I, had to remove our hats to move in close and peer through the porthole at the magnificent collection. There were hundreds of colorful figurines and polished silver miniatures lining every shelf in the well-lighted room. It must have taken Dubose’s wife years and years to acquire all the striking pieces that glowed in the bright light.
“Stunning,” Joanna remarked.
“I believe the vandal also found it so,” said Dubose.
Joanna tried the door and window; the former was locked shut, the latter opened easily. “Did he actually enter the room?”
“That was not possible, for the door is secured by a Bramah lock.”
“Are the other doors in your house protected by Bramahs?” Joanna asked.
“All,” Dubose replied.
“Well, sir, he found his way in through one of those sturdy locks.”
“Yes, yes,” Dubose said unhappily. “In our phone call, Lestrade mentioned that one of our outer locks was in all likelihood picked.” He reached into his waistcoat and extracted an odd-appearing key that resembled a hollowed-out tube with deep notches on its end. “This key cannot be duplicated, so obviously the lock had to be picked. But fortunately he did not bother with the door to my wife’s collection. Yet he was interested, for he opened the porthole and stuck his head through it.”
“Based on what evidence?” Joanna asked.
“He left an unpleasant odor on the edges of the porthole,” Dubose responded. “It was quite similar to that of tar.”
“Coal tar, to be precise,” said Joanna. “The same aroma was detected at another of his crime scenes.”
“It is used to treat various skin conditions,” my father explained. “In this instance, it affected his neck and scalp.”
“I hope it is not contagious?” Dubose asked concernedly.
“It is not,” my father assured.
“Nevertheless, I had the entire porthole thoroughly scrubbed,” Dubose said. “I thought it best to err on the side of caution.”
“Quite so,” my father agreed.
Dubose nervously tapped a finger against the mahogany door, while his eyes stayed focused on its shined brass fittings. “Perhaps I should have all the locks changed.”
“There is no need, for the vandal will not return,” Joanna advised as she strolled over to the slashed painting. “And now let us turn our attention to the purpose of our visit. We were told you received the portrait as an anniversary gift from your brother. I need to know every detail, from the moment he purchased it to the moment it was placed in your hands.”
“There are no mysterious circumstances here,” Dubose began. “My brother was in Paris on a business trip when he saw the striking painting by the French impressionist Cézanne. It depicted an old woman holding a rosary that was beautifully done. He paid an extraordinary price for it, carried it back to London personally, and presented it to my wife and me on our twenty-fifth anniversary. Why this vandal chose to deface such a lovely painting is beyond me.”
“How was the painting transported to London?” Joanna inquired.
“By ferry, with the assistance of Bikram, his manservant who assists my brother in every way, for my dear brother is paralyzed from the waist down, compliments of an Afghan bullet, and is now confined to a wheelchair.”
My father’s eyes widened in surprise. “Your brother fought in the Second Afghan War?”
“He did indeed, Dr. Watson,” Dubose replied. “Dear Albert was wounded near the very end of it at the Battle of Kandahar.”
“I, too, served in that dreadful war,” my father reminisced. “Do you recall which regiment he was assigned to?”
“That I do not know.”
“Might it be possible for me to speak with him on this matter?”
“I am certain he would be most pleased to do so, but unfortunately he is currently hospitalized undergoing treatment for a stubborn bedsore.”
“Perhaps once he recovers, then.”
“Or better still, give him a day or two to regain his strength and visit him at St. Bartholomew’s,” Dubose suggested. “I can assure you he would welcome a visit of someone from his soldiering days. If you like, I could inform him of your upcoming visit.”
“Please do.”
Joanna was meticulously examining the slash that cut into the painting and bisected the woman’s face, but she was obviously listening to the conversation as well. “Is your brother also involved in the jewelry business?”
“He is indeed, madam, and I simply could not manage without him, for it is he who determines the quality of the diamonds we sell,” Dubose replied. “His expertise is such that other jewelers in London often seek his opinion when they encounter a particularly rare or unusual diamond.”
Joanna cautiously lifted up a torn edge of the Cézanne and peered behind it at its backing. “So I take it he knows his four Cs quite well.”
“Oh, he is well aware of the four—color, clarity, cut, and carat—but his true talent resides in grading the cut, for that determines the gem’s brilliance.”
“Does he himself do the cuts?”
“Oh no, madam, but I suspect he could if he wished.”
Joanna used her magnifying glass to inspect the frame and back of the painting and, apparently satisfied, turned away from it. “Tell me about Bikram, your brother’s manservant.”
“He is an exceptionally tall, well-built Sikh, with dark skin and a pleasing manner,” Dubose described. “Bikram has been at my brother’s side for over thirty years and is loyal beyond words. I am certain he would give his life for my brother without the slightest hesitation.”
“One last question about the Cézanne painting,” Joanna requested. “Did the painting ever leave the sight of Bikram or your brother?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Dubose replied. “But it might be best for you to ask Albert.”
“And so we shall,” said Joanna, and strolled over to a nearby painting that depicted ballerinas. It was eye-catchingly beautiful and had not been vandalized. “This, too, appears to be the work of a French impressionist.”
“The artist is Edgar Degas who is known and celebrated for his lovely ballerinas.” Dubose moved in closer to straighten the slightly tilted painting, then blew at a speck of dust on its frame. “Fortunately, the vandal either overlooked or showed no interest in Degas’s work.”
“He did not overlook the painting, but chose not to slash it, for the ballerinas are turned away with their heads down and do not show faces that the vandal is so intent on defacing.”
“I do pray this criminal can be apprehended before h
e does even more damage.”
“As does the entire West End of London.”
“Is there any hope?”
“Only a glimmer,” said Joanna, and gave the defaced woman holding the rosary a final look before thanking Felix Dubose for his time and assistance.
We departed the home via the tradesman’s entrance which Joanna correctly predicted had been used by the vandal. The Bramah lock was old and rusted, but on its surface were scratches and markings recently made by the lockpick. Any footprints that may have been left by the vandal and his accomplice were long gone, however.
“The number of small dints and scrapes suggest the guilty lockpick is Joseph Blevins who is losing his sight,” Joanna noted. “He would need to depend on feel alone in the darkness even if a torch was available.”
“And he would be the least expensive,” I added.
“That, too.”
Following Joanna’s instructions, we stayed off the footpath on the side of the home and took measured steps across a well-manicured garden. She reasoned the intruders would not use the paved footpath upon which their heels might click and thus alert the household of their presence. The soft grass of the lawn would mute any sounds made by their approach.
“Here!” Joanna stopped abruptly and pointed down to a large bed of flowers. Those in the middle were flattened and crushed, those on the sides still standing. “They came and left this way.”
“Would not two men hurrying along trample a wider area of the flower bed?” I asked.
“Not if they were in single file,” Joanna said. “Remember, Blevins is nearly blind. He would have to be led in the darkness, most likely from behind the vandal.”
“Your observations are very keen, Joanna,” my father praised. “But I fear they do not bring us any closer to this despicable vandal.”
“Perhaps,” Joanna responded. “But I make it a habit never to discard findings, no matter how trivial they may appear. In the future, you see, they might turn out to be quite useful, so I shall docket this information for now and store it along with the other data we have uncovered thus far.”
We strolled on and passed a window that looked into a large, brightly lighted kitchen where servants were scurrying to and fro. On a long wooden table lay a splendid goose that was being dressed for the oven by a hatted chef. A hidden vent allowed appetizing aromas to escape into the early evening air.
“It is obvious that Mr. Dubose is a man of considerable wealth,” said I.
“All of which he would happily give up in return for his dear brother’s paralysis to disappear,” my father noted.
“Which brings us to your upcoming visit with Albert Dubose at St. Bartholomew’s,” Joanna interjected. “This visit could be most important, Watson, for it may lead to resolution of the case before us.”
“How so?” my father asked, clearly puzzled. “How in the world would the time we spent in Afghanistan relate to this spree of vandalism?”
“It is not your soldiering days that I am interested in, but the Cézanne painting Albert Dubose gave to his brother,” Joanna went on. “You see, it is the odd, missing piece here. All of the defaced paintings had been in or passed through the galleries in the West End of London. Thus, the vandal had to know these galleries or the works of art they possessed. That is the common denominator that should point to the culprit. But this notion falls apart with the slashing of the Cézanne painting at the home of Felix Dubose. That painting was purchased in Paris and to his knowledge was never seen or in any way connected to the West End galleries.”
My father nodded ever so slowly. “Which presents quite a dilemma.”
“A stubborn dilemma unless we can prove that the Cézanne painting somehow passed through a London gallery prior to being purchased.”
“Should I ask him directly?”
“That would not be wise, particularly if there is some reason he wishes all to believe the painting was truly purchased in Paris rather than London.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Perhaps to impress his brother, for a Cézanne painting bought in Paris, where the artist once lived, would make the gift even more treasured. Mind you, I am not saying he did, only raising an unlikely possibility, and all unlikely possibilities must be eliminated for us to find the truth.”
“But surely he will wish to talk mainly of our service in Afghanistan.”
“And so you should. During your visit with Albert Dubose, you will naturally show a deep interest in his days during the Second Afghan War. Then be good enough to demonstrate a similar interest in the Cézanne painting and, using your knowledge of Paris, have him account for every moment the canvas was in his hands. Gently persuade him to inform you on the details of the journey, from the purchasing to the transport to the giving of the gift, all the while searching for an event, however trivial, that will connect the Cézanne to the art galleries of West London.”
“Which will clearly establish the common denominator.”
“Precisely,” said Joanna, and signaled to a passing four-wheeler.
4
Johnny
“We are at a disadvantage,” said Joanna as we gathered around a flickering fire. Outside, the weather had turned cruel, with a most heavy snowfall and an arctic wind that howled down Baker Street in powerful gusts. Even the three logs in the fireplace had difficulty overcoming the chilled air in our parlor. “The vandal has knowledge that we lack and without which this case cannot be brought to resolution.”
“You do not appear to be convinced that our vandal is simply a crazed individual who searches out portraits of women,” my father surmised. “Which of course is the opinion of Scotland Yard.”
“That conclusion does not fit the facts, Watson.” Joanna reached for a metal poker and stoked the logs, causing them to blaze up anew. “An unbalanced person could certainly know of paintings in various art galleries, either by advertisements or by actually visiting the establishments. But he would not be aware of their restoration sections, such as was the site of vandalism at Hawke and Evans. These areas are closed off and restricted, and a casual visitor would never be allowed in. Then your crazed individual would have to somehow gain knowledge of the Dubose home and the Cézanne painting in its parlor. But it is the technique of his vandalism that draws my attention. You will recall he carefully slices into the canvas to make certain its backing remains pristine and free of any cuts or scratches. What do you make of that?”
“Perhaps he used a razor which would not penetrate deeply,” I suggested. “This is particularly so if the sharp point alone did the damage.”
“The slashes are too wide for a thin razor,” Joanna countered. “At the end of the cuts, the width is broad and somewhat uneven, indicating a large, sturdy knife was used. In other words, I am of the opinion that he intentionally did not go deep, as would be expected if his singular goal was the destruction of the painting.”
“But why not go deep?” I asked at once.
“Think back, John, to each of the defaced portraits, and recall how they were torn in a most unusual fashion,” Joanna prompted.
“The edge was lifted and appeared to be partially folded back.”
“To what end?”
The answer came in an instant. Both my father and I cried out together, “He was looking for something!”
“But what?” Joanna answered back. “And here is where we require an expert in the works of the great artists. We need someone who is an acknowledged authority in the paintings from the Italian Renaissance as well as those of the French impressionists. He should be able to speak of either Raphael or Renoir without skipping a beat.”
“What would you expect to learn from him?” I asked.
“If my assumptions are correct, and I believe they are, there is something of great value hidden beneath the canvas,” Joanna replied. “But here is where I stumble, for the list is long.”
“Another painting?” I ventured.
“Possibly, but how would the vandal
know this?” Joanna lighted a Turkish cigarette and began pacing, no doubt assembling the possibilities in her mind. At times she muttered to herself, nodding at one thought and shaking her head at another. “There is quite a list of items which might be hidden behind a valuable painting. You mentioned it might be a second painting, but consider the fact that these works of art may well have been framed and reframed on a number of occasions, and anything concealed behind the canvas would have certainly been seen. Moreover, what does the portrait of a woman have to do with the hidden item? Is it a marker or a telltale sign? Here, an expert in the history of art could prove most helpful.”
“I would cast my vote for it being yet another painting,” my father asserted. “It would surely explain why the vandal made his cut in such a superficial fashion.”
“But why a painting, Watson?” Joanna argued mildly. “Could it not be an ancient historical document of immense value, such as a copy of the Magna Carta, which would be worth untold millions? Or perhaps it holds old currency. The King Edward the Third florin is the most valuable coin in the world. Only three are known to be in existence and all would easily fit behind a canvas. So, at this point we have an extensive list of possibilities, and we have no way of ranking them in order of probability.”
“How could an art historian be of help in this matter?” I asked.
“He could tell us how often this type of vandalism has occurred in the past and describe all the circumstances that surrounded those events,” Joanna replied. “Please recall what I mentioned to Lestrade earlier in this case. There are no truly unique crimes—all have been committed before.”
“Are you saying we are dealing with a copycat crime?”
“That possibility has crossed my mind.”
“But where should we look for a noted art historian?” I asked.
“In an old case of Sherlock Holmes’s.” My father arose and went to a large shelf that held the files of the great detective’s cases. While rummaging through a box marked with the date 1885, he told us of a most unusual case involving an art theft in Belgravia.
The Art of Deception Page 4