The Art of Deception

by Leonard Goldberg

  “But what was most remarkable about the countess was her vast knowledge of paintings from the Italian Renaissance period. The names of the famous and not-so-famous artists seemed to roll off her lips, and she easily recited their first names and the dates of their work. She apparently is a true patron of the arts and is quite close to the royal family.”

  “We know that the earl is fifth in line to the throne, so some degree of closeness is to be expected,” Joanna said.

  “Oh, it is more than that,” I continued on. “For she is one of the select few allowed to view the Royal Collection at Windsor, and I suspect she has visited there on a goodly number of occasions. You see, she has viewed the hundreds of Leonardo da Vinci’s sketches, as well as the works by Raphael, Michelangelo, and Caravaggio, and no doubt many others. This of course would require multiple visits to Windsor, and only those close to the Crown would be allowed to do so. The countess also sits on an advisory committee and on occasion has a say in the restoration of famous paintings.”

  Joanna leaned forward quickly, her interest piqued. “What kind of say?”

  “Ah, here all becomes delightfully interconnected, for she has directed some of the restorations to the gallery of Evans and Hawke.”

  “You mean Hawke and Evans,” Joanna corrected.

  “No, my dear. Evans’s name should be placed first and therein lies a story that is certain to grab and hold your attention.”

  In detail I described the sad saga of Andrew Evans who founded the gallery and guided it to prominence, then allowed Simon Hawke to become a partner, and shortly thereafter developed severe consumption and was taken advantage of by Hawke whilst Evans lay on his deathbed. “But the most tragic part of the story was that both would have become wealthy had Hawke only followed the advice of Evans. There was a famous painting entitled The Baptism of Christ that came on the market for an extraordinary price. Evans knew its true value, for the painting was by del Verrocchio who was Leonardo da Vinci’s mentor. It is believed the mentor asked Leonardo to paint an angel in the corner of the work and the young pupil obliged him. A dying Evans begged Hawke to purchase it, for its value far exceeded its asking price. Hawke refused, Evans died, and the painting was soon after purchased by the Crown who had it so beautifully restored that it will shortly be on display at the National Gallery. It was upon Evans’s death that the title of the gallery was reversed. I was somewhat surprised that Evans’s name was not removed altogether.”

  Joanna smiled thinly. “Not so surprising when you consider the fact that it was Evans who had the sterling reputation, and that Hawke would wish to continue to take advantage of his dead partner’s good name.”

  “This Simon Hawke is quite a piece of work,” my father opined.

  “And now comes the tantalizing connection,” I went on. “It was abundantly clear that the Countess of Wessex has a deep, visceral hatred of Simon Hawke, for the partner Andrew Evans who Hawke treated so poorly was the countess’s dear cousin.”

  “How dear?” Joanna asked promptly.

  “Quite, for she spoke of him in a most loving voice.”

  “Were they close cousins?”

  “I did not inquire.”

  “We must determine that,” said Joanna. “For that sort of hatred begins with a deep, painful wound.”

  “Are you suggesting a romantic assignation gone bad?”

  “A woman scorned has a mean voice,” Joanna noted. “But there are other possibilities as well. A family feud can engender an unabating hatred that is passed down through the generations. Or perhaps the countess and her husband invested heavily in the gallery, only to watch their money disappear before their very eyes.”

  “The latter would fit if the investment was made during Andrew Evans’s tenure when the gallery was thriving,” I thought aloud. “According to the earl, the business is near to financial insolvency due to Hawke’s incompetence and extravagant lifestyle.”

  Joanna arose from her seat and reached for a Turkish cigarette, then began pacing the floor of the parlor. She did so in silence, assembling the facts and deliberating on their possible interconnections. Abruptly she stopped and said, “There is more here than meets the eye.”

  “Are you thinking of Simon Hawke?” I asked.

  “The Countess of Wessex,” Joanna answered. “She must be questioned again, with particular reference to the restorations.”

  “Yes, yes,” I said in a rush. “She mentioned the restorations currently being done at Hawke and Evans, and subtly questioned the quality of their workmanship. She seemed to have some concerns about Delvecchio, the young restorer who trained at the Uffizi.”

  Joanna smiled humorously. “She appears to be remarkably well informed on a gallery she despises and has no apparent connection to.”

  “And, according to her husband, their defaced painting will be restored there.”

  “Which is another contradiction. Why trust your valuable painting to a restorer whose ability you question? And why to a gallery you dislike so intensely?”

  “She must be questioned again.”

  “Eventually, but first we should look into the two restorers who worked for Hawke and Evans before Delvecchio arrived on the scene.”

  “But one of the forgers has disappeared in Australia.”

  “How convenient.”

  “And the other is currently imprisoned at Wormwood Scrubs.”

  “Then he is the one we must question, for I require information that he alone can provide.”

  There was a loud rap on the door to Johnny’s bedroom, and a moment later he cried out, “Mother! Mother! I can’t move my legs!”

  We rushed to the bedroom, with Joanna leading the way.

  10

  The Rumor

  Johnny was curled up on the edge of his bed, grasping his knees and holding them firmly against his chest. The grimace on his face and the moaning sound he made told of his terrible discomfort.

  “They won’t move, Mother!” he complained bitterly, his agony heartbreaking. “The pain is more than I can bear.”

  My father hurried to the bedside and carefully examined the lad’s legs with gentle palpitation. “Cramps! Severe muscle cramps brought on by the loss of nutrients,” he diagnosed.

  “Should he ingest more of the salty brew?” I suggested.

  “Definitely not,” my father replied. “For some strange reason, additional salt intake only worsens the condition.”

  “Is there any treatment?” Joanna asked anxiously.

  “Pickle juice,” my father answered.

  “What!”

  “Pickle juice,” my father repeated. “It’s an old remedy, but it works quite nicely. The juice seems to contain the nutrients which Johnny is now deficient in.”

  “Where can I find this pickle juice?” Joanna inquired.

  “In Miss Hudson’s pantry, for she oddly considers pickles to be a delicacy of some sort. Tell her you need it for one of your experiments, which she will believe without question.” My father slowly stretched out Johnny’s legs and began a deep massage to the large muscles, first to the gastrocnemius, then to the quadriceps. The agony gradually left Johnny’s face.

  “Thank you ever so much, Dr. Watson,” the lad said, breathing a sigh of relief.

  “You are most welcome,” my father replied. “Now, you should walk about in your bedroom while your mother goes to fetch Miss Hudson’s pickle juice. It has a disagreeable, sour taste, but its therapeutic effect cannot be denied. You must drink it to prevent further attacks.”

  “I shall manage, sir.”

  “I know you will, my boy. And be sure to swallow the pickle juice in small gulps, for otherwise it may back up on you.”

  “Tiny swallows, then.”

  “Exactly so,” my father said and, after patting the lad’s shoulder, led the way out of the bedroom. He then washed his hands with an antiseptic solution and advised us to do the same, in the event we had touched anything contagious in Johnny’s room.

&n
bsp; After drying her hands, Joanna hurriedly rang for Miss Hudson, then retreated to the long table where she carried out her experiments. In quick order she cleared an area before lighting a Bunsen burner, atop which she placed an Erlenmeyer flask filled with water.

  “What sort of experiment do you plan?” asked I.

  “None,” Joanna said. “I am boiling water so I can brew fresh black tea for us. But it will also be useful in impressing Miss Hudson that I am deeply involved in my work, and thus she won’t ask too many questions regarding her pickle juice.”

  As if on cue, Miss Hudson rapped gently on our door and quietly entered.

  “Ah, Miss Hudson,” Joanna greeted our landlady. “We are in need of pickle juice.”

  “How much?” Miss Hudson inquired.

  “As much as you can spare.”

  “May I ask its purpose?”

  “Of course. I wish to determine how long the odor of pickles will remain after staining various materials.”

  Miss Hudson’s eyes brightened at the sight of the lighted Bunsen burner. “A clue to a mystery, then.”

  “Quite.”

  “Do you prefer sweet or dill?”

  “Both.”

  Miss Hudson scurried out and returned minutes later with two large jars of pickle juice. Before Joanna’s freshly brewed black tea was ready to serve, Johnny was sipping the vile liquid and, according to my father, tolerating it remarkably well.

  “Well, then,” my father said, returning to the fireside and wearily dropping into his comfortable chair. “Let us hope that is the last of today’s excitement.”

  “Will the terrible muscle cramps recur?” Joanna asked.

  “Probably not, but if they do it will be in a milder form,” my father answered. “Once the lacking nutrients are replaced, the cramps will be gone for good.”

  “Excellent,” said Joanna. “And thank you for your superb care.”

  “It was my pleasure to be of help.”

  The phone suddenly rang and we all instantly wondered what news it might bring. It was now early evening and only essential or dire revelations would be delivered at such a later hour. My father rushed to the phone saying, “It may be the laboratory. Sometimes they perform a Gram stain on the specimen and can preliminarily identify the infecting bacteria.”

  It was not the laboratory, but Edwin Alan Rowe who was calling.

  “Hello, Edwin,” my father greeted the art historian warmly. “Oh, not at all. I always look forward to hearing from you.”

  Joanna and I tried to interpret the phone conversation by piecing together the unconnected words and phrases we heard. The terms masterpiece and black market came up over and over. My father motioned to us for pen and paper which we rapidly supplied. He scribbled one note after another, often asking Rowe to repeat or clarify. Finally the lengthy conversation came to an end and my father hurried back to us, gleefully rubbing his hands together. “Oh, how the plot thickens!”

  “Start at the very beginning, Watson,” Joanna urged. “Provide us with every word and every detail.”

  “Our colleague Edwin Alan Rowe knows how to sniff out criminal behavior and he has demonstrated this talent yet again,” my father commenced. “He of course has contacts in the not-so-reputable section of the art world, which includes London’s black market. Rowe has learned there is a strong rumor circulating that a masterpiece of incalculable value will shortly be put up for sale.”

  “Did Rowe use the word shortly?” Joanna interrupted.

  “Several times,” my father replied. “He could not determine the nature of the artwork, other than it was a masterpiece which of course indicates it is a painting by one of the great masters.”

  “Could it be a sculpture, for those, too, can be considered masterpieces?” asked Joanna. “If that were the case, we would be following the wrong lead here.”

  “I so inquired, but was told that sculptures have little value on the black market, for they are far too large and bulky and thus difficult to move and even more difficult to sell. For example, only a museum or institute would be interested in a Rodin, and would only purchase it after its origin and authenticity were established. With this in mind, Rowe is certain we are dealing with a well-known masterpiece that relates to a painting. But here is where a problem arises.” My father referred to his notes briefly before continuing. “When a true masterpiece is about to come onto the black market, it is a sure sign that it was recently stolen. Yet no such theft has been reported, which is usually the scenario when a heist of this magnitude occurs. There has not been even a whisper of such an event in the world of art, which is quite odd in itself.”

  Joanna gave the contradictory information thought before asking, “That may well hold true for thefts from museums and institutes, but what if the stolen painting is from a private collection whose owner wishes to avoid unwanted publicity?”

  “According to Rowe, even in those circumstances word leaks out to the inner crowd who keep a sharp eye out, for such masterpieces are few and far between,” said my father. “Yet Rowe remains convinced it is a stolen painting by one of the great masters, and I believe we should value his informed opinion.”

  “Indeed,” Joanna agreed. “And the fact that the rumor is being circulated indicates there is no prearranged buyer for the work of art, in that such arrangements demand and require absolute confidentiality.”

  “Plus there would be no need to advertise the availability of the masterpiece by rumor, since a sale would already be assured,” I added.

  “That, too,” Joanna concurred. “More than likely the seller is testing the waters to ascertain the price he could demand.”

  “But he would surely have to mention the name of the artist, for it is that and not the title of the painting which would drive the asking price to the heavens,” I opined.

  “Perhaps,” Joanna said. “On the other hand, the thief may be playing it quite cleverly and only wishes to see who will nibble at the rumored bait. In this fashion, he can assemble a list of potential buyers who are connected to the enormously wealthy, who in turn would be willing to pay a huge sum for the masterpiece. Then he would release the name of the great master which would drive the price even higher.”

  “Are you saying there would be an auction?” I asked.

  “Probably not, for that would draw too much attention,” Joanna responded. “If I were the thief, I would insist on a onetime, make-your-best-offer arrangement. That simplifies matters and avoids unwanted complications that could unravel everything and land our thief in prison.”

  “What unwanted complications?”

  “A false buyer slipped into the black market by Scotland Yard.”

  “You make him sound most clever.”

  “He is when it comes to the black market which tells us that he has experience in that dark world.”

  “Could he be using a middleman?” my father pondered.

  “I think not,” Joanna replied. “Why employ an intermediary when there is no need? Our thief knows full well there is no one in the black market who he can truly trust, so why take the chance? In addition, the buyer will have questions about the masterpiece that a middleman could not possibly answer. Again, why complicate matters when there is no need?”

  My father reached for his cherrywood pipe and slowly packed it with Arcadia Mixture, as he arranged his thoughts before speaking. “So we have a very clever fellow who knows his way around the black market. All well and good, but is it a wise idea to let a rumor float about in that dark, sinister world where one misstep can cost you everything, including your life? Would it not be wise to move ahead without delay?”

  “I find myself in agreement with my father,” said I. “It would seem best to do an immediate cash-and-carry sale, with our thief collecting a large bundle of cash before disappearing into the shadows.”

  “All excellent assessments,” Joanna chimed in. “But I fear your conclusions are neglecting an obvious obstacle the thief is facing.”

&
nbsp; “Which is?”

  “He does not yet possess the masterpiece and that is why he delays,” Joanna answered. “Recall Rowe’s exact words that the masterpiece will shortly be on the market. This statement would indicate that the thief does not yet have the painting, but expects to have it in hand and available for sale soon.”

  “So the delay works to our advantage,” said I.

  “Only to the smallest extent.”

  “Why so?”

  “For two reasons,” Joanna replied, glancing over at the boiling water in the Erlenmeyer flask and rising from her seat. “First, he knows what he is searching for, and we do not.”

  “And the second reason?”

  “He knows where the masterpiece is hidden, and every slashed portrait brings him closer to it.”

  11

  The Lockpicks

  The next morning, with Johnny on the mend under my father’s careful eye, Joanna and I arrived at Scotland Yard where Inspector Lestrade awaited us. He had at last rounded up two of London’s very best lockpicks and brought them in for questioning. Both Joseph Blevins and Archie Griffin adamantly proclaimed their innocence and each had a solid alibi to back up his whereabouts on the night of the Dubose break-in.

  “Solid alibis, you say?” Joanna asked skeptically.

  “Quite so, madam,” Lestrade answered. “Archie Griffin was participating in a darts match at the Rose and Lamb, and four other members of his team vouched for his presence there until just before midnight, whereupon his son accompanied him home to the arms of a loving wife. The other lockpick, Joseph Blevins, the near blind one, was home all evening with his wife who swears to his presence, for he never goes out at night because of his inability to see, which is made worse by the darkness.”

  “I take it you challenged the wives.”