The Art of Deception

by Leonard Goldberg

  “We believe there is a masterpiece, a painting of immense value, hidden behind one of the restored canvases, and it is for this reason the vandal has slashed them open,” Joanna explained. “We further believe that two restorers at Hawke and Evans discovered the hidden masterpiece and were planning to sell it on the black market, then flee with their newly acquired fortune.”

  Lestrade started at Joanna in astonishment. “Do you know this for a fact?”

  “All evidence points to that conclusion,” Joanna asserted. “There is no other explanation.”

  “So we are not dealing with simple vandalism, but with two thieves desperately searching for a concealed masterpiece,” Lestrade said, while he quickly assimilated the information. “This would explain why Harry Edmunds was so eager to escape from Wormwood Scrubs and why James Blackstone is in all likelihood still in London. They were racing against one another in an effort to reach the valuable prize first.”

  “Spot-on, Inspector,” Joanna concurred.

  Lestrade rubbed at his chin, thinking the problem through. “But why are they slashing only portraits of women?”

  “Because that must be the clue to which painting hides the masterpiece,” Joanna replied, keeping an eye on Samuel Stewart who remained near the front entrance. “That is the only plausible—”

  “Hold on,” Lestrade interrupted. “If they knew where the masterpiece was hidden, why all the slashing?”

  “Because we believe it was James Blackstone who discovered the hidden painting, and he partnered with Harry Edmunds but never told him of its exact location,” said Joanna.

  “Only that it was behind a restoration showing the portrait of a woman,” Lestrade concluded, as the complete picture came to him. “So Harry Edmunds was running around slashing portraits, whilst James Blackstone was biding his time and waiting for a good opportunity. And now it would seem that Edmunds has won the contest and has the masterpiece in hand.”

  “So it would appear, Inspector.”

  There was a sudden commotion at the side entrance of the gallery. We turned to see a constable rushing in and holding up a badly damaged painting that had a broken frame and a deep slash across its colorful canvas.

  The constable hurried over to Lestrade and held the painting up for all to see. A vertical cut bisected the praying nun in two equal parts.

  “The missing painting!” I proclaimed.

  “I found it in a rubbish bin a block over,” the constable reported.

  “In the open?” Joanna asked at once.

  “No, madam. It was beneath a tin overhang that must have protected it from the early morning rain. As you can see, it is not wet.”

  Joanna reached for her magnifying glass and, after peeling back a thick edge, examined the undersurface of the tear, then the area behind the damaged canvas. “The backing has been damaged, with a deep cut that has a streak of blood upon it.”

  “What does that tell us?” Lestrade asked.

  “Everything,” Joanna answered.

  Samuel Stewart dashed in from the outside and, upon seeing the condition of the painting, gasped in horror. “Ruined! It is ruined!”

  “Is there any hope of restoration?” asked Joanna.

  “Perhaps, but at a cost far, far beyond the value of the painting,” Stewart replied and, moving in closer, gently touched the distorted face of the nun. “Who would commit such a senseless, cruel act?”

  A vicious killer who now has a fortune in hand, I thought, but held my tongue.

  “The crazed vandal who is plaguing the west side of London,” Lestrade replied, and was wise enough not to give any particulars. “It is clear he has struck out again.”

  “You must put a stop to this, Inspector,” Stewart demanded and, with the broken portrait in hand, retreated to his office.

  Lestrade sighed resignedly and waited for the constable and Stewart to be well out of earshot before saying, “I am afraid the sliced and discarded painting tells us that Mr. Harry Edmunds is now in sole possession of the priceless masterpiece.”

  “I think not,” Joanna said. “All of the evidence points to the contrary.”

  “Pray tell how did you reach this conclusion?” Lestrade asked.

  “Allow me to draw your attention to the backing of the nun’s portrait,” replied Joanna. “It reveals a deep cut with bloodstains on its edges. Recall that all of the other vandalized paintings had pristine backings, so that the slashing would not damage the concealed artwork. But on this occasion it appears he cut through the canvas all the way to the backing, which would have surely sliced into the hidden masterpiece.”

  “Why would he do such a foolish act?” I asked quickly.

  “That is the point, John,” Joanna replied. “Harry Edmunds is no fool and did not commit the deed as you and the inspector described.”

  “I am confused,” I confessed.

  “As am I,” said Lestrade.

  “You must concentrate on the bloody knife, for it tells us the all-important sequence of events,” Joanna elucidated. “Harry Edmunds had the portrait in hand when he encountered the security guard and stabbed him. There was no blood on his knife until that moment, yet the blade left its bloody mark on the backing of the portrait, which indicates he slashed the canvas open outside the gallery.”

  “Why would he do that?” my father asked.

  “Because he was surprised by the guard in the gallery and had no chance to cut open the canvas,” Joanna went on. “So he ran, with the painting in hand, but the guard blocked his exit and a struggle ensued. Harry Edmunds then stabbed the guard, thus bloodying his knife. For good measure Edmunds brought the painting down on the guard’s head, the force of which dazed the guard and damaged the frame of the canvas.”

  “And Edmunds used only a sharp corner of the frame so as not to cause harm to the concealed masterpiece,” I noted.

  “Precisely, John,” said Joanna. “For only a corner was badly cracked and not shattered, and thus what lay beneath it remained safe. So now we have Harry Edmunds running for his life, the nun’s portrait in one hand, the bloodied knife in the other. He would be an obvious figure, a man dashing about in the early morning hours carrying a large, framed painting. People would be beginning to stir, some up and around, and would take notice, so Harry Edmunds has to determine if the portrait holds the masterpiece. He arrives at the tin overhang the constable described and slashes the painting open, and finding no hidden treasure, lashes out and stabs the painting itself and inflicts a bloody gash on its backing. I also observed a bit of blood on the edges of the torn canvas and that tells us the slash was made with a bloodied knife.”

  “Let us say the sequence of events you described is correct—is it not possible that Edmunds did in fact find the masterpiece and stabbed the backing out of joy rather than rage?” Lestrade challenged.

  “Most unlikely when you consider the rain,” Joanna responded. “Keep in mind that Edmunds sought the shelter of a tin overhang before slashing the canvas. He did this with the singular purpose of protecting the masterpiece, for it is undoubtedly old and fragile and exposure to rain would result in irreparable damage. Harry Edmunds, being an experienced restorer, would have never taken such a chance. Even if the masterpiece was found, he would not have removed it in this weather, nor would he have folded or rolled it up, for that could cause significant damage to an ancient work of art. Being such a clever fellow, he would have wrapped the painting under his scarf and hurried along his way.”

  “I still see an obstacle in pinning this entire adventure on Harry Edmunds,” said my father.

  “Which is?” asked Joanna.

  “The odor of coal tar which the guard did not detect,” my father replied. “It is impossible to miss that pungent aroma close up.”

  “But not when one is fighting for one’s life,” Joanna rebutted.

  “Yet the smell is so overpowering,” my father emphasized. “With this in mind, could the villain here be James Blackstone who came out of the shadows to
reclaim his treasure? In the darkness, it would be the odor which distinguishes Edmunds from Blackstone.”

  “A very good point, Dr. Watson,” Lestrade concurred, nodding at my father’s assessment.

  “It is except for the fact that James Blackstone is dead,” said Joanna.

  Lestrade’s eyes suddenly widened. “Have you seen the body?”

  “Not as yet,” Joanna replied. “But I know its location.”

  “Would you care to share that secret with us?”

  “Only after you have obtained a special search warrant.”

  “Special in what regard?”

  “One that allows for demolition at a crime scene.”

  18

  The Hiding Place

  Business at Hawke and Evans was by all signs improving, with a half dozen or so people milling about and inspecting the works of art on the first floor of the gallery. I attributed this increase to the fact that stories of the art vandal were no longer on the front page of London’s newspapers, having been replaced by sad news from the Great War on the continent. Simon Hawke seemed pleased with the turnout of potential customers and readily consented to Joanna’s request that we be allowed to review the folder containing all the artwork restored by the gallery over the past year. However, he was none too happy when Joanna insisted that Giuseppe Delvecchio be permitted to assist her in a search for other clues or markings that might indicate where the vandal would strike next. At the moment Delvecchio was restoring a fine painting by Monet that would bring in an extraordinary fee, and Hawke was reluctant to waste hours of the restorer’s time on a nonprofitable review. But Joanna persisted and Delvecchio was eager to join in, so Hawke finally gave his permission, with the proviso that the restorer spend no more than one hour at the task.

  It soon became clear that Delvecchio’s presence was not only necessary but invaluable, for most of the restoration projects listed in the folder were done on paintings from the Italian Renaissance period. Delvecchio had a remarkable familiarity with those works of art, as well as with their artists whose names rolled off his lips like they were members of his family.

  “Ah, Fabriano,” he was saying with affection. “Gentile da Fabriano was from the Early Renaissance and unfortunately most of his works did not last through the ages. But this one, Madonna dell’Umiltà survived and represents one of his very best works. Note the description of the Madonna’s lovely brown eyes and her perfect lips with her enigmatic smile, all of which required restoration.”

  “It bears some resemblance to the Mona Lisa,” Joanna remarked.

  “Others have made a similar comment,” Delvecchio said. “But da Vinci’s portrait was a gift from the gods and this is not. It is possible of course that da Vinci saw Fabriano’s earlier work and used it as a model. But only the smile of course.”

  “Of course,” Joanna agreed and studied the restoration note at length.

  It was not so much the colorful description of the painting that drew her interest, but the fact it was restored by James Blackstone. She was searching for some detail written down by the restorer that might indicate a marking he could use in the future.

  “John,” she said, looking up, “please see if you can find a picture of the portrait by Fabriano.”

  I opened the quite large reference book we had purchased at the suggestion of Edwin Alan Rowe, and began turning pages. The volume contained pictures of the more important works done by artists during the Italian Renaissance period, including extensive biographies on each of the painters. We had carefully studied the photographs of the vandalized portraits the night before, searching for similarities other than female depictions, but found none.

  “Here it is,” I said and passed the reference book over to Joanna and Delvecchio.

  “It is quite beautiful,” Joanna admired, as her gaze swept over the portrait. “I can see why its owners wished to have it restored.”

  “But only by the best of restorers which Blackstone was, and Edmunds was not,” Delvecchio stated without malice.

  “Did you determine that by simply reading the descriptions they signed?” asked Joanna.

  “No, madam,” Delvecchio replied. “I have had the privilege of examining some of their unfinished restorations, which I will eventually complete. It is clear that it is Blackstone who is the master.”

  Joanna’s eyes widened, as did mine, at the casual mention of unfinished restorations by both men. But it was James Blackstone’s name that drew our immediate attention, for what better place to hide a masterpiece than in a work in progress that had been put aside and perhaps intermingled with others?

  “Is it common for restorers to work on more than one painting during the same time period?” I inquired.

  Joanna smiled briefly at my question, for I believe it was one she was about to ask.

  “That depends on the restorer and the painting itself,” Delvecchio answered carefully. “Many restorers, for example, prefer to let their work stand for a while and allow the oil paints to set, for then it may take on a different quality. During this time, they may go to another work.”

  “Does set have the same meaning as dried?” asked Joanna.

  “To a large extent,” Delvecchio replied. “A wet red will reflect the light differently than a red that is settled and completely dried.”

  “Most interesting,” Joanna said. “I would very much like to see Blackstone’s unfinished restorations, if it presents no bother.”

  “No problem at all,” Delvecchio told her. “There are only two partial restorations and they are safely tucked away in a far corner.”

  “They have been there for a while, then?”

  “From the dust beginning to collect on their surfaces, I would say the answer is yes.”

  “Let us move on to the next restoration, for Simon Hawke has limited the time you can spend with us,” Joanna urged.

  “He is always in a hurry,” Delvecchio said, unconcerned, and reached for the next item in the folder. “Ah, this is a very special work by Guido Reni from the late Italian Renaissance period. Of all his paintings, this, the portrayal of The Archangel Michael Defeating Satan, is his very best.”

  I quickly turned to the section on Guido Reni in the reference book and found myself struck by the beauty of the painting Delvecchio had just mentioned. It showed a fierce, but majestic warrior about to slay a vanquished, humanized Satan. Yet the most stunning feature was the brilliant blues and reds of the Archangel’s robe, which glowed in different shades. It was beyond me how an artist could paint such dazzling colors, but then I remembered this work came from the age that produced Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci.

  “I myself would have loved to work on this restoration,” Delvecchio mused.

  “Is this painting among Blackstone’s unfinished works?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately not.”

  We quickly went through the majority of the restoration documents without detecting a clue or marking that might indicate which painting was used to conceal the masterpiece. But the last three in the folder caught our interest because they were unusually thick as compared to the others.

  “Why so voluminous?” asked Joanna, scanning the notes that had been written down by the restorer.

  “Because of the stature of the artist and the greatness of their work,” Delvecchio replied, turning back to the first of the three. “Here is the magnificent painting entitled The Calling of Saints Peter and Andrew by Caravaggio in which the beardless Christ needed to be restored. Note his expression of sadness and acceptance. It is beyond beautiful, and one Blackstone must have adored while he restored it.”

  “Lovely,” Joanna agreed, glancing at the photograph of the painting before coming back to the document. “I see where the restoration took place a year ago.”

  “And no doubt took a month or more to complete,” Delvecchio added.

  With such a timetable, there was no way the painting could have been used to hide the masterpiece, I thought.

  J
oanna had reached the same conclusion, for she requested, “Let us move on to the next restoration.”

  The following artist was named Canaletto, a Venetian whose paintings centered on Venice and the Grand Canal that flowed through it. The work that had been restored showed an expansive view of the Piazza San Marco. “He is quite good, but not near the level of Caravaggio,” Delvecchio commented.

  Joanna studied the signature page of the document before asking, “I see where Simon Hawke is listed as a co-owner. Isn’t that a bit unusual?”

  “On occasion, an owner brings in a painting he wishes to sell, but the condition is such that it requires restoration,” Delvecchio replied. “The individual may lack the funds necessary to have it restored, and Mr. Hawke agrees to do so for a percentage of the ownership.”

  “Is that commonly done?” Joanna inquired.

  “It is a matter of need, madam,” Delvecchio answered in a neutral voice. “For both of the concerned parties.”

  Joanna searched for the final document which was the thickest of all and remarked, “Ah, a Titian!”

  “A true master.” Delvecchio smiled broadly at the mere mention of the famous artist. “His true name was Tiziano Vecelli, and he was the most important member of the sixteenth-century Venetian school of art. None surpassed him, or even came close for that matter. The painting we restored was Diana and Actaeon, in which the hunter Actaeon bursts in while the goddess Diana and her nymphs are bathing. She of course is furious and Titian paints her fury in such detail that you can sense every ounce of her emotion.”

  “We restored?” Joanna asked at once.

  “I was referring to the gallery, madam, for I had not arrived when the restoration was done,” Delvecchio clarified, and pointed to the date on the last page of the document. “It was completed several months before I stepped foot into Hawke and Evans. And next to the date, you will note the name of the most fortunate restorer, James Blackstone.”

  “From the sound of your voice, I take it you would have dearly loved to work on the Titian,” Joanna surmised.