The Art of Deception

by Leonard Goldberg

  My father came up behind me, saying, “I do wish you two would be careful, for this Morrison syndicate can be most dangerous.”

  “Not to worry, Watson,” Joanna spoke the word worry in a distinct South African accent. “When it comes down to selling and making a huge profit, these people can be in every way businesslike and straightforward. Nevertheless, if one attempts to cross them, they will turn quite vicious and make that individual pay a terrible price.”

  “Like that poor blighter they hung from a lamppost for stupidly moving into their territory,” my father remembered. “Allowed him to remain there all night.”

  “They know how to make a point,” Joanna noted.

  “So be double cautious,” my father beseeched.

  “We shall.”

  After checking our appearance in the mirror a final time, we put on our heavy coats and bade farewell to my father who continued to have a worried expression on his face. I believe he would have gladly accompanied us and waited outside our meeting place, with his service revolver at the ready. But Joanna would have never permitted it, for if he were discovered our very important plan would have gone dangerously awry.

  As we departed through the front entrance, we encountered Miss Hudson hurrying in from the cold. She inspected us with a most careful eye, paying particular attention to Joanna’s diamond-studded barrette.

  “Here to see the Watsons, I would think,” she inquired.

  “Indeed, madam,” I replied, enjoying the deception of our disguises. “Watson and I were classmates at Cambridge too many years ago.”

  “I am certain he took great pleasure in seeing you again.”

  “Quite so,” I said and glanced at my timepiece. “But we must ask you to excuse us as we are already late for a previous engagement.”

  “Well then, I shall wish you a very pleasant good evening.”

  We climbed into a hired limousine and began our journey across London, all the while practicing our South African accents. Joanna spoke it with the ease of a true Afrikaner, so we decided she should do most of the talking to the syndicate. The stern appearance her disguise gave her suited Joanna well for that role. I still had questions about the London underworld and how Joanna expected our plan to play out. In detail she described the makeup of the syndicates which consisted of neighborhood crime families that had charismatic leaders with fearsome reputations. They were not petty thieves or smash-and-grab robbers, but were interested in far more profitable ventures, including extortion, drugs, prostitution, and contract killing. When highly priced and ill-gotten items, such as masterpieces, needed to be placed on the black market, the syndicates were more than willing to act as intermediaries for 20 percent of the selling price. Although this commission might seem extreme, it was well worth it, for it guaranteed the item would attract a select audience who were willing to pay extraordinary sums in cash and in total privacy. According to Edwin Alan Rowe, who had set up our meeting with the Morrison syndicate, a Raphael was recently sold by them to an Italian industrialist for twenty-five thousand pounds.

  “I am surprised that a prominent and responsible art historian, like Rowe, would be involved with these people,” I said.

  “Only on the periphery,” Joanna explained. “And I can assure you he is never involved with the actual theft or selling of the item.”

  “Then how was he able to set up our meeting with the Morrison crime family?”

  “Through an underworld source.”

  “But why would this source be willing to serve as a conduit?”

  “Because everybody benefits, on both sides of the fence,” Joanna said and left it at that.

  “Nonetheless, I would think that a distinguished historian would never want his name mentioned in such sordid dealings.”

  “It will not be mentioned, for both the source and Rowe no doubt used aliases to protect themselves.”

  “But we know Rowe is involved, at least to some degree,” I argued. “And no alias was used.”

  “That is why I swore that our association with him and his source will remain absolutely confidential and never spoken of under any circumstances,” Joanna went on. “Still, there is some small risk which Rowe is aware of, but he was driven to participate for revenge. You will recall that James Blackstone was a close friend, and the horrific picture of the man’s tortured body keeps Rowe awake at night.”

  “May I ask how close?”

  “Rowe is godfather to Blackstone’s son.”

  As we rode south across London, I could not help but wonder what type of individuals we were about to encounter. Would they be the rough gangsters depicted in novels or the dashing rogues written about in newspapers? Whatever the type, I was certain they had never encountered the likes of Joanna Blalock-Watson. If she had any worry or concern, it did not show in her face. My father once told me that Sherlock Holmes had the same response to approaching danger. His appearance took on the look of a man about to cast his fishing line.

  Our driver opened the window to the rear compartment of the limousine and asked, “Please give me the exact address, madam.”

  “I do not have a number, but you should have no difficulty finding the Angel pub on Paradise Street,” Joanna replied.

  “Very good, madam.”

  My jaw must have dropped at the name of our destination. “The same pub where Charlotte Edmunds was to meet her husband!”

  “The very same,” said Joanna, “and now you can put all the points together. Harry Edmunds and his wife no doubt frequented the Angel pub which is surely connected to the Morrison crime family. Here is where their association began, dating back to Edmunds’s forgeries and continuing up to the present. What better place for exchanging a masterpiece for untold thousands of pounds? Security and privacy in a back room would be assured and anyone who attempted to interfere would find themselves hanging from the lamppost that Watson so aptly described. I suspect the Morrisons might even supply an escort to make certain the money and masterpiece reached their final destinations. For an additional fee, of course.”

  I thought the matter through before saying, “But I see a problem. The sergeant from Scotland Yard was present when we discovered Harry Edmunds’s connection to the Angel pub, which means it may now be under surveillance.”

  “I foresaw that problem as well and requested Lestrade not to surveil the pub for now,” Joanna said. “You see, Harry Edmunds will not appear there until he has the masterpiece in hand. I assured Lestrade that the Morrisons would know they were under surveillance in the blink of an eye and that would surely result in the transaction being called off or moved to another location, either of which would place us at an unwanted disadvantage.”

  My brow went up. “And Lestrade agreed?”

  “Reluctantly so, for he needs our assistance if he ever hopes to solve this case,” Joanna replied. “And trust me when I tell you that Lestrade knows which side his bread is buttered on.”

  “I worry, for Lestrade would like nothing more than to apprehend Edmunds on his own and garner all the credit,” I emphasized. “Recall how much he enjoyed basking in glory when the newspapers reported his discovery of the corpse in the chimney.”

  Joanna chuckled softly. “I am afraid that was my doing. You see, I asked Lestrade to leak the story to the press in an effort to flush out Harry Edmunds. The release was sure to reach Edmunds’s eyes and alert him that we were closing in on his nasty little scheme, which might force him to act hastily and in an even more rash manner.”

  “Why did you not share this information with us?”

  “An oversight,” she lied easily.

  “I think not,” I argued mildly. “I suspect you wanted Lestrade to relish the limelight and take credit because you may wish to use him in a similar fashion on subsequent occasions. Had you told me of your plan, you assumed I would have included it when I chronicled this adventure and thus diminished Lestrade’s role and glory, which would make him most unhappy and less cooperative in the future.”
r />   “You give me too much credit,” she said with a mischievous smile.

  “I think not,” I said again. “But I must admit it was a good move on your part.”

  “I thought so as well,” Joanna admitted. “Now please remember to put a t on the end of the word good.”

  When our limousine turned onto Paradise Street, I leaned over and asked in a quiet voice, “What do you expect to learn from the Morrisons?”

  “The name of the masterpiece, of course,” Joanna whispered back.

  “But it has been kept a deep secret thus far,” said I. “Why would they give it up now?”

  “Because they will have no choice,” Joanna replied. “No one will place fifty thousand pounds on the table for an unknown work of art.”

  “Perhaps a threat comes with the information.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “And you believe this knowledge will somehow lead us to the hidden masterpiece?”

  “It is the first of two important clues which will do so.”

  As our limousine slowed and approached the Angel pub, the driver turned and asked, “Where shall I park, madam?”

  “You will find an alleyway on the far side of the pub,” Joanna instructed. “Stop there, and once we depart, wait for us on the opposite side of the street.”

  We left the limousine and walked down a dark alleyway which was dimly lighted by a lamppost on the street. From within the pub we could hear the raucous shouts and laughter of patrons having a jolly good time. Just ahead of us, a burly man wearing a leather jacket over a turtleneck sweater stood guard.

  In a barely audible voice, Joanna said, “Say nothing and treat them as underlings, for that is what they expect.”

  “But they have the upper hand.”

  “And we have the money which is always the governing power.”

  The guard carefully measured us and, without a word, opened the door to a busy kitchen where a busy crew was preparing dishes of shepherd’s pie and Welsh rarebit. Two slightly built Asians were washing and drying dishes while they smoked cigarettes and spoke in a totally incomprehensible language. We were ignored, with no one even bothering to glance our way. We passed through a crowded, noisy pub where we received a few curious stares, but little else. At the end of a long bar was a nicely decorated Christmas tree that was laden with circles of tinsel and gingerbread figures. Nearby, a happy working-class couple, with mugs of beer in hand, were embracing and kissing beneath mistletoe which hung from the ceiling. I could not help but wonder if they knew of the sordid and at times murderous dealings that emanated from the back rooms of the Morrison establishment. Of course they were aware, I decided, but one turns a blind eye to such activities when it is in one’s best interest to do so. A door to our right opened and we were ushered into a rather plain office that was filled with cigar smoke. From behind an uncluttered desk, a heavyset man wearing a nicely tailored suit stood and motioned us to the two chairs in front of him. He was well groomed and could have passed for a businessman except for the deep scar that ran from his ear to his upper cheek.

  Without introduction, he asked, “You have the bank’s letter?”

  “Yes,” Joanna replied and handed him a letter obtained with the assistance of Scotland Yard, which carried a Bank of England letterhead and certified the Vanderhorsts could cover any purchase up to a hundred thousand pounds. “Your name, please.”

  “That is unimportant,” said he.

  “It is to me,” Joanna said sharply. “You know our name and I must know yours, if you wish to do business.”

  “Roger Jones.”

  “That is not a very convincing alias.”

  “That is my name.”

  “Then we are not off to a very promising start, are we, Mr. Freddie Morrison?”

  The mention of his true name did not seem to faze the man. “I see you do your homework, Mrs. Olivia Vanderhorst.”

  “That is how I do business,” Joanna said, her South African accent spot-on. “I take it my letter of credit is satisfactory.”

  Morrison read the letter before holding it up to the light to ascertain its watermark. “It appears genuine.”

  “Then let us proceed,” Joanna said, retrieving the document.

  “First, I shall go over the rules you must agree to and follow. To begin, whether or not your bid is successful, neither this meeting nor the people involved are ever to be mentioned.”

  Joanna flicked her wrist at the demand.

  “You must agree for us to continue. Please keep in mind that failure to follow the rules could end up being unpleasant for you. And we have friends in Johannesburg who owe us favors.”

  Joanna leaned forward and stared directly into Morrison’s eyes. “We pledge to remain silent in all our dealings. But I would like you, Mr. Morrison, to keep in mind that I am not moved by your threats and, most importantly, that I have the power and money to wipe you and your family off the face of the earth.”

  Morrison smiled thinly. “Then we have an understanding.”

  “Go on with your rules.”

  “You can make one bid and only one bid, so I would advise you to make the very best bid possible. This is not an auction, nor will it become one. Each new bidder is told of the highest offer and can either increase it or withdraw. There are no second opportunities.”

  So very clever, I thought. Everything was straightforward and on top of the table, with no haggling or quibbling or messaging between the bidders. No time would be wasted and the masterpiece would still demand the highest price.

  “If your bid is successful,” Morrison went on, “you will be notified and a site agreed to where the transaction will occur. You alone will be present for the transfer, and no second parties will be allowed. How you transport the masterpiece and what you eventually do with it is your business and of no concern to us.”

  “We insist you guarantee it will reach the London address we give you,” Joanna demanded.

  “That can be arranged.”

  “And we will not be charged an additional fee for this service.”

  Again a thin smile crossed Freddie Morrison’s face, but this time it was accompanied by a nod. “The transaction will of course be in cash.”

  “Of course.”

  “In hundred-pound notes.”

  “Done.”

  “We will have a man present to make certain the banknotes are not counterfeit.”

  “And I an expert to certify beyond any doubt that the item in question is a true masterpiece.”

  “We will require the name of the expert.”

  “That is none of your concern,” Joanna snapped. “He has a reputation to protect and cannot risk his name being associated with the transaction.”

  Morrison considered the demand before giving the briefest of nods. “How do you propose your expert do the inspection?”

  “You will deliver the masterpiece to a suite at a Knightsbridge hotel which we both will agree on,” Joanna instructed. “The expert will take as long as necessary to certify that the painting is authentic. The room will have no terrace nor any exits to adjoining rooms. You can have one of your men stand guard outside the door, if you wish.”

  “I insist that I be in that suite,” Morrison stipulated.

  “You shall be, but you will be facing the door.”

  Morrison shook his head forcefully. “The masterpiece never leaves my sight until I have the money in hand.”

  Joanna pondered the quandary at length, obviously understanding Morrison’s insistence. He wished to make certain that there was no possible way a switch could occur. Criminals at the level of Freddie Morrison were quite clever, particularly when it came to the various subterfuges of thievery.

  “Then we shall have our expert masked,” Joanna said, seeking middle ground.

  “Agreed.”

  “And the money exchanged once the masterpiece is certified.”

  “Well and good,” Morrison concurred. “Now let us move to the bidding. The highest bid t
hus far is sixty-five thousand—”

  “Hold on,” Joanna interrupted. “I need to know the details on this masterpiece I am about to buy.”

  “Such as?” Morrison asked tersely.

  “I must know the name of the masterpiece.”

  “I cannot give you its name, for it has no official title.”

  “Then I cannot give you a bid of one hundred thousand pounds.”

  Freddie Morrison was taken aback by the unexpected, most extraordinary offer. It required a moment for him to regain his composure. “A hundred thousand, you say?”

  “A hundred thousand,” Joanna repeated.

  Morrison dwelled on the spectacular bid, no doubt in large measure swayed by his greed. The syndicate’s commission on a sale of a hundred thousand pounds would amount to twenty thousand pounds, or even more if additional services were required. He finally said, “Again, I cannot speak of an official title, for it has none according to the seller.”

  “Then this meeting is ended.”

  “But I can provide you with the name of the artist.”

  “Which is?”

  “Leonardo da Vinci.”

  Joanna’s eyes widened noticeably. “You have a da Vinci?”

  “I have a da Vinci,” said Morrison, enjoying Joanna’s stunned expression. “A genuine Leonardo da Vinci.”

  “Please describe it,” Joanna requested in a soft voice.

  “I cannot, for I, too, have not seen it,” said Morrison. “But I can assure you it has been authenticated. And most importantly, you will be able to openly display your da Vinci without fear of anyone ever claiming its ownership.”

  “How can that be?” Joanna asked at once. “It is stolen, is it not?”

  “Of course it is stolen, madam,” Morrison answered. “Why else would it be on the black market?”

  “Could you please give me a clearer explanation?” Joanna queried. “To my way of thinking, if an item is stolen, its owner would surely demand its return.”

  “But what if the true owner never knew he possessed it?”

  Joanna’s brow went up. “Are you saying it was hidden from his sight, so he had no knowledge of its existence?”