The Art of Deception

by Leonard Goldberg

  “That is one way of putting it.”

  “And thus the owner will never know it was stolen from him.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So why then must it be sold on the black market?”

  “Because at a proper art auction, people would demand to know how the seller gained possession of the masterpiece,” Morrison explained. “This of course would reveal the true owner.”

  “And on the black market, no such revelation would be required,” Joanna concluded.

  “And we have a very happy ending for both the seller and buyer.”

  Joanna nodded, as if pleased with the cover-up. “When will the bidding come to a close?”

  “In early January.”

  “Can you give me a specific date?”

  “Not as yet.”

  “Perhaps the seller will consider bringing the bidding to an end when he learns of my offer.”

  “I shall inquire, madam.”

  “Perhaps it, too, would be to your advantage for the bidding to end,” Joanna offered a subtle bribe.

  “I shall inquire to that as well, madam.”

  Joanna pushed her chair back and rose. “We can find our way out.”

  We remained silent on our ride back to 221b Baker Street, but the name Leonardo da Vinci kept echoing through my mind. Da Vinci! Da Vinci! The famous da Vinci! The most gifted artist ever to walk on the face of this good earth. A man of such unimaginable talent that his name remains known and celebrated four hundred years after his death. Finally, I involuntarily uttered the words, “Leonardo da Vinci.”

  “Yes, da Vinci,” Joanna said calmly.

  “Oh, come now, Joanna. You must admit you, too, were stunned by the revelation.”

  “It was not the name that stunned me, but how well a most important piece of the puzzle suddenly fell into place.”

  “Shall we talk more of it?”

  “Not until the final piece falls, then all will become clear.”

  “Do you still believe Harry Edmunds will spend his Christmas inside Wormwood Scrubs?”

  “I am certain of it,” said Joanna, closing her eyes and leaning back on the headrest as snow sprinkled down on our limousine.

  * * *

  As we approached 221b Baker Street, Joanna abruptly leaned forward and directed the driver not to stop at our residence, but rather to slowly circle the next block via Rossmore Road.

  “I wish you to take at least five minutes before returning to our address,” she instructed.

  “Why the delay?” I asked quietly.

  “To determine if we are being watched.”

  “By motor car?”

  “By man.”

  I looked at my wife oddly. “With the heavy snow now falling?”

  Joanna nodded. “That is what brought him to my attention.”

  We rode at a measured pace around the Marylebone area in which the roads and side streets were for the most part deserted. The moonless night was dark and the snowfall made it even darker, thus severely reducing one’s visual acuity. I could barely discern the occasional figure on the footpath as we turned back for Baker Street.

  “How can you be certain we are being surveilled?” I asked.

  “Your question will be answered when we return to our address,” Joanna replied. “If the man remains in place, we shall know.”

  “Where was the man standing?”

  “Across the way in the shadow of a storefront,” Joanna answered as our limousine gradually slowed to a halt. “Our headlights will briefly shine upon him, but do not gaze in that direction. We should simply keep our heads down and hurry inside.”

  After giving the driver a generous gratuity, we raced for the door and up the stairs to our rooms where we found my father enjoying the warmth of a three-log fire.

  “Was your meeting a success?” he asked.

  “Quite so, but more about that later,” Joanna said hurriedly and switched off the lights in our drawing room. “Now I would like the two of you to stand in front of the fireplace and dampen the glow it gives off.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “To darken the room, which will allow me to crack the drapes and not be noticed by the individual standing across the street watching our window.”

  My father and I positioned ourselves before the brightly burning logs, and the room darkened to the extent we could not see our shadows being cast upon the floor. Joanna crept over to our large window and parted the drapes ever so slightly. She stared through the falling snow for a full minute before speaking.

  “He remains in place,” Joanna reported as a transport roared by on the street below. “He appears to be by himself, but the weather makes it impossible to describe him.”

  “Do you believe him to be Harry Edmunds?” my father asked.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Or perhaps someone sent by the Morrisons,” I speculated.

  Joanna shook her head at the notion. “I am convinced that Freddie Morrison was persuaded by our disguises. Besides, that lot would never do business with us if they knew our true identity. They are far too clever to make that move.”

  “So it is most likely Harry Edmunds,” I decided.

  “That being the case, we should notify Scotland Yard immediately,” my father proposed. “Let us be rid of him, once and for all.”

  “That would not serve our purpose at this juncture,” said Joanna.

  “But it would serve society’s purpose to see him dangling from the end of a rope,” my father argued.

  “Based on what charge?”

  “Murder, of course.”

  “Saying it is one matter, Watson; proving it is quite another,” Joanna challenged.

  “He was responsible for the death of his cellmate at Wormwood Scrubs,” my father accused.

  “It was a self-inflicted yet accidental explosion, which any worthwhile barrister would say.”

  “But then, the death of James Blackstone, which would be undeniable with Harry Edmunds’s fingerprints on a brick that was stacked upon Blackstone’s lap.”

  “One must be careful here,” Joanna pointed out. “Remember, it was Edmunds who was paid to do the masonry at Hawke and Evans, and that might account for his fingerprints being on a loose brick. Thus, if Edmunds was captured now and represented by a clever barrister, the best we might hope for was that he be returned to Wormwood Scrubs for an extended stay. And let me assure you the masterpiece would remain hidden until his eventual release.”

  “So you believe it is in our best interest that he remain free,” my father gathered.

  Joanna nodded. “If we wish to bring this case to a successful conclusion, with the masterpiece in hand.”

  “But with this murderous villain surveilling us, does that not pose a danger?” my father warned. “Remember, it was no doubt he who threw the firebomb at us.”

  “You are correct, Watson, in that there is indeed danger,” Joanna agreed. “For there can only be one purpose for his surveillance. He means to do us harm. For that very reason we must keep the drapes drawn at all times. And at night we should avoid walking in front of the drapes, for our shadows would be clearly visible from the street.”

  “He would not dare to toss a firebomb at our window,” my father thought aloud. “It would be terribly difficult and too many things could go awry.”

  “Recall the rifle shot from the moving lorry, which nearly cost us our lives,” Joanna reminded.

  “Of course.”

  “A repeat performance should be our greatest concern.”

  24

  A Violent Break-In

  Early the next morning we were notified that Harry Edmunds had struck again, this time at the home of Sir Charles Cromwell, a member of the House of Lords and a key advisor to King Edward. Sadly, violence had occurred once more, with Sir Charles’s young son grievously injured and the family dog stabbed to death. We could not help but wonder whether Harry Edmunds had been successful in his latest venture and now had the treasured maste
rpiece in hand.

  “Was there any evidence to indicate that the masterpiece was hidden behind Lord Cromwell’s painting?” I inquired.

  “Such as?” Joanna asked.

  “Was the portrait slashed wide open or was the entire frame disassembled to facilitate extraction of the ancient painting?”

  “Excellent points, neither of which were mentioned by Lestrade,” Joanna replied. “All we can deduct from the phone call is that our vandal has now become quite desperate.”

  “Because of the violence?” my father inquired.

  Joanna shook her head. “Because of the dog that was stabbed to death.”

  “Pray tell what does the dog have to do with Edmunds’s desperation?” I queried.

  “A family dog will bark loudly at any intruder,” Joanna explained. “Such barking will alert the family, which is the very last thing a burglar wants. In addition, a large hound can inflict serious wounds on an intruder, and one cannot always estimate the size of a dog by the quality of its bark. For these reasons, only a most foolish or desperate man would invade the house of a barking dog, and if anything Harry Edmunds is not foolish.”

  “And his lack of funds surely adds to his desperation,” my father noted.

  “Indeed it does, Watson, and his situation grows more dire by the day,” Joanna went on. “Recall that he now has no source of income, for his home remains under surveillance by Scotland Yard and thus any remaining caches of money are unavailable to him. Therefore, he is forced to hire third-rate lockpicks who are greatly in need of work and will do so at a minimal wage. Lockpicks of any merit will not come within a mile of Harry Edmunds, for they are fully aware of Scotland Yard’s keen interest in those who were associated with Edmunds in the past.”

  “Perhaps he could obtain an advance from the Morrisons at the Angel pub,” I suggested.

  “Only if he produces the masterpiece which he cannot,” said Joanna.

  “So we are all in agreement that Harry Edmunds is most desperate because of a lack of funds, and this no doubt accounts for his risky behavior,” I stated.

  “However, there is yet another reason for his latest perilous act,” my father proposed. “He may have discovered that the painting in the home of Sir Charles Cromwell held the concealed masterpiece. Thus, he was willing to take one final, dicey chance and put this business to an end.”

  “That is a distinct possibility, and why we must hurry to the crime scene,” said Joanna. “The evidence there may tell us whether that has occurred.”

  “Let us hope that Scotland Yard has not mucked up the telling evidence we require,” my father remarked.

  “Why, Watson, you sound much like Sherlock Holmes.”

  “It is an old habit of mine that shows up now and then.”

  On that note we departed 221b Baker Street and hurried in a four-wheeler to the Knightsbridge address of Sir Charles Cromwell. We remained silent until we passed along Hyde Park and approached Harrods department store where Charlotte Edmunds had purchased a variety of expensive goods, most notably tins of beluga caviar. Our conversation turned to the wife who we were certain was an accomplice. Lestrade had called to inform us that she had appeared before a magistrate and been granted bail since no specific charges had yet been made. She had hired a first-rate barrister which indicated she had more than sufficient funds at her disposal, which also indicated she had additional caches of cash hidden away in her home that we had not discovered. The possibility existed that she might secretively attempt to pass money to her husband, but this was deemed unlikely to occur since she remained under close surveillance by Scotland Yard. Nevertheless, Joanna cautioned that should Edmunds gain possession of the masterpiece, there existed the very real possibility that he and his wife might attempt to flee the country.

  “And here is where the ocean liner tickets mentioned in Edmunds’s last letter come into play,” Joanna recalled.

  “The well-thought-out escape,” I noted.

  “Exactly,” Joanna agreed. “But they would in all likelihood use aliases when booking passage, so not only should the ship’s manifest be studied, but Scotland Yard should also have the passengers surveilled at the time of boarding.”

  “Of course they might be clever enough to don disguises and board separately,” my father pointed out. “And that set of circumstances would make apprehension most difficult.”

  “Then we should convince Scotland Yard to question each passenger as they board,” I proposed.

  “That would be too time consuming and besides, if they are clever enough to wear disguises, they would be clever enough to have cover stories,” said Joanna.

  “So they might well slip through our fingers,” I concluded.

  “But not by Toby Two’s nose that would accompany the police and sniff each passenger for the distinct aroma of coal tar,” Joanna said, thinking two steps ahead of Harry and Charlotte Edmunds.

  My father growled under his breath. “Scotland Yard did us no favor by releasing Charlotte Edmunds which complicates matters even further.”

  “They had no choice, Watson,” said Joanna. “Unfortunately, she could not be charged because her involvement could not be proven. The magistrate would have to be convinced that Charlotte Edmunds either knew of or participated in the murders or break-ins. There is no evidence to back up these assertions. Furthermore, a hidden, forged Renoir and concealed caches of money are not crimes in and of themselves, nor are innocent letters which we decoded to our satisfaction. With this in mind, a good barrister would have her released in a matter of hours. I am afraid the best Scotland Yard could do was establish a police bail, in which a suspect is released without being charged but must return to the police station at a given date.”

  “During which time she and her husband could flee England.”

  “Sadly so.”

  Our carriage turned onto Sloane Square and pulled up in front of an impressive, three-story brick house, with window frames that were painted a sparkling white. Its door was solid mahogany, the brass fittings polished and gleaming. All of the drapes were drawn.

  A uniformed constable was standing guard on the steps and recognized us from a previous investigation. With a tip of his hat, he moved aside and allowed us immediate entrance.

  The crime had occurred in an eye-catching foyer that was richly appointed and spoke of refined wealth. It was done in white marble, with a broad mahogany staircase in its center. On the walls were paintings from the Italian Renaissance, one of which was slashed and smeared with blood. There were also blood splatters on the white marble floor and on the wall alongside the vandalized painting.

  Lestrade hurried over to greet us, carefully avoiding the bloodstains on the floor. “Thank you for responding so quickly,” said he. “I have tried to keep the crime scene intact, but unfortunately it has been marred by those who came to the aid of the gravely injured son.”

  “What is the nature of the lad’s injury?” my father asked.

  “I am afraid it is most serious, Dr. Watson,” Lestrade replied. “As he was beaten down to the floor, his head hit hard marble, which resulted in a skull fracture. He is currently hospitalized at St. Bartholomew’s where his very survival is in doubt.”

  “Do you know if it was an open fracture?”

  “That I cannot answer, but the pool of dried blood you see to your right apparently came from the lad’s head injury.”

  “Let us pray it is not an open fracture, for if it is, there is little chance he will survive.”

  Our conversation was interrupted by the approach of a tall, lean man, in his late middle years, with silver gray hair and sharp aristocratic features. His nose was aquiline, his face haggard and drawn, and there was caked blood on his hands.

  “Ah, Sir Charles, allow me to introduce you to the Watsons,” Lestrade greeted.

  Sir Charles Cromwell gave us a brief nod and said, “I do hope you can bring this madness to an end.”

  “We shall do our best,” Joanna responded. “But we
must hear from you every detail of what transpired last night.”

  Sir Charles sighed wearily. “Again?”

  “Again,” Joanna implored. “For even the smallest clue may be important in bringing the man who perpetrated this vicious act to justice.”

  “Very well,” Sir Charles said and sighed once more before beginning his sad story. “In the early morning hours, say about two, our dog Oliver started barking, which was not all that unusual, for he and the dog next door often exchange late-evening bouts of barking. But the noise continued and I soon became aware that there was no barking from the neighbor’s dog. My son apparently did so as well and hurried downstairs to investigate, where he was savagely—” Sir Charles choked on his words for a moment before regaining his composure. “Where he was savagely attacked. Our dog had been released moments earlier and no doubt reached the intruder first, but was butchered by this most cruel man. I of course heard the sounds of a struggle and raced downstairs, but by then the burglar had departed, leaving my son gravely injured and the dog dead.”

  “What were the sounds you heard?” Joanna asked.

  “The dog growling and a small table lamp being overturned.” Lord Cromwell pointed to the small table on its side and a shattered lamp beside it. “I immediately dashed to a nearby den where I keep my hunting rifles and raced down the stairs, loading my weapon as I went. But I was too late. My son lay motionless, with a bleeding head wound and unable to utter even a single word. Our family doctor was summoned and, on examining the lad, rushed him to St. Bartholomew’s where he now clings to life.”

  “I take it the dog was not allowed to freely roam the house.”

  “At night he is kept in a room adjoining the kitchen.”

  “So your son let him out just prior to encountering the intruder.”

  “As he was instructed in the event of a break-in, for some years ago we had a similar event and the dog responded in a likewise fashion.”

  “Thank you, Sir Charles, for that very excellent summary which I know was difficult for you,” Joanna said sympathetically. “Now I have one more unpleasant task for you. Please describe everything you saw on reaching the foyer, including the position of your son and the dog. I also need to know the placement of the slashed painting, as well as the nature of all the blood smears and splatter you saw.”