The Fine Art of Murder

by Tony Bulmer

  THE FINE ART OF MURDER 22

  Sherman Oaks. San Fernando Valley, Los Angeles.

  Mira and Professor Franklin headed high over Mulholland Drive, and down Beverly Glen, a sweeping canyon road that headed North into the San Fernando Valley. “In answer to your question, Mira my dear, Leonardo da Vinci’s trip to Florence, at Machiavelli’s behest, was an almost complete disaster, from start to finish.”

  Mira regarded her uncle with interest, from behind her impenetrable sunglasses. Below, the West-Valley community of Sherman Oaks sprawled into the haze, a concrete monster feasting on a tangled breakfast of freeways and big-box retailers.

  Mira adjusted her designer sunglasses and said, “I cannot say I am surprised. If you ask me, Machiavelli didn’t have the old guy in a barrel like he thought—I mean, da Vinci was a genius, right—you would have to get out of bed pretty early in the morning to pull a scam on a guy like that.”

  “Very perceptive Mira,” said Franklin pleasantly. “You are quite right. Machiavelli underestimated the great man—of that there can be no doubt. But more than that, I think he failed to realize just how capricious da Vinci and his young assistant really were. Da Vinci lost interest in projects very quickly. One day he would be painting a portrait of a wealthy patron, the next he would be designing a flying machine, carving a sculpture, or one of the other very many things that took his interest. So I think once he was paid, for his work on the fresco of the Battle of Anghiari, he lost interest in the project.”

  Mira nodded. “I thought he messed up the Palazzo Vecchio job with experimental painting techniques? He did the same with that fresco of the Last Supper he painted in Milan. He mixed his paint up with weird stuff, that flaked off the wall after only a couple of weeks, didn’t he?”

  Franklin broke a smile, wider than Wilshire Boulevard, as he slid the Bentley through the mountain curves, with one hand on the wheel. “Da Vinci was quite a guy. You had to be if you wanted to make any kind of living in the sixteenth century. But mixing paint wasn’t his problem. Politics was.

  Mira pulled a face. “Politics?”

  Da Vinci was fast-friends with the Borgia Pope Alexander VI and his son Cesare. So, when the Pope died, Da Vinci’s luck turned bad. The new Pope Julius II took a very dim view of Da Vinci’s association with the Borgias. Worse, Da Vinci’s friendship with the rulers of Florence was seen as a snub by the new pope.”

  “What about Michelangelo? He worked for Florence too.”

  “Indeed he did. But Michelangelo was a religious zealot, and politically astute. As soon as the new Pope was appointed, he left Florence to pledge his allegiance, and was immediately commissioned to paint the ceiling of the Sistine chapel as a reward.”

  “So what happened to Da Vinci?”

  The Bentley eased up to the intersection on Ventura Boulevard. The neighborhood was a jumble of low-rise storefronts and dusty apartment buildings.

  “Da Vinci did what any bad interior decorator does when a job goes wrong. He skipped town,” said Franklin. “And because his association with Piero Soderini and the Borgias meant he was out of favor with the wealthy art connoisseurs in Rome, he was forced to flee back to the only place he could get work: Milan.”

  Mira Frowned. “You think he took the picture of Lucretzia with him when he split for Milan?”

  “Entirely possible my dear. However, the next confirmed sighting of the picture was in Venice.”

  “How the hell did it get there?”

  “That, my dear, is open to conjecture. What we do know, however, is that the painting was mentioned in the1630 Papers of Giovanni Tiepolo, the Patriarch of Venice.”

  “What the hell’s a Patriarch?”

  “It’s like a Bishop, but without the pointed hat.”

  “So this is when the Vatican got hold of the painting?”

  “Sadly for them, no. The Venetian church was independent from the Church of Rome at the time.”

  Franklin eased the Bentley to a stop, out front of a three-story seventies style apartment building that had seen better days. The dirty brick frontage was accessorized with mismatched satellite dishes, and paint-chipped railings, that looked like they needed cleaning down with a steam hose—or a grenade-launcher. Something told Mira that the grenade-launcher was the more likely scenario.

  “The maids house I take it,” enquired Mira.

  “Let us go make enquires,” said Franklin breezily. He jumped out of the car and engaged the convertible’s folding roof. Mira stood on the sidewalk as the hardtop emerged, with robotic precision and snapped neatly into place.

  The apartment block had an antiquated pushbutton entry system that looked like it hadn’t worked in years. The front door had been wedged open with a battered fire extinguisher so old it wouldn’t be much use in an emergency. Meanwhile, the taupe colored entrance lobby had been cleverly accessorized with a collection of rubbish-filled shopping carts that looked like they weren’t going any place soon. Not the worst apartment building in town by a long shot, thought Mira, but the place was downbeat seedy—looked like it could use a major-league overhaul from an absentee landlord who’s sole knowledge of the property came from a quarterly balance sheet.

  As they hit the stairs, they were assailed by the heavy smell of hob-boiled spices that hung in the air, to the tinny accompaniment of a Latino dance music station. Doors slammed, children screeched, and an unseen dog barked relentlessly from a distant apartment. Franklin strode ahead, unperturbed by the surroundings. As they moved deeper into the complex, they traversed a maze of corridors, before finally coming face to face with a heavy set African American woman, pushing a baby carriage that was over-laden with groceries and mewling children. The woman looked hard-pressed. The children boiled around her, whooping and hollering, with saucer-eyed enthusiasm. Franklin raised his hat, wished the woman good afternoon in a cheery voice, before, snapping a roguish wink at the children, a gesture that arrested their boisterous progress for a short moment. They stared in awe at the strange figure encroaching on their territory—then, just as soon as the gaping silence was through, they were off once again, boiling down the narrow corridor into the deep-fried distance.

  As Mira and Franklin quickened their pace, a distant window at the end of the corridor forced the long shadows to crowd in upon them. Far along the landing, more children clattered up and down the corridor, as a group of neighborhood women stood gossiping, their dark silhouettes jagged against the light. A thick voice shouted profanities in a heavy accented Spanish. Mira gave a cold shudder. Who knew what kind of people lurked behind these institutional doorways? What manner of lives did they lead? Her mind ran alive with scenarios, and as her imagination turned these nightmare possibilities over, they stopped suddenly next to a soup green door, marked 1452.

  Franklin rapped smartly on the door, with the head of his cane. No sign of life—nothing, save the raucous talk of the neighbors, echoing down the hall.

  Mira shot her uncle a glance. “No reply doesn‘t mean there’s no one home, but we can’t exactly bust the door in can we?”

  Franklin took a step back. “Oh, the signora is home,” he replied, with the self-assurance of a sideshow fortune-teller. He leaned forwards, and rapped on the door again. Then stood back, leaning on the cane—a pleasant smile on his face.

  A black fisheye spy hole stared out at them, silent and judgmental.

  “My name is Cornelius Franklin. I am a friend Signora Calibano. Please, open the door, I have a very important matter to discuss with you.”

  Silence.

  “If you wish us to leave, we will Signora, but more people will come…the police, and others too, but you knew that didn‘t you?” called the Professor, projecting his voice, with the authority of a network television announcer.

  “Leave me alone,” called a voice from inside the apartment.

  “I wish that were possible Signora. We could discuss our business through the door, but I fear we might disturb your neighbors.”

  It was
a smart play by the professor, thought Mira. It stood to reason that a low profile woman like Alicia Calibano would live in fear of the wagging tongues of neighbors.

  There was a long pause, as the implications of the situation coalesced.

  Finally, there was a slow, reluctant sound of grinding bolts, and the rattle of a key in the lock. At length, the heavy door swung open and a frightened face peered out at them. Alicia Calibano had every right to be frightened—she had just seen a murder. But the pale face, and dark tearful eyes that peered out at them, betrayed a level of torment far beyond anything that Mira had expected. The small, dark haired woman stared at them fearfully from around the edge of the door and whispered, “You better come in, but you will have to make it quick, I have many things to do.”

  “Thank you kindly for your time Signora, I will be as brief as I can, but first, please allow me to present my niece Mira,” said Franklin.

  The frightened woman peered anxiously at Mira, worried she might be an authority figure—someone from the government, or worse. “Please, come through to the living room,” she said timidly.

  Mira gave the woman an awkward smile. The apartment was small, very small, no more than two bedrooms at the most. But what it lacked in size, it made up for in neatness. The pristine floor shone. The crisp painted walls radiated freshness, and the scent of Casa Blanca lilies, hung thickly in the air. As they came through to the tiny living room, Mira noticed that the Spanish-style furniture was accented, by gilt-framed pictures of a religious nature. Classic depictions of Jesus and Saint Sebastian figured prominently, as did a large collection of family photographs laid out with great precision on top of a neo Aztec dresser. There was also a comfortable looking couch and a pair of reclining chairs, complete with white linen antimacassars.

  “I have coffee, if you would like some, suggested Signora Calibano in a timid voice.”

  “That would be nice,” said Mira, thinking that given a purpose, the poor woman might calm down just a little. “White, no sugar, please.”

  “Not for me, thank you Signora,” said Franklin.

  Alicia Calibano stood in the kitchenette, pouring fresh filter coffee into tiny cups. Mira sat in one of the comfy looking armchairs, marveling at the sight of a giant painting that hung, pride of place on the living room wall. The painting looked familiar, an angel having a conversation with a haloed woman in sixteenth century clothes in an intricately painted garden.

  Professor Franklin walked up to the painting and examined it closely

  “A very lovely home you have Signora, thank you for asking us in.”

  He paused examined the painting further, his eyes moving across it, as though he were reading a book.

  “It must have been quite a shock, finding Mr. Elzorra like that?” asked Franklin, his voice calm and even. “Now I know you must have panicked when you left, thinking that you could perhaps avoid involvement in this matter, but Los Angeles Police Department are, as we speak, combing your former employers home for clues as to just who might have murdered him.

  A spoon clattered to the floor.

  “Murder?” said Alicia Calibano, her voice tremulous.

  “I am afraid so. Shot in the head from very close range, probably by some one he knew—but you knew that already didn’t you Signora?”

  Franklin stood back from the painting now, examining it as a whole, through slatted eyes.

  Alicia Calibano gave Franklin an anxious look. She said, “I just do my job, same as usual. Signor Elzorra he was sitting in the yard by the pool, enjoying his breakfast. I see no one, just movement across the blinds then, splash. I thought the signor had gone for a swim. When he swims, he always makes a mess of my floors. I worry for the mess, so I go to the kitchen, this is when I see Mr. Elzorra—floating in the pool—not moving, like he drowned or something.” Alicia Calibano drew a deep, anxious breath, her eyes growing wide with fear. “But there was blood Signor—much blood. I knew right away it was no accident. Please, I beg you Signor, I cannot be involved in this matter. I cannot speak to the police. I work every day for my family—the police they will ask many questions. They will ask for my documents. This will make bad trouble for me Signor and my family too.”

  Professor Franklin nodded. “I know Signora. Do not concern yourself. You have nothing to fear from the police. But they will find you, and they will ask you many questions. So you must prepare yourself. You must also ready yourself for a time of great danger, because I believe your boss was murdered, by some very bad people.”

  “I don’t want no trouble—I didn’t see nothing—you have to believe me.”

  “I am afraid what you saw is immaterial my dear lady. Once Elzorra’s killers discover that you were present when the murder occurred, they will come looking for you.”

  Alicia Calibano let out an involuntary cry.

  Standing in the middle of the living room, Franklin said, “Do not fear Signora. I will ensure that you are quite safe, until this unsavory business has drawn to a natural conclusion. Meanwhile, perhaps you could tell me where you got this marvelous painting?”

  “The painting was a gift, from Signor Elzorra. A copy he had made of a very beautiful painting he had above his mantelpiece. I told him many times how beautiful it was and one day he had this copy made for me.”

  Franklin smiled, “Signor Elzorra was always a man of great generosity.”

  “I work many years for the Signor, sniffed Alicia Calibano miserably, many, many years and now the Signor is dead.”

  “Oh, I am sure the Signor is in a better place,” said Franklin, his voice smooth and reassuring. “And I am sure he still thinks of you fondly. Tell me Signora, have you ever troubled to have this painting the Signor gave you valued?”

  “What value could such a painting hold Signor Franklin? For me, it is not only beautiful it is a reminder of times of great happiness. The Signor had so many beautiful things—that he allowed me into his home to walk among them every day was a privilege.”

  Franklin nodded. “I understand completely Signora, such a work must hold a great deal of sentimental attachment to you, but please, if one day you should consider selling it you must call me.”

  “I could never do such a thing.”

  Franklin nodded. “I quite understand, but I will leave my card with you. Please keep it safe, incase you should reconsider.” He placed his card on top of the neo Aztec dresser. “Now, the painting of the girl—where is it Signora.”

  It was as if a bolt from heaven had opened up the room, to judgment from the Lord himself. Alicia Calibano froze. Her eyes wide and fearful, hardly believing the question she was now being asked.

  “How do you know Signor? How could you know?”

  “It is my job to know dear lady.”

  Alicia Calibano looked quickly away. Chewing hard at her lip now, as the shame of discovery crashed in on her fragile psyche. “I thought I would never see her again,” she whispered, her voice cracking around the edges.

  “Can I see the painting Signora?” asked Franklin quietly.

  “I take good care of her, like she is my own daughter, I swear, please, come with me, I show you.” Alicia Calibano, beckoned to them to follow her. So, follow they did, back along the narrow corridor, to one of the thin little side doors. As the door opened Mira couldn’t help but gasp. The room was decorated like a holy shrine, with a golden altar and sacred candles, and holy pictures on every wall. It seemed, that the sweet little cleaning lady had pumped every spare cent she had ever earned into the place. Alicia Calibano led them into her personal temple. Mira was astounded—standing inside the little room, she felt transported away from the grim Sherman Oaks apartment block, into a sacred world of prayer. There were holy pictures everywhere, and hanging pride of place, was Leonardo da Vinci’s picture of Lucretzia Sfarzoso, glowing in the sacred candlelight.

  Professor Franklin, stepped forward urgently, so that he might examine the painting more closely. He hunched forwards, moving so close to the canvas Mi
ra thought he might touch it with his nose. At length he let out a low chuckle. “May I take a closer look Signora—with your permission?”

  Alicia Calibano gave him a wide stare, then nodded, her face straining with bewilderment.

  Franklin lifted the painting from the wall, and marched it quickly through the small apartment, until he reached the kitchenette. Once there, he raised the wooden window blinds with a swift tug of the pull cord, and let the afternoon sun flood into the room. He held the painting up, examining it closely, then turned it over and examined the reverse in the same scrupulous manner. “Marvelous,” he said. “The finest work I have seen in quite some time.”

  “Before you take her from me Signor, will you allow me to say a prayer for her, so that she might be delivered to a loving and appreciative home, that has been touched by the love of God?”

  “I am absolutely certain that will be the case,” said Franklin kindly.

  Alicia Calibano, looked at the professor with surprise. “How can you know such a thing Signor?”

  “Because, dear lady, this painting will stay with you.”

  “Santa Maria! How is such a thing possible?”

  Franklin smiled, “Because the painting is a forgery dear lady.”

  “You have got to be kidding,” said Mira. “We have been chasing a phony masterpiece? So much for Hermann Göring and his precious art collection.”

  Franklin raised his eyebrows, “Really, Mira my dear, you disappoint me.”

  “Oh yeah? Well you ain’t the only one who is disappointed, let me tell you.”

  “You really shouldn’t be disappointed my dear—we have had a most productive morning.”

  “How so Uncle C? Cardinal crazy legs and his wacky lead on Leonardo’s long lost work of genius have just fallen into the flusher. You can’t tell me there is an upside to this debacle?”

  Franklin smiled happily, “That is precisely what I am telling you my dear.”

  “So spill the story then, I got to hear this one,” said Mira, with a narrow look.

  “Firstly, Hermann Göring never had chance to become acquainted with this painting, because it was painted very recently, in the last six months I would estimate.”