by Tony Bulmer
The woman gave Lohse a quiet smile and stepped into the show room, looking about her, as though she had just walked into paradise.
Lohse smiled, an easy mark for sure. “Perhaps you are a fan of the impressionists, or would you prefer something more classical. Tell me Fräulein, what can I do for you?”
She stood alongside him now admiring the Rembrandt that took pride of place in the show room. “More a question of what I can do for you Herr Lohse.”
Lohse looked at her sharply. He didn’t like her accent—unpleasantly foreign in a vulgar nouveau riche kind of way. And her hair—a wig—surely she was wearing a wig!
“You had a good look?” she snapped.
He had no time to reply, she reached out fast and grabbed his hand, pulled his arm across her body and struck him hard in the neck. The power of the blow sent him staggering. He clutched his neck—as the shock of the blow receded, he felt another sensation, a stabbing, prickling sensation, followed by a horrible numbness sweeping over his face. He tried to speak, but couldn’t. Instead, he staggered back in shock, his mind racing to find an escape.
The woman stood watching. “That is right, Herr Lohse, I stabbed you in the neck. She held up a tiny syringe. “A fast acting neuro-toxin, you can probably feel it rushing through you as we speak.”
Lohse’s eyes bulged, his aged hands clutching feebly at his neck, in a futile attempt to mend the damage.
The woman stepped forward, clutched him by the shirt collar and dragged him across the gallery floor. “Sit down,” she commanded. Forcing him backwards into his plush leather director’s chair. She perched daintily on the corner of his desk, and examined him over the top of her tinted glasses. “I know you have just spoken to our friend the Cardinal, but he told me to say hi anyway.”
The numbness had spread across his face now, and down both his arms—then came a tightness closing about his head, as though he was being held in a giant vise. As he fought against the power of this creeping paralysis, Lohse felt his arms grow ever heavier. He tried with every ounce of strength to prevent this, but his efforts were no match for the toxin. He gave a terrified gasp and his hands fell useless at his sides. He felt he whole body juddering, slowly at first then more pronounced. He slumped back powerless against the pulsing toxin.
The woman examined her nails. “You probably thought you had got away with that little stunt you pulled in France, didn’t you Lohse. All those Jews you deported to their deaths, so you could steal their things?” She looked at him again, “You are going to loose control of you bodily functions in a minute—but a man of your age—you are probably used to it aren’t you?”
Lohse gasped and choked, a thin stream of bile drooling out the corner of his mouth. The convulsions were getting more pronounced now.
“When they find you, they will think you have had a stroke, which of course you will have, but not for the reasons they surmise.” She stood now, walking to the rear of the gallery—towards the safe, towards the circuit breakers. Lohse tried to follow her trajectory, but he was unable to move, as though the communication cords between mind and body had been severed. If he had been able to blink it would have been a mercy, but he couldn’t even do that, instead he felt his eyes bulge and swell, as though they would surely pop out of his skull.
The woman returned, holding the tiny hard drive for the security system in her manicured fingers—She tapped it gently against the palm of her hand. “Very careless Herr Lohse, leaving your security system so vulnerable like that.” She stepped forward, pulled open Lohse’s eye, and pursed her lips. “It is always good to have a fully qualified nurse present in your final moments—unfortunately for you, your health insurance has expired, as soon will you. So, in your last tortured moments on earth, I would like you to know that your Nazi friends signed off on your death warrant—apparently your indiscretions in the art world have been drawing very negative publicity—reminding everyone of the past—but there is one reassuring piece of knowledge you can take to your grave—in the very unlikely event your murder is discovered, it will almost certainly be blamed on those killers from the Mossad—Feel better now? No of course you don’t. Goodbye Herr Lohse. She felt his pulse now, stared into his horror filled eyes. She waited quietly for a long time. Then, when she was sure he was dead, she dropped the door latch with a gloved hand and left very quietly.
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 43
Church of St Catherine, Sherman Oaks California, present day.
The candle fluttered softly then, as the flame rose high and confident, feeding off her silent prayers Mira knelt. Bending before the shrine she felt an enduring peace flow around her in the incense shrouded gloom. The statue of Saint Catherine of Bologna looked down on her, with a benevolent smile, garlanded with lilies and golden tribute. The girl had secrets, no doubt about that thought Mira.
“A very beautiful church, wouldn’t you agree Mira?” Cornelius Franklin stood next to her, breathing the air as though it possessed miraculous health-giving qualities.
“I lit a candle for you Uncle C.”
Franklin smiled. “In that case we are doubly blessed.”
“How so, we are no nearer to finding the painting.”
Franklin smiled, “As usual Mira my dear, your assessment of our progress is inaccurate on a number of levels.”
“Your friend the forger has a real quick mouth. He tells you everything, but reveals nothing. I don’t trust him. You ask me, he is working an agenda.”
“When it comes to the criminal underworld, the Prodigy is like the ancient oracle of Delphi—his knowledge and wisdom is profound, and like the great oracle his insights are often presented in the form of allegory.”
“You are kidding right? The dude is a crook, plain and simple, the kind of guy who would spin out any kind of story if he though it would turn a buck.”
Again Franklin smiled, “It is a good thing we are in church Mira, the perfect place, I think you will agree, to restore your faith in man.”
“I got plenty faith, don’t you worry about that—but if you think we are going to get any closer to the Cardinal’s painting by lighting votive candles, you are even crazier than that dope smoking associate of yours.”
“Dark thoughts Mira. You really must look to the light, for a more positive viewpoint.” As Franklin spoke, he angled his head back, as if breathing in the sacred air.
Mira frowned, then turned slowly, following her uncle’s gaze.
Sunlight streamed down upon them, filtering through the holy image of Saint Catherine of Bologna, patron saint of artists. The holy figure watched over them, enshrined for posterity in the stained glass window above the high alter.
Mira drew a sharp breath.
Franklin laughed, “Behold a revelation.”
The face in the window was Lucretzia Sfarzoso—the woman in Leonardo da Vinci’s painting of legend—the very same painting owned by Nazi monster Herman Göring and untold others down the ages.
Mira paused for a long moment, mulling over the implications, until at long last she said, “It would seem that your stoned friend was right—we have ourselves a trail, but that window has to be fifty years old at least—”
“Sixty.” The voice was soft and ethereal, and yet it had an overwhelming air of assurance. Mira turned and saw a white haired priest standing very close. The priest looked up at the stained glass window. “We are very proud of our windows at St Catherine’s,” he said, his voice melting into the perfumed air.”
Professor Franklin greeted the priest, and made introductions, “I really must thank you for meeting us at such short notice Father, your schedule must be very busy, but as I mentioned on the telephone, we are looking into a very particular matter concerning the welfare of your parishioners.”
“It is always a delight to meet with lovers of the arts Professor, especially a renowned academic such as yourself—I must say, I have read a number of your papers on the great works of Renaissance Europe, and I was much impressed.”
“You are very kind Father—furthering understanding on cultural issues is a pleasure I so rarely have time for these days, but I will certainly send you a copy of my next work when it is completed—now, these windows of yours—particularly the marvelous specimen above the altar, perhaps you could tell us about them?”
“A gift from one of our most generous benefactors.”
Franklin beamed happily and gave a nod of understanding. A single donor paid for all your windows? How marvelous—a man of considerable means I would imagine.”
“A man of great loyalty, who believed in thrift and hard work.”
“Splendid attributes,” agreed Franklin. “A local man I would assume.”
“Actually, no, he came from the east during the great depression. He drove a battered old coupe all the way from New England and settled in the Hollywood Hills, figuring he could make a better life for himself—ended up working as a roustabout for a local business man named Jack Dragna—maybe you’ve heard of him?”
“A prohibition gangster—they called him the West coast Capone I believe.”
The priest gave Franklin a thin look, “The depression years were a time of great privation professor, folks had to grab opportunity where they found it.”
“I quite understand,” said Franklin brightly, “Your father worked for the Sicilian Mafia didn’t he Father Manetti?”
“Mafia is an ugly word Professor Franklin.”
“So is murder father Manetti. I assume your father stole the painting while serving in Germany for the 101st Airborne?”
A look of contempt twisted at the edges of the Priests mouth, finally he said, “My father was a war hero, a decorated war hero.”
“And he got into the Art business too—he must have picked up some interesting and rather valuable pieces while he was in Nazi Germany?”
“Very smart of you Franklin—I was wondering how long it would take for some clever little busybody to come poking around in the past—I was beginning to think it would never happen, and now here you are, asking questions about the dead.” The priest angled his chin defiantly and said, “You are right Franklin, my father worked for the mob—he had angles running his whole life, judge him how you will. But he was a good man, a religious man, who repented his sins and received the sacrament of reconciliation as reward. If you are looking to make unwholesome accusations regarding the past, you are wasting your time. My father has been dead for many years. He is buried at the Our Lady of the Angels Cemetery, and may he rest in peace.”
“Very touching. I am sure your father could have gotten away with snatching the painting if it had been by just about any other artist. Unfortunately for him, the painting was by Leonardo da Vinci. It has a heritage going back five hundred years, and according to the Pope, the painting belongs to him—so I am sure you can understand the gravity of the situation with which we are dealing?”
Father Manetti turned pale, “I knew the painting was valuable, but I had no idea it was a da Vinci—it must be worth millions,” he hesitated, considering the implications as he gnawed anxiously at his bottom lip. Finally he asked, “Who told you all this?”
“I was tasked to make investigations by an emissary of the Holy Father, a man who will no doubt be familiar to you, Cardinal Saligia of Rome.”
Manetti blanched, “The Cardinal is involved in this?”
“I am afraid so,” nodded Franklin gravely, now where is the painting?”
The priest looked desperate now. “My father lost it in a game of cards to a man called Javier Elzorra.”
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 44
A Gallery opening in the Palazzo Vecchio. Florence, Italy, present day.
Inside the halls of the Palazzo Vecchio, Florence, the thrum of the tourist hoards had been replaced, albeit temporarily, by a quite different, but no less frenetic, swarm of activity. For the City of Florence it was a gala occasion, a homecoming tribute to their most famous son—Leonardo da Vinci—the greatest inventor, mathematician and artistic genius of the High Renaissance.
It was a monumental, citywide event; an extravaganza, featuring as its centerpiece an exhibition of every known work of art by Leonardo, including such masterpieces as The Mona Lisa, The Baptism of Christ, and The Adoration of the Magi.
As a prelude to the opening night, news crews from the world’s greatest television networks had descended upon the town, to record for posterity the wild melee of celebrities attending the lavish opening night party.
Inside the Palazzo Vecchio there was a hectic scene, as last minute preparations for the grand opening night party neared completion. The corridors and grand salons of the ancient palace throbbed with the activity of a media army—lighting engineers, riggers, soundmen, and camera crews, all clattering and roaring and jostling for position, in a fast moving sea of chaos.
Striding through the melee, with a lively and purposeful stride, Professor Cornelius Franklin observed the preparations, absorbing every detail with eidetic precision. In his role as creative director of the Leonardo exhibition, he had used every one of his contacts worldwide, to ensure that the show at the Palazzo Vecchio would be the greatest show of Leonardo da Vinci’s work ever seen. Mira followed in his wake, munching bubblegum and wondering how it was possible that her uncle could marshal such apparent chaos. As they walked the corridors, Franklin moved volante, with a bubbling crowd of facilitators and assistants, trailing in his wake, all of them firing endless questions.
Franklin met every query with the same crisp assuredness. The assistants scampered and scurried—an army of worker ants hurrying away at speed, to engage in their world of task completion. A length Franklin paused, turned his sharp pressed attention to Mira and said, “I want to show you something my dear, a very particular something that may put our recent investigations into context. He smiled then, his quick grey eyes sparkling with secret knowledge. He beckoned to her, “Come this way.”
The Salone dei Cinquecento had been marshaled off from the hubbub of the nights events and when Franklin closed the door to the great chamber, an almost eerie calm descended over them, as though they had been transported back through the centuries to a simpler more majestic age.
The great Hall of the Five Hundred, was much smaller than Mira had expected, but no less impressive. Giant canvasses of ancient battles lined the walls, pressing in on all sides. It was as though they had moved into an ancient battleground—every inch covered with the most intricate details—the effect was awe inspiring, and oppressive, as though the whole world had spun back on its axis, to a time of gilded armor and feudal infighting
As Mira stared about her, the heavy gilded ceiling groaned under the weight of ostentation, like a patchwork of giant picture frames.
“So this is where it all happened?” she said, staring around in wonder.
“Indeed Mira—a battle royal between two of the greatest artists who ever lived.”
Mira walked very slowly to the centre of the room, and made a slow motion pirouette, the great hall was filled with the ghosts of lost centuries, hell, it even smelled old—so old you could close your eyes and imagine your way back through the years, back to a time when the entire world turned on principals of God fearing subservience and the glory of kings.
“It’s gloomy in here, with all those tiny windows up high like that—kind of hard to see all the details, but it must have taken a hundred years at least to paint all this stuff.”
“Giorgio Vasari completed the decoration of the hall between 1555 and 1572.”
“Seventeen years? He must have worked night and day.”
“My dear girl, Vasari was the most celebrated interior decorator of the day, he had an army of craftsmen at his command.”
“And so this Vasari dude, he was the guy who painted over the frescos by Leonardo and Michelangelo, right? That takes some kind of nerve.”
“As part of the renovations for Grand Duke Cosimo, Vasari enlarged the hall. He really had no option but to update the earlier paintings. The
y were, after all, left in an unfinished state, quite inappropriate for a building of such cultural importance to the Republic of Florence.
“Still it seems a shame they had to paint over their heritage, perhaps it would have been better if Vasari and his crew had just touched up the walls with a fresh coat of paint?”
“He did better than that, he created an enduring mystery that has only just recently been solved.”
Mira frowned, “How do you mean Uncle C? You ask me Leonardo da Vinci was a walking enigma, all that backward writing and digging up corpses stuff—he was a strange kind of guy, am I right?”
“And Vasari paid him a fitting tribute,” said Franklin, cerca trova—seek and you shall find.”
“Way cryptic—you want to tell me what are you talking about?”
Franklin pointed to the giant battle scene on the wall, a thousand figures on horseback embroiled in a bloody melee. Mira looked hard at the painting, not wanting to ask for further guidance, knowing that if her uncle was pointing, the evidence was there, no question.
She stared at the wall a long time, until at last she saw it.
Cerca trova—in the midst of the frenetic battle scene the words were written on a tiny green flag angled above the clashing armies like a college ball pennant
“That flag—it’s like an arrow pointing to the hills, what the hell does that mean?”
“Historians have wondered that for centuries my dear, but it is only today with the benefit of modern technology that we have been able to resolve this great mystery.” Franklin paused, adjusted his tie and said, “Vasari did not paint over the old paintings, he built a new wall in front of them—that way he knew his conscience was clear and he could never be accused of destroying the work of either da Vinci—or Michelangelo, no matter how sloppy or deserving of revision their works were.
“There is a da Vinci buried in the wall?”
“Most certainly—very recently tiny holes were made in the wall and an endoscope camera used to explore the wall cavity. The work inside has been subject to much deterioration throughout the centuries but the pigments of the painting have been sampled and they are identical to those used by da Vinci in many of his other paintings.”