The Monet Murders: A Mystery

by Terry Mort

  “I get it. But it would have to be a master forger who could slip one by an expert. Like you.”

  “Yes, in all modesty. I don’t say it couldn’t happen, though. Or even that it hasn’t happened. Besides, there are other authenticators who may not be as, shall we say, fastidious. Or as expert.”

  “An expert who might be in on the deal, possibly?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. But you might.”

  “Getting back to the dealer who contacted you—let’s assume for a minute that the painting he’s talking about is the Watson Monet. Can you find out from him who’s behind the sale? Who’s offering it?”

  “There’s the rub. As I’ve said, these private placements are usually done in complete secrecy. The owner is not always identified. A dealer who does not honor that privacy would be out of business very soon if word ever got out, which it would. That is why forgeries and stolen pieces can be moved—secrecy. Besides, there are often several middlemen in the transaction, so that a dealer sometimes has no idea of who the original owner might be.”

  “A daisy chain.”

  “If you like. I can ask my dealer friend, of course, but I would not be at all surprised if he doesn’t know or isn’t allowed to say.”

  I mulled these elements over, wishing I had some talent as a painter. It was only a fleeting thought.

  “Has Charles Watson contacted you?” I asked.

  “The owner of the Monet?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, I haven’t heard from him. Why?”

  “I gave him your name as the best person to examine the painting in his house—to see if it’s genuine or another copy like the one I showed you. Strange that he hasn’t done it.”

  Bunny studied me for a moment, took a few puffs on his pipe, and then gazed out the window for a few more moments. He let the smoke out gradually, savoring it, and he did not blow smoke rings. It wasn’t his style.

  “You think there may be something overly ripe in Denmark?” he asked finally.

  “It’s possible.”

  “Ah. Very interesting. Let us therefore consider those possibilities. Suppose this new painting that’s coming on the market is in fact the Watson Monet. And suppose, further, that it is genuine and currently hanging above the Watson mantel, protected no doubt by an elaborate alarm system. The Watsons would be foolish not to have very good security. But the point is, in that scenario, there is nothing at all nefarious, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “Right. And Watson is selling it because he’s not an art lover and simply wants to turn an asset into cash and get rid of a bad memory at the same time. The painting would have unhappy associations, even if he appreciated Monet.”

  “Which he doesn’t.”

  “I’m not surprised. Anyway, that’s scenario one. Everything on the up-and-up. But let’s consider scenario two. In that case, let’s suppose the painting above the mantel is a fake. Then what?” he asked.

  “Then we can assume it’s a second fake that was almost certainly painted by Wilbur Hanson so that he could cover his theft and sell the genuine article through these private-placement channels.”

  “But why bother with a second fake, I wonder?”

  “I’ve wondered that too.”

  “Perhaps it was a better job,” said Bunny. “Perhaps Wilbur thought he might improve on the first. He had talent, no question. The one you showed me couldn’t pass muster with anyone who would be interested in buying Monet. But if he did a better job the second time around. . . .”

  “But why bother?”

  Bunny put a fresh match to his pipe and leaned back in contemplation.

  “How about this for a scenario,” he said through a cloud of aromatic smoke: “Wilbur somehow exchanged his first copy for a new and improved second copy. How or when he did that remains to be seen. But let’s suppose he managed it. As Mrs. Watson’s lover, he most likely had access to the house. Probably knew how to turn off the alarm when he entered. Probably had his own key. Agreed?”

  “Yes. More than likely.”

  “When he replaced copy number one with copy number two, he had already stolen the genuine painting, which he had quickly fenced, so that he got out of that transaction completely. That’s usually the way. So whoever is offering it now got it from Wilbur. And it may have already passed through several other hands, thereby blurring the trail of evidence.”

  “But again—why bother making the switch from one to two? Charles Watson wouldn’t know the difference.”

  “Difficult to say. Maybe he thought he could fool Mrs. Watson by telling her he had returned the original, at which point he intended to ask for her forgiveness and take up where he’d left off with her, while secretly enjoying the proceeds of the original’s sale. I can’t see any other reason for exchanging forgery two for forgery one. That assumes that Emily Watson recognized forgery number one as a fake.”

  “Which she did. And at that point, she hired me to get back the original.”

  “Yes, that fits.”

  “As for the original, what about bills of sale and that sort of thing?”

  “Easily forged, my friend. No trouble whatsoever there. But the point is—the person offering the genuine Monet now may be completely innocent of any wrongdoing and may believe he acquired the painting legitimately. Meanwhile, the new and improved second forgery is hanging above Charles Watson’s mantel.”

  “You’d think Watson would want to know, one way or the other—whether the thing he has now is legitimate.”

  “Yes. You would think that, wouldn’t you. Perhaps he took it to another expert.”

  “Maybe. But he knows nothing about art. Why would he not take the simplest route and bring it to you?”

  “Why, indeed? Perhaps he doesn’t need to have it evaluated, because he already knows.”

  “That’s occurred to me, too, because I’m pretty sure Charles Watson knew Wilbur Hanson.”

  “Really! What makes you think so?”

  “There was a painting in Hanson’s apartment. A nude. One of many. All men, by the way. And one in particular looked an awful lot like Charles Watson.”

  Bunny raised his eyebrows. “Well, well. Naughty boy.”

  “There’s more. I noticed the nude the first time I searched Wilbur’s apartment and then made the connection when I met Watson. But I couldn’t be positive, so I went back to Wilbur’s apartment to double-check—to make sure it was really Watson. And the painting was gone.”

  “Hmmm. And what does that suggest to you?”

  “Nothing I can be sure about. But—if it really was a painting of Watson in his birthday suit—it suggests the possibility that Watson was in cahoots with Wilbur, somehow. Maybe he was involved in the theft of his own Monet and is now selling it privately and secretly—which would then allow him to put in an insurance claim and essentially double his money.”

  “I see. It’s possible, I suppose. For that to work, the secrecy of the private placement would of course have to be ironclad, for surely the insurance company would investigate the theft and try to recover the painting before paying out. If anyone in the daisy chain, as you call it, talked, the insurance company would unravel the whole scheme, if you’ll forgive me for mixing metaphors.”

  “I see what you mean. Secrecy would be paramount. But if there were one or two buyers who didn’t care about anything except acquiring a Monet, didn’t care whether it was stolen or not, and in fact even knew it was stolen, they’d have every incentive to keep things completely quiet.”

  “And, as I said, such an avis is not all that rara.”

  “All of which says that the key to this little mystery is the painting now hanging in Watson’s house. If it’s genuine, then—”

  “Which is unlikely, because Emily Watson told you Wilbur stole it.”

  “Yes, but he returned to the house the night he was shot. Maybe he had second thoughts and replaced the original just before she discovered him and shot him.”

  “
In that case, what did Wilbur do with the forged painting he replaced?”

  “Forgery number two? I don’t know. Maybe he replaced the original some time before the fatal evening. He did have access, as we’ve said. But why did he come to the house that night?”

  “That is the question. Perhaps he was overcome by passion for Mrs. Watson.”

  “I met her. I doubt it.”

  “Don’t be so sure. It doesn’t do to underestimate the potential charms or passions of a woman on the cusp of hysterical middle age. Remember what the poet said: ‘What is our life? A play of passion.’”

  “Shakespeare, I suppose.”

  “Walter Raleigh, actually.”

  He examined his pipe lovingly. It was a highly polished, well-used, straight-stemmed briar.

  “We can thank Raleigh for the blessings and curses of this aromatic weed. I think of him every time I light up. In those days, though, they thought it was good for you physically, not just psychologically. And they used clay pipes. They missed out entirely on the added pleasures of briar.” He smiled a little diabolically.

  Well, the next steps were obvious. “I think we have to find out whether the thing that’s on the wall now is real or a fake,” I said.

  “That would be useful, I agree.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a little breaking-and-entering.”

  He smiled benignly. “Not in my line, I’m afraid.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  I suppose it was in my line, more or less. But I didn’t like it. There had to be some way to get into Watson’s house and switch forgery number one, the painting I had, for whatever was hanging above the mantel now, with the hope that Watson wouldn’t notice the difference. There had to be some way that did not involve burglary, that is.

  Maybe the simplest was to do it legally. Odd that I didn’t think of that first, I suppose.

  I went back to the office and called Kowalski. I ran through the various theories and explained that we had to get ahold of that painting above the mantel—and switch it for forgery number one. Could a search warrant work?

  “It could work, but I don’t think the court would issue one—not on the basis of your theories. We’d need a lot more than just your suspicions. A man’s home is still his castle, you know.”

  “Even the scene of a murder/suicide?”

  “As far as we’re concerned, that’s all there was. Plain and simple. The court would see it that way, too. We’d need evidence connecting the artwork to the shootings. At this point, all we got is your quarter-baked idea. Besides, what you’re asking me to do is commit theft under the guise of a search warrant. I may bash the occasional bad guy to get a confession, but I try like hell to play it straight. We got a new guy in Internal Affairs who’s got a hard-on for the working cop.”

  Swell. That was the real point, I realized. Kowalski probably could have talked the court into issuing a search warrant, but he didn’t want to get involved in a switcheroo that could cost him his badge if word got out.

  “What would happen if a certain dashing young private dick snuck in there and made the switch?”

  “I don’t know anybody who answers to that description, but if there was such a dashing young dumbass, he’d go straight to the slammer if he got caught. And let me also advise you that the house has extensive burglar alarms, to say nothing of a twenty-four-hour Jap houseboy who is proficient in various forms of oriental hand-to-hand combat. They say he’s well versed in the art of causing pain.”

  “What, no dogs?”

  “Just one. A Rottweiler. A hundred pounds plus. Wears a spiked collar. Name’s Ming.”

  “Ming?”

  “Yeah, after Ming the Merciless in Flash Gordon. There used to be a toy poodle—Mrs. Watson’s dog—but he got run over by a garbage truck, so there’s just Ming. But he’s more than enough. Still feel like a midnight adventure?”

  “Not really.”

  “Sorry I can’t help you on this. The law’s a bitch sometimes.”

  “You mean ‘the law’s an ass.’”

  “Eh?”

  “It’s from Dickens.”

  “Him again?”

  “Yeah. Well, thanks for the info and advice. I’ll think of something.”

  “Don’t tell me about it until afterwards. Just between us girls, it sounds like you may be on to something, so keep me informed.”

  “All right.” He was perfectly willing to let me do the job for him, but that was as far as he’d go.

  So much for the legal route.

  I sat and thought about it for a while. The idea of breaking into a house guarded by a Rottweiler and a Jap judo expert had no appeal. Plus, there were the burglar alarms, and in that neighborhood the cops would be quick to respond. The swankier the district, the faster they came. Live in the slums and you might as well send for the cops by postcard. But the Bel Air cops knew who paid their salaries.

  No, what I needed was a story, not a jimmy and a black mask.

  The more I thought about it, the more it seemed that the two keys to this case were the private-placement market on the one hand, and the insurance business on the other. I needed to know more about how the insurance side of things worked.

  I called Bunny back and asked him. This time he didn’t seem reluctant to talk on the phone.

  “Ah, as it happens my cousin Jimmy Fairchild is one of the ‘names’ at Lloyd’s, so I know a bit about how it all works.”

  “‘Names’?”

  “Yes. That’s what they call the investors who get together and underwrite a certain risk, like a merchant ship or a footballer’s legs. When the sum is large, no one wants to take on the entire underwriting, so they get a syndicate together and each ‘name’ takes a piece of the risk and receives a corresponding piece of the premium. Insurance is all about evaluating and spreading the risk—whether you’re talking about oceangoing vessels or paintings of flowers in a pot. If the ship sinks or the painting is stolen, the names all get together again and put in their share of the claim—after a thorough investigation, of course.”

  “I see. Is that how it works here?”

  “Well, in principle, yes. But not in practice. You see, there are certain insurance companies that like to underwrite works of art, but they also like to hedge their bets now and then, so they sell off a portion of the underwriting to what’s called a re-insurance company—which as the name suggests is a company that insures the insurer—to some degree or other. Unlike Lloyd’s, the two companies are separate, not a collection of individual investors, or names. You see?”

  “More or less.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I thought it might be a way of getting into the Watson house without breaking a window or getting eaten by a Rottweiler.”

  He paused, and I could hear him sucking on his pipe.

  “I think I see where this is heading. You’re going to start a ferret in the form of an insurance agent into the house in Bel Air and see what comes running out.”

  “Start a ferret?”

  “Useful animals, ferrets. They go down into a rabbit hole and chase the unfortunate creatures out into the waiting nets of the hunters. Do you know anyone who can play one?”

  “This is Hollywood, Bunny. Ferrets are a dime a dozen.”

  But of course I had access to a particularly beautiful ferret who happened to owe me a favor. And even if she didn’t, I figured she’d sign up, just for love. Or half love.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The next morning I called my FBI friend, Marion Mott. I wanted to know if he could help me set up a cover story with a re-insurance company. We had gone through this routine before, when I was helping him with a sting against the local mob in Youngstown. We’d set up a plant in the New York office of First National City Bank who would verify my bona fides as a banker in case anyone from the mob tried to check up on me, which of course they did. I needed the same kind of arrangement for Myrtle, and I explained what we were going to try
to do.

  “Seems pretty straightforward,” he said. “Can she pull it off, do you think?”

  “She’s an actress.”

  “Oh, well, that’s perfect. What’s her cover name?”

  “Elizabeth Bennett.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “It’s from Pride and Prejudice.”

  “Radio drama, isn’t it? That could be risky.”

  “No, it’s an eighteenth-century novel.”

  “Oh. That’s all right, then. Nobody reads that stuff.”

  Marion didn’t know anyone offhand who could fill the bill, but he promised to look into it and get back to me. I was sure he’d come up with something.

  “You run into many Reds out there in Lotus Land?” he asked, as we were about to hang up.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Well, if you do, let me know. Tit for tat. Word is, the place is rotten with them, especially the unions and the writers. I can pass anything you dig up along to our local office. Feather in my cap.”

  Well, I figured the local Feds had a pretty good handle on the area subversives and fellow travelers, so I wasn’t going to worry about that. And all the writers I knew from the Garden of Allah were usually too soaked in gin to worry much about the proletariat, even though they would all most likely give lip service to the cause, if only as a kind of middle finger to the producers. But to make Marion happy, I said I’d keep my eyes open.

  You might wonder how someone with Myrtle’s charming but quite noticeable accent could pass as an Anglo-American insurance investigator named Elizabeth Bennett, but our backstory included her marriage to a doctor back east and, to awaken Watson’s potential appetite, her divorce. That was assuming that Watson had that kind of appetite. Of course there was the distant problem that if and when Myrtle appeared on the silver screen, Watson might notice and realize he’d been set up. But that seemed a slim chance and a long time away. By the time Myrtle had her name, Yvonne Adore, up in lights, this case would be long over.