AHMM, April 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  And Sandy was right. I didn't know if the gun used against us and used to kill Anne Bauer, assuming it was the same gun, came from his collection, but I wanted to find out. And it might change Mr. de Giers's strategy, if he had one, to know that the police had recovered the casings from the previous evening's escapade. Of course he might decide to put a rapid and definitive end to my questioning, but I didn't believe he'd dare. Art forgery is one thing; murder, when there's no room for doubt who pulled the trigger, is something else. I hoped.

  It was surely art forgery and attempts to conceal it that had led to the death of Anne Bauer and the disappearance of the false Chardin. The false Chardin might turn up again in Dubai or Tokyo or Fort Worth, but it was gone from the Bauer residence. I guessed that the false Lancret would be gone from the walls of Arno de Giers's gallery as well.

  * * * *

  The front door to the gallery was closed, and when I tried to open it, I found out it was locked. I would have been surprised, but my gallery was closed and locked up, too, and Sandy was sitting in the car. I rang the doorbell. Eventually a young woman opened the door. She must have been Arno de Giers's daughter. She looked like him, right down to the stooped posture.

  No, no, he wasn't there today and wouldn't be back until tomorrow. This morning he went to Philadelphia for a conference on Soviet art, and would be making a presentation there. Would I like to talk to Mr. Tremblay instead? Sometimes he helps out here. He'll be back this afternoon. I didn't know who Mr. Tremblay was and didn't think I wanted to talk to anyone other than Arno de Giers.

  "Philadelphia,” I said to Sandy. “He's in Philadelphia. Maybe this business about his guns is all a fantasy. Maybe I really did shoot Anne Bauer."

  "And then arranged to fire at us from forty feet away using a gun we don't own since we don't own any guns. Do we?"

  "You know very well we do not, and I am in no hurry to get one. I'd probably use it on the next people who wander into the gallery looking for paintings of those ‘adorable’ wide-eyed children."

  * * * *

  Charlie Gordon tapped a golf ball on the carpet of his museum office toward a frisbee-shaped cup. The carpet was Moroccan and extraordinarily fine; practicing golf on it was incongruous, but Charlie had always indulged in incongruities. He taught art history at Crafts College when I was a student there and was well known for his vigorous defense of second-tier Florentine masters and of hunting and venison stews.

  "Nah,” he said. “The new regime sent their favored son to look at it. Not me. I'm just the curator of pre-Impressionist painting. What the hell do I know?” He tapped another ball. “Actually I'm the curator of middle-aged docents nowadays. That's about all they trust me with.” He gathered up the golf balls near the cup. “I like Oudry. Always have. Don't like that one, though. Too busy or something. Too many dead white birds. And all that fruit. Wouldn't have recommended acquiring it. What do you think of it? Oudry's in your bailiwick."

  "I like it, but..."

  "But what?” A golf ball spun around the hole but did not drop in.

  "I'm not certain I can tell you what, but there's something wrong with it."

  Charlie looked up. “You think so? I think so too.” He turned back to his putting. “The rifle's not right, for one thing. Too stumpy. If someone waltzed in here tomorrow and told me it was a fake, I wouldn't be surprised."

  I wasn't in a waltzing mood, and I didn't want to be the person who identified—or misidentified—the museum's new acquisition as a forgery. “Where'd you get it?” I asked.

  "Me? I didn't.” He chuckled. “The museum bought it from a dealer. Up in Montreal. Clearing the estate of a Montreal snowshoe manufacturer or hockey player or something. Art collector, anyway. The painting's provenance is impeccable, I am told. By the kid, the favored son. He found the new Sisley, too, not there, but he found it, so I guess he's not all bad."

  "What's the dealer's name? Do you know?"

  He tapped another ball. “Tremblay. Maurice Tremblay.” The ball went in the hole.

  * * * *

  Now what was I supposed to do? I wondered what Maurice Tremblay did in his spare time and if it involved an easel. Had Jake Bauer been up here when the shots were fired, all of them? Did . . . ? Had . . . ?

  All of it pointless.

  "You're an insane old man,” said Sandy, and he was right. Only about the insane part, of course. I'd grown obsessive about the forgeries and doing what I could to make certain my name was not linked to them. I was obsessive, too, about doing what I could to deter people from firing guns of any caliber at Sandy and me. And I was tired of spending every night in a motel.

  Late the next afternoon, giving Arno de Giers time to return from Philadelphia, I paid another visit to his gallery with Sandy.

  The fake Lancret had vanished from its former place, and Arno de Giers was not pleased to see me. I asked him if he'd heard anything more about the missing Chardin. He hadn't. Did he have any more information about its provenance?

  "Why do you want to know?"

  "Caution,” I said. “If a painting comes my way with a similar history, I'd like to know in advance so I can be wary, more wary than I would be anyway, of course.” Seemed plausible to me. “Who was the art dealer in Toronto who sold you the painting, or consigned it to you, or whatever the arrangement was?"

  "I . . . I'm not at liberty to say.” If he'd had a stack of photographs to rearrange or silver boxes, he would have played with them. He didn't. Instead he clenched and unclenched his fingers. “We've had a business relationship that . . . I don't care to jeopardize."

  "Of course,” I said, “but there's another reason I'm here,” I said. “Are any of your little curio guns missing?” He didn't react. “Someone shot at me and a friend two nights ago. The police retrieved the—what do you call them? casings?—and said they came from a very small caliber weapon. We're both fine, my friend and I, but I thought immediately of your collection..."

  Arno was galvanized. His hands stopped jittering and he stared at me. He pivoted quickly, took a key chain from his pocket, and unlocked a door at the rear of the room we were in. Inside, he pulled open a wide, shallow drawer. Soft, cream-colored fabric shielded the drawer's contents. He unhooked the fabric from the drawer. Beneath it were guns, perhaps twenty of them, many of them small, set out in four rows. One of the slots was empty.

  "A Korovin TK,” he said, more to himself than to me.

  And he grabbed the gun in front of the empty slot and jammed it into his jacket pocket.

  He reattached the cloth cover, took an audible breath, and slowly closed the drawer.

  "The gun you took . . .” I said.

  At first he didn't reply. He ushered me out of the room and locked the door behind us. He spoke very quietly. “One of the pistols was missing. You saw that. A Soviet pistol from 1928. I took its mate.” He looked at me but had no expression on his face. “Don't want it to go missing also.” I supposed I believed him. At least I believed him as long as the pistol was in his pocket.

  I wanted to leave, and leave rapidly, but had one more question. “Who is Maurice Tremblay?” I asked. “Do you know?"

  He turned to me, his head at an odd angle to his hunched shoulders, a hard look on his face. He didn't reply at first, then asked, “Who?"

  "Maurice Tremblay. Who is Maurice Tremblay?"

  "Maurice who?"

  "Tremblay. From Montreal."

  "No,” he said. “I don't know any Maurice Tremblay."

  "I understand he helps here sometimes."

  "I've never heard of him."

  I knew that was not true, but there was nothing I could do. I started to leave, but I heard a click and a scraping sound. They came from a door being pushed open, a door to my left and Arno's right. A man stood in the doorway. He was neither tall nor short, he had a full head of white hair, and he had a small gun in his right hand, a curio. The curio was pointed at me.

  "I am Maurice Tremblay,” the man said, “and you are an interferi
ng fool.” He gestured Arno de Giers to move away from me slowly. Maurice Tremblay stood unmoving in the doorway.

  "I won't miss you twice,” he said. Four times, I thought. Four. And maybe he would miss again. He was nearly twenty feet away from me and standing still.

  Arno had been backing up, but suddenly he stopped. He spun around, dropped to his knees, and by the time his knees hit the floor, the gun was out of his pocket. He fired rapidly, twice. The first bullet hit Maurice Tremblay in his right shoulder. Tremblay dropped the gun and grabbed his shoulder. Blood spurted between his fingers. The second bullet lodged in the door frame. Arno ran toward Maurice and kicked aside the gun he'd held.

  "Not here! Not here! Are you a fool?” he yelled at Maurice. He turned to me. “Go! Go! Get out! And keep this to yourself!"

  He had two guns, one in his hand, one not far away. I left as fast as I could.

  * * * *

  Keep it to myself? He was crazier than I am. I had no intention of keeping anything to myself when it concerned a gun pointed in my direction, even a curio gun. Sandy had called the police when he heard the shots. Now he was crouching behind the car, alarmed and uncertain what to do. We waited nearby until the police arrived and went back to the gallery with them. I wanted to make sure they didn't treat Maurice Tremblay as an innocent victim of an unprovoked shooting. They didn't. They did take him to the hospital where he spent the night in a locked ward with the non-therapeutic company of two police officers. Before he got there, despite his bandaged shoulder, they arrested him for the murder of Anne Bauer. I don't know how Arno de Giers convinced the police that he himself was not the killer, but he did. I believed him. I saw the look on his face when I asked him if one of his guns was missing. He did not convince the police, though, that Maurice Tremblay had shot and wounded himself. The police arrested de Giers and held him overnight for arraignment.

  "I don't know,” I said to Sandy when we got home. “Perhaps Arno just saw the sales money as an unexplained godsend he didn't care to inquire about, but probably he knew he was peddling forgeries. He must have. He was concerned enough to lie to me about where he got the Chardin forgery. And maybe Jake Bauer was working with them. We'll find out what was going on when the police unravel it all. Probably. Eventually. Good thing Arno was a better shot than Tremblay."

  "Just try not to get us shot at again."

  Copyright © 2010 Christopher Welch

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: THIEF IN THE HOUSE by Brendan DuBois

  * * * *

  Art by Hank Blaustein

  * * * *

  It was a cold fall day on Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire as Roger Tilman motored his sixteen-foot aluminum skiff to the dock before him, about twenty feet away in the frigid waters. The maple and oak trees along the water's edge were bright orange and red, but Roger ignored the colorful foliage: He was looking at the big white house in front of him, a nice big target, for Roger was a thief, and proud of it.

  Why not? He had grown up around the lake, never had anything given to him like the rich folks who lived here and looked down on him and his friends, and for a few years now, every fall, Roger had fun motoring around, going up to the empty docks and houses, breaking in and stealing whatever he could, and then motoring away to another target.

  It was so easy, he wondered why he hadn't thought of it years earlier, drudging around doing dishwashing and landscaping jobs at restaurants and other businesses dotting the lake. In the bottom of the boat, covered by a tarpaulin, was some of the haul from three houses he had hit earlier in the day: two laptops, some silverware, some jewelry, and two small color televisions. He had a couple of fences that moved the stuff for him over in Maine—no way he'd try to move this stuff with any of the locals —and the haul he could get from one afternoon would mean a month's wages humping mulch into some rich nitwit's yard.

  Now, with the leaves changing and the nights getting colder, most of the rich folks were gone for the season, back to Boston or Hartford or Manhattan, and their homes were empty, just waiting for him.

  Like this one.

  He cut the engine and let the boat glide into the dock, and when it got close enough, he got up, rope line in his hands. He quickly tied off the boat and looked up at the house. Huge bay windows, a single garage off to the left, and a nice deck. Two stories tall. He clambered out of the boat, got up on the dock, and stretched his legs. Roger then strolled up to the house, a big smile on his face, for this was always the next step. Knock on the door, and if someone answered, just shyly ask for directions to the nearest marina, for gosh almighty, gas was running low in his boat, and then he'd leave, no fuss, no muss.

  And if no one answered, well, he'd get to business.

  And though it hadn't happened yet, if no one answered and surprised him later in the house, well, that was what the folded clasp knife in his back pocket was for.

  Up ahead was the door, and over the door, a sign carved out of a dark slab of wood read julian drake, col, usaf, retired.

  Hello, Colonel, Roger thought. Let's see what goodies you've got for me.

  * * * *

  Wendy Drake braked hard when her younger sister Trish said, “You've missed the turn. It's back there."

  Wendy bit her lip and tried not to sigh. She backed up her Ford Ranger, dead leaves scattering about, and stopped at a point where a narrower dirt road led off to the right. “How was I suppose to know? It's been years since I've been to Uncle Julian's place."

  Trish pointed up to the dead pine tree where lake residents had put up wooden signs for the benefit of visitors and such. There was mudge, connor, glynn, morneau, and then drake. “You could have looked,” Trish said smugly.

  "And you could have told me earlier,” Wendy said, turning the Ford. As she headed down the road, tree branches whipped at the side of her car, and she winced with each blow, thinking of the scratches her new Ford was getting.

  Wendy didn't like what was ahead of them. It was a cold day, she hated the cold, and she hated what was on the day's agenda. They went up a rise and Wendy said, “I don't see why it's our job to clean out the house. Why us? Why not some of the other cousins?"

  Trish sighed. “Because we're the closest, that's why. And his nephews are all scattered around Maine and Vermont."

  "And you had to volunteer at his funeral."

  Trish said, “He was our uncle. It's the right thing to do."

  "Right thing for you,” Wendy said. “All you're losing is a day of school. I'm losing a day of work, and with the real estate market the way it is, that's not a good thing."

  "You'll get by."

  "Like I said, Trish, easy for you to say."

  "Sis, what the hell is bugging you?"

  More tree branches whipped at the Ford. “I don't know . . . I'm just getting the creeps."

  Trish laughed. “It's New Hampshire on a Friday morning. What could possibly go wrong?"

  * * * *

  When no one answered Roger's knock at the door, he picked up a nearby rock and, with a practiced move, broke a windowpane and let himself in to a nice, but typical kitchen with a fridge, oven range, and even a dishwasher. From the kitchen he stepped into the living room, where there was a fireplace, with some nice silver candlesticks and other knickknacks displayed on the mantelpiece, along with framed photos of Air Force planes and some scenery shots, and some photos of a guy in uniform. Maybe the good colonel himself. From a pocket in his coat, Roger took out a heavy green trash bag and dropped in the candlesticks.

  In the bedrooms on the first floor he found two CD players and a radio. Thinking that there should be more for a house this big, Roger crept upstairs hoping he'd find some nice jewelry in the bedrooms, but jewelry was always catch-as catch-can. Most times, when these rich nitwits returned home, they took their best bling back with them. And besides, it looked like the guy was a confirmed bachelor—no wedding pictures, no pics of anybody female who could be a wife. Damn.

  Back in the living
room Roger looked out over the lake for a moment before he noticing something on the coffee table. It was a handwritten note, in clear writing:

  * * * *

  Tom —

  Thanks for coming by and checking out my rifles. They're in the basement, in the rear room, and they need to be cleaned like we talked about. Talk to you soon.

  — Julian

  * * * *

  Roger grinned. Rifles. He could get good money for high-quality rifles, and with a house like this, this retired Air Force guy had the money for the best. If Tom hasn't stopped by to pick them up . . .

  It was his lucky day.

  Roger traipsed back to the kitchen, spotted the door that led downstairs. He flicked on the light and quickly descended, the trash bag with his goodies heavy in his right hand.

  * * * *

  Wendy said to her sister, “I don't want to be here long, okay? Just long enough to get rid of whatever food's in the house, inventory his belongings, and then leave."

  Trish said, “What's the hurry? Why does the place give you the creeps?"

  Wendy squeezed the steering wheel hard for a moment before answering. “Look . . . maybe it's all about Uncle Julian. I don't know. He was always saying stupid stuff when we were here. About ‘being prepared,’ and ‘being ready for bad things to happen.’ Ugh. Who needs to be lectured like that when you're just a kid?"

  Trish said, “I don't know. I thought it was kinda cute. Him looking out for us when we were here. Remember the time we were canoeing, and those guys on the Jet Skis were bothering us? Uncle Julian got in his speedboat and nearly ran those guys down, then he told them he had written down their registration numbers, so he'd find out where they lived and nail them if they ever did it again. That's what I remember about him, his wanting to protect his nieces."

  Up ahead was a turn-off, marked by a worn wooden sign that said drake. Finally, Wendy thought, and aloud she said, “Well, I didn't need his help then, and I don't need his help now."

  Trish sighed and said, “That's a mean thing to say."