by Noah Charney
“The light,” said Delacloche under her breath, “there’s no light reflecting off the key. That means…”
“…that means that there’s some substance on the surface of the key that should not be there. Something that has left a film, a residue, that’s preventing the light from shining off the metal. An oily residue from…”
“…wax.”
“Good work, mademoiselle. Wax. Someone pressed the key into a block of wax and neglected to clean it afterward. This key has been copied.”
Harry Wickenden finished his pudding, as his generously proportioned wife, Irma, gathered the dishes.
“Do you want any more?” she asked.
“Nah.”
“Do you want any coffee?”
“Nah.”
“Tea?”
“Nah.”
“Right.” Irma shuffled into the kitchen. “I might have a cup, then.” There was some clanging about, and sounds of rinsing, then the boiling hiss, then the pouring gurgle. The drop of milk, and the clink of spoon. The tap dry, rinse beneath the spigot, and thud of the stack to dry. Harry’s tight shoulder twitched with each new sound. He gently pressed his closed eyes with his fingers.
He got up from his cracked vinyl chair at the kitchen table, pristine and clean as was the rest of the tiny flat in South London. He moved in his dilapidated slippers along the off-green carpeting, as Irma loudly mumbled, mouth-filled, “The apple crisp is nice.”
Harry climbed into his study, formerly the second bedroom of the house, vacant for many years now. He closed the warped door behind him, as much as it would close, then passed the faux-walnut bookshelf on his left, before he reached his felt-topped desk. It was the only one of the five rooms that Irma Wickenden allowed to contain dust and clutter, because she did not care to enter it.
Harry slumped into the chair behind the desk. He tried to throw his feet onto the desktop, but they failed to clear and fell back to the ground. He did not try again. His eyes glazed over the walls. A collection of faded photographs, pinned at top and bottom, and curled in on the sides. The yellowing triangled Tottenham Hotspurs banner. A stick-figure drawing of a house and three people, two large and one short, made in red and black crayon. The off-white porcelain pig with a coin slot on its back sat on top of the chest-height bookshelf, next to the dusty football trophy. One photograph was in a frame, but it was turned toward the wall. Their son had been only ten years old. But that had all happened many years ago.
“I’m going to put on the telly,” came the voice from the far side of the wall. Wickenden dragged the rubber band off the manila folder that occupied pride of place on his desk. He gently spread the lips apart, to reveal the case. He cracked his knuckles one by one. His nose twitched in the still, dusty air. The sun had fully set outside the small window behind him. The phone rang.
“Telephone, dear,” came the shout from the next room. Harry picked up the line.
“Yup, it is. Nope. Yup. Nope. Nope. Yup. That’s right. But isn’t there someone else? I’m up to my arse in…Really? Disarmed alarm. Is that so? You’re kidding. Suprematist? Like the…yeah. What’s the name? Robert Grayson. And the address? Right. No, glad you called, Ned. I’ll check it out in the morning. Right, first thing. No, it could be. Could be. Can’t hurt. Give my best to…you know. Ta.”
He returned the receiver to its cradle.
Harry sat for a long while. Then he reached out for one of the pipes on his desk, a gnarled, dark, woody one, and began to fondle it.
He sat for a while longer, staring indirectly at nothing in particular.
Early the next morning, the doorbell rang to the flat in St John’s Wood.
Robert Grayson, wearing only his navy-blue terry cloth robe and a coffee cup in hand, opened the door. In the hallway stood Gabriel Coffin and Daniela Vallombroso. Robert gestured them in.
“I was wondering when you’d get here,” Grayson said. “Now what the hell happened to my painting?”
Several hours later, the doorbell rang again.
Robert Grayson, now bathed and clothed in a white T-shirt and blue jeans, and with coffee cup in hand, opened the door to his St John’s Wood flat. In the hallway stood a slightly hunched, short man, dressed entirely in shades of brown, who seemed in need of an increase in tire pressure. Grayson stood there for a moment, before he spoke.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have any spare change.”
“Pardon?” The deflated figure in the doorway looked confused, but did not seem drunk. Grayson reciprocated the confusion.
“My apologies. May I help you?”
“Are you the American, Robert Grayson, the occupant of this flat?”
“No. I killed and ate him. The remains are in the refrigerator. I was just defrosting lunch, if you’d like to…”
“Jokes aren’t funny.”
“That depends on who’s telling them.” Grayson paused. “And if there are any moose in the punch line.”
There was a long pause.
“I’m going to assume that you are Mr. Grayson, and that I don’t like you. But that’s as may be. Did you, or did you not, have an anonymous Suprematist painting stolen from the premises?”
“Oh, yes, yes I did.”
“Then you are, in fact, Mr. Grayson.”
“Yes.”
“Mmmph.”
The brown man pushed past Grayson, into the flat.
“I am Inspector Harry Wickenden of Scotland Yard’s Arts and Antiquities Division. I was contacted by the police after they took your information yesterday, regarding the theft. I’m here to help…believe it or not.”
Grayson closed the front door slowly. Wickenden, full steam ahead, was already around the corner, and headed for the bedroom. Grayson followed.
Wickenden stood in the bedroom, his neck craned up to the skylight.
“Excuse me, Inspector. I’m sorry, I do appreciate your coming. But before we proceed, could I just see your…”
Without turning around, Wickenden extended his left hand back behind him, at the end of which was held his identification.
“Right. Coffee?”
“No, Wickenden. Now, where was the painting?”
“In the living room. I’m honored that Scotland Yard would take this robbery so seriously, but frankly, don’t you people have better things to do? I mean, this painting cost me just fifteen hundred pounds. I make that in a couple of hours. Is there some other reason why Arts and Antiquities is interested in this?”
They walked into the living room, Wickenden in the lead. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“That sounds like a yes, Inspector.”
“Was anyone in here before me?”
Grayson tried to see what Wickenden was looking at. He could not make it out.
“No, why?”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, I…I mean, the two policemen came when I called to report the theft.”
“Is that all?”
“Oh, and the investigator from my insurance company.”
“So quickly?”
“I called the company as soon as the piece went missing.”
“It’s Sunday today.”
“I’m a good client.”
“I’ll bet you are. Let’s go over what happened.”
Grayson spoke from the kitchen. He was making a sandwich. “I gave a full report to the police.”
“Humor me.”
“All right. I came home from a brief business trip to New York and found the skylight broken open. The painting was gone from inside the transport crate, canvas cut out of the wooden canvas-holder thingy. But nothing else was taken, nothing disturbed. I noticed that my alarm clock was flashing. The policemen told me that the fuse had been cut to my apartment.”
“I know. That’s why the alarm didn’t go off when the skylight broke.”
“But how did the fuse get cut?”
“That’s a good question, Mr. Grayson. I’m working on it. What can you tell me about the painting?”
>
“Not much. Hey, can you smell this mayonnaise?” Grayson leaned over the island that separated the kitchen and living room, brandishing an open jar. “It’s been around awhile, and it smells kind of funky. What do you think?”
“I don’t eat mayonnaise. And it’s called ‘salad cream.’ About the painting?”
Grayson stuck his nose in the jar, shrugged, and began to spread its contents on two slices of wheat bread. “I don’t know anything about it. I bought it on a whim. I paid just about the lowest a guy can, at a Christie’s auction. I kind of liked it. The colors were maybe a bit funny, but it had something, I don’t know. I didn’t do any research, if that’s what you mean. Why, do people think it’s worth more than I paid? As far as I know, it’s anonymous, painted around 1920 or so, Russian, in the Suprematist style. But you know all of that. Should I have turkey or ham?”
“Turkey. Do you have any idea who might have known that the painting was here? If, as you say, nothing else was taken, then the thief or thieves wanted only that. That means they knew what they were looking for, and were not greedy.”
“Who would commission the theft of a fifteen-hundred-pound painting that everyone but me thinks is hideously ugly?”
“I didn’t say anything about commissioning, Mr. Grayson. What makes you suggest that?”
“Well, if I was going to steal a painting, I’d hire a professional to do it for me. But if I were going to the trouble to steal a painting, I’d certainly choose something more exciting than an anonymous Suprematist that costs less than a night at the Ritz.”
“Yes. You’re right, I’m sure. Who would have known that you’d bought this work?”
“Well, anyone who was at the Christie’s auction. Some of my colleagues in the States. Come to think of it, there was something funny at the auction. Might be connected. Can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. As I was leaving the auction house, these three guys, business types, stopped me. They were perfectly polite, but it seemed like they were trying to intimidate, you know? Anyway, they said that their employer had wanted them to buy the painting I’d bought, and they hadn’t been able to bid, or something. They offered me ten thousand pounds for it, on the spot. I told them that the money wasn’t an issue, and I liked the painting, so I’d keep it. Frankly, I thought they were playing around. I can’t imagine wanting to pay that much for any piece of art, much less what I’d bought.”
“I’m glad that you remembered the incident. You are not an art collector, Mr. Grayson?”
“Me? No. I’ve got some vintage photos, but that’s about it. No, I like some things, and I don’t understand much of any of it. I know what I like, and I liked this one. But if the bidding had gone much higher, I would’ve been happy to let it pass. I like the thrill of the auction, more than what you get to take home after it.”
“Would you recognize the three men who accosted you?”
“Gosh, I’m not sure. I guess I might. I didn’t look too closely at them. They were all dressed just about the same, and they didn’t have any features that really jumped out at me. I don’t know, maybe.”
“Right, Mr. Grayson, thank you for your time. I’ll leave you to enjoy your turkey and salad cream sandwich. We’ll let you know if we find anything. I hope that your painting may be restored to you.”
“Me too. Thanks for coming by. Boy, this country sure is something, when they’ll send out a big-shot detective from Arts and Antiquities for a nothing little painting like that. I sure appreciate it. I’d really like to get it back.”
Grayson waved good-bye to Wickenden and closed the front door. He turned and walked back into his flat, throwing his uneaten sandwich into the rubbish bin as he passed.
CHAPTER 21
Harry was hunched over the remnants of his corned beef and cabbage. Irma cleared the last of the dishes. She reached in for his plate.
“Still eating.”
“Oh. Sorry, dear. Would you like some pudding?”
“Nah.”
“Tea?”
“Nah.”
“I think I’ll have a cup.”
Irma moved the plates into the sink and wiped down the counter twice. Switched on the spigot, poured in water, clicked kettle, water hissed, into pot, steep, splashed in milk, into cup.
Harry was in the study and heard nothing. There was a knock at the study door. Harry looked up from the open file. The door creaked open a short way. Irma, tea in hand, peeked in.
“How’s the case coming, dear?”
“Fine.”
“Think I’ll watch the telly.” Irma withdrew from the threshold and pulled shut the door behind her.
Harry looked over at the rotary telephone that sat on the corner of his desk. The sounds of BBC Ground Force emanated from the other room. Harry turned to the folder and picked up a pipe, which he rubbed between two fingers.
Irma was giggling to herself, as Charlie, Alan, and Tommy remade the garden of an unsuspecting victim. Irma’s face was rounded with the blue light of the screen. The teacup was nestled in the pink robe on her copious lap.
“Irma?”
Harry was standing in the doorway. Irma didn’t say anything.
“Could I…I’m having some…Could I watch with you, for a tick?”
“Of course, luv.” She patted the green corduroy sofa pillow beside her, and lurched herself over a bit. Harry sat, arms crossed.
The credits ended. Irma got up and switched off the television. She returned to the sofa. “So?”
Harry hadn’t moved. “I’m having a…if we could maybe…”
“I’ll put the kettle on. How about some leftover spotted dick?”
“Nah. Ta. It just helps me to…”
“…I know. I’ll just nip into the kitchen to grab myself a piece.”
Irma was off, rooting through the refrigerator. Harry put his slippered feet on the coffee table.
“So, a few days earlier some computer hacker broke into their system…”
“…You always warn people off computers…”
“…I know, and to top it off, they had all their internal communications linked through the computer, and all the security functions. I mean, I was in the WC, and a computer flushed for me as soon as I stood up. You may as well lop off my hands, as I won’t be needing them anymore.”
“You always said…”
“…I know, thank you very much. Does anyone listen? No, I…”
“I do.”
“…Then they found that the motion detectors were being manipulated by this computer hacker. I mean, what was wrong with card catalogues? You can’t hack up a card catalogue!”
“Hack into, dear.”
“So I arrive at the museum after their second crisis of the week. The first one they didn’t report, of course. Can I have a spot more tea?”
“Surely, luv.” Irma poured a fresh cup, milk first.
“Ta. Then they call in the infantry when the electricity gets cut the other night. They had beefed up the security inside the computer, but not out! Would you believe it? So all of a sudden the power goes out, which eliminated the fancy computer and the telephones, so they had to run one of their men out to get us. Then they notice that a painting by Kamiser Malich is missing, one they just bought for six million quid, I might add. And all these pearl necklace types are bobbing round the museum, looking distressed, and there’s me in the loo with an automatic flushing machine, I tell you. Well, turns out that someone blew the bollocks out of all the fuses in the building, and had planted the bomb inside the closed fuse box, which was inside a steel cage. Slipped in and out through a broken window in the basement. And that about sizes it up.”
“Anything else, luv?”
“Not sure if it’s related, but Ned called me with a theft from a posh flat in St John’s Wood. Wouldn’t have called me in, but it was a Suprematist painting, same style as the one from the museum, and also bought at the same auction. And the electricity to the flat had been switched off, which rings a bell. What do
you make of it?”
“Which part is giving you particular grief?” Irma sipped her tea and ate her spotted dick.
“Well, I don’t like how easily security measures are neutralized, but that’s not my job, I guess. Mine is not to prevent, it is to cure. But this theft is so specific. Nothing taken but this one, new acquisition. So, tomorrow I’m going through the Christie’s surveillance videos, to see who was at the auction. I’d guess that it was an interested, moneyed party in attendance at the auction. Maybe they lost to the museum, or didn’t want to pay the full price. Thieves cost less than the art they steal. Why didn’t the thieves steal the first night, when they had control of the computers? Why did they wait until the electricity was out, a day later?”
Irma sipped. Then she put down her cup, only to pick it up again. Then she sipped once more. “It’s the Maginot Line. They circumnavigated the defenses, instead of confronting them, luv. Went round.” Irma rolled the letter r, like a Spaniard. She was silent for a moment. “When did you say the stolen painting was purchased?”
“What? Oh, last Wednesday night, the auction was.”
“And when did the computer thingy happen at the museum?”
“Last Wed—Irma, you’re brilliant.”
Dim fluorescent lights whirred far overhead. The periphery of the hulking warehouse was in shadows, and night waited patiently outside. What little light that was provided by the selected fluorescents revealed five figures.
One of them, Professor Simon Barrow, was dark-and red-eyed and wore pajamas beneath his overcoat. Two stood with their arms crossed, bulges over hearts beneath jackets, on either side of the one formally dressed figure. He stood tall and well-postured, flaxen hair fading into white, in a blue pin-striped suit, with ironed-crisp cuff-linked wrists. The fifth figure was a woman. She wore blond hair tied up in a bun, and a white lab coat. She sat on a stool, with her back to the four men. There were also two canvases, resting on easels, in the room. The woman in the lab coat was bent over one of them.
Barrow squinted. He had not had time to put in his contact lenses. Then he remembered his glasses, in his overcoat pocket, which he slipped on. His world blurred into view. Barrow did not expect what he saw.