by Noah Charney
Number 34, he thought, as he looked up at the number glued onto the garage door. It read 33. He turned around and squinted in the fleeting light. Across from where he stood was Number 34. He took a step, then stopped.
Had he seen it? From the corner of his eye, something had moved. He looked to his right, along the paved road between the warehouse fronts. He saw nothing. Then he noticed the narrow black alleys between each warehouse structure.
He stepped quickly to his right and trotted past two warehouses, glancing along the length of each alley, unable to see through the overcast light and shadows cast by the structures.
Three alleys down, he gave up. Had he seen something? Someone, that is? Periphery is a bottom feeder, but perhaps. He rethought his refusal to carry a mobile phone, as he walked back to number 34.
The massive cargo door, painted the same cool red as every one of its siblings along the rows of depots, was locked. His fingers slipped on his first pull of the water-dropped metal handle. Must be mechanical, he thought. Of course it is, I’m an idiot. Along to his right, the same color as, and perpendicular to, the cargo door, was a personnel entrance.
I’m also going blind, as well, he thought, as he approached it. This had better be legitimate. If this is a wild goose chase, I’m going to…
But he didn’t need to finish his thought. Harry looked at the handle to the personnel door, brass on red, and noticed a shine in the paint along the edge of the door, by the knob. He grasped the knob. The door swung open with the lightest touch. Now we’re on to something.
Harry knelt, the edge of the door facing him. There was a piece of transparent tape blocking the bolt from sliding into place, keeping the door unlocked. The corners of the tape crept around to either side of the door, shining in the chalk-dust light of fading day.
Still kneeling, Wickenden looked to his right, into the depot. It was impenetrably dark, and colder than the outside. Harry stood up and, with a casual air, surveyed behind him. Who am I performing for, he thought? Myself, I suppose. There was still no one along the corridor road. The light misty rain began to fall in earnest. Wickenden reached into his pocket. His fingers felt for his pipe to rub for comfort, but instead found the small tubular plastic bottle. The pills within rattled, as it rolled beneath his fingers. No, he thought, as he shrugged and stepped inside the warehouse.
The steel-wool darkness and drifting light behind threw Harry into poor-postured silhouette against the open doorway. He felt along the wall to the right of the entry. His fingers fumbled over a switch, which he threw.
Nothing happened. Damn it, he thought. He continued to spider across the cold wall, in search of another switch. His knees bent, as he worked his way down toward the floor. I don’t know where the damn light is. Then he kicked something.
A plasticky scattering sound. By the cloud-smothered twilight, he could make out a shape rolling back and forth on the floor. A torch, bloody brilliant. He picked it up and switched it on.
The thin beam illumined, in small portions, a completely empty space. The vacuous warehouse was devoid of machinery, product, even evidence of occupation. As far as his little light could see, pinballing from wall to floor and back again, he had been led to nothingness. The voice on the phone had said that Harry would be interested to see what was in Number 34, that it was pertinent to the museum theft. But was anything here? He played the light around further as he progressed into the dark void.
Then the door slammed shut behind him.
Harry clutched his chest and spun around. Sweat vaulted through his pores and dampened his undershirt in one great flood. There was now no light anywhere, save for the flashlight in his tight, hot hand.
The door could have been blown shut, he thought. But it was heavy. But if there’s someone outside, why would they want to…am I locked in? Or, he swallowed hard, are they inside now, too? He quickly switched off his flashlight, and the darkness was complete.
Well, they can’t see me, but I can’t tell my ass from my elbow. If there is a they. He listened. There was no sound, save the palpable distance to the peripheral walls. Harry’s breath came heavy. His heart was beating too loudly. He stood for a minute and heard nothing. Then a minute longer. He switched on his flashlight.
The light skipped into nothingness. Harry chose a direction and began to walk. He was only loosely certain of the location of the door. A flurry of paces brought him to an external wall. He turned and followed it to his right. His light picked up the undulating metal of the wall for many steps, without surcease, before he saw something.
Harry jumped back at first, startled. It looked like a body. Some form beneath a clustered ripple of heavy tan tarpaulin. Harry recoiled and peered out into the darkness beside him. Nothing was moving, not that he could have seen it.
He’d always had a sense that he could feel if someone were out there. Like the moments before eyes pry open after sleep, he could sense the copious presence of his wife looking over him, as she liked the way his mustache fluttered like a breezy banner when he snored. But he felt no one out in the void. He did feel a presence, however, beneath the tarpaulin.
What the hell is this, he thought? Nobody’s dead. Yet. Harry took a step closer.
It was impossible to say whether the bunched tarp hid a curled-up form, certainly not breathing, or if it was just a trick of the fabric. He leaned over close to the mass on the floor. It smelled of oil and dust and burlap. Harry reached his hand out, still shining the light with the other, toward the material. His fingers clasped round a thick piece. He slowly dragged the tarpaulin toward him, breath quick and mouthy. The rough material caught and clawed to remain in place. Harry pulled harder. It’s not a body, he thought, thank God.
Then the tarpaulin slid free, exposing the treasure beneath. A roll of canvas. A painting.
Harry leaned his light farther over. Now what? he thought. It’s the…oh, you’ve got to be kidding me…
Harry couldn’t believe his eyes. No wonder the informant on the phone had told him he’d be interested. He was, but also confused. This didn’t make any sense. He couldn’t digest what he was staring down. He had just seen it leave for Rome. Now rolled up before him. He knew immediately, just from the portion visible at the top of the roll. The Annunciation by Caravaggio. He unrolled it farther.
What the fuck is going on? My brain is too small for this. What had the informant said? Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, as his flashlight flickered. Oh shit, he thought. Right.
He leaned over and wrapped the painting in the tarp. With it cradled in his arm, Wickenden picked up his pace along the inside of the wall. The battery was coughing to fail, and Harry moved faster, trying to keep hold of the rolled canvas under his arm, without pressing so hard as to scrape the paint. Then he saw the door.
Harry dropped the flashlight and twisted the handle. The door eased open, then was caught by the wind and leapt from his grip, slamming a metallic crack against the outside wall.
Outside was lightless. The rain continued soft in the low-hung sealskin sky, and Harry stepped into it, leaning his body over the wrapped artwork in his arms. Where the fuck am I going to find a cab? he thought. And why the fuck am I swearing so much?
He huddled off down the warehouse canyon.
Harry Wickenden stood, soaking wet, dripping a pool of coat-soiled water at his squinching feet, a soggy bloodhound, drooped further in saturation.
The limited overnight staff of the office at Scotland Yard looked on, confused.
“Get me the”—Wickenden sneezed moistly—“Carabinieri. And the museum. Now.”
Within the hour, Elizabeth Van Der Mier and Barney, the conservator, were standing on the third floor of New Scotland Yard, among the identical desks lit by identical crane-necked lamps of the open office. As they entered, Wickenden was on the phone. He gestured to the painting, which rested at a forty-five-degree angle against the back of a chair. Harsh lamplight glared off the skin of limp canvas. Harry cradled the telephone within the f
at of his neck.
”…never left your sight? Well, that’s reassuring, but how do you explain what I’m looking at right now? Is that really the case? I can’t…well, I understand your position, but…right. Well, I will do, yeah. That’s right. Fine.”
Harry hung up the black office phone; its corkscrew cord had knotted itself during the conversation. He turned to the newly arrived.
“That was the Carabinieri. But first, what do you make of this?” Eyes had never left the unrolled painting, since entering.
“It’s fake, right?” Someone in the office asked, as Barney puttered around the canvas, which lay flat on a desk beneath lamplight. The silence continued.
“Of course it’s a bloody fake,” said Van Der Mier. Everyone was quiet.
“It’s all right, Ms. Van Der Mier,” Wickenden resumed. “We’re all a little stressed, and none of us like this. But…are you certain?”
“Yes, but what the bloody hell is it doing here?” Van Der Mier stood, elbows akimbo across her chest, a scarlet complexion showing through the skin at the back of her neck, where a thin film of shining moisture matted the wisps of hair.
Harry stepped forward. “That is what I’d like to know.”
“But who was the informant?” Van Der Mier paced, staring at the painting.
“That,” continued Harry, “is also on my shopping list.” His manner of speech was tortoiselike, as usual, and only served to increase Van Der Mier’s irritation, as did Wickenden’s staunch refusal to make eye contact with any person he addressed. Harry’s mustache ruffled, “I would still appreciate the word of an expert.” He leaned into the last word.
“I’m confused, Inspector. Isn’t the original stolen Caravaggio back in the church where it belongs?” Barney asked without looking up from the canvas.
“Funny you should ask. I was just on the phone with our Italian friends. The Carabinieri claim that the original Caravaggio never left their possession between London and Rome, and is currently back in the church of Santa-whatever-the-hell-it’s-called, pardon my French, all safe and sound, right? You’ll be pleased to know that the Carabinieri have their hands full, and no, they will not send agents back over here to look at this painting that is clearly applicable to the case. Don’t bother me with more information, don’t confuse me with the facts, the toffee-nosed bastards. They’ve got so much going on, apparently, that they’re very pleased to shift this mess to the ‘case closed’ pile, and that’s that. Well, that is not that. That is not fucking anything, pardon my French. I don’t know what passes for satisfactory conclusion over there, but they’re all fattened up on spaghetti or whatever it is they eat, and I’m stuck with a Caravaggio painting that looks like the original to me, so it must be a pretty damn good copy, which means that it was probably made from the original, which means that this case stinks even more than Denmark, or whatever the hell the metaphor or whatever it is, is.” Harry was short of breath, and he leaned back against a desk to support his irate enthusiasm. “So what is this, then? I want to talk to Simon Barrel.”
“Barrow,” Barney offered.
“I don’t give a flying fuck what his name is, pardon my French. I want an expert opinion. I don’t know much about art, but I know that this ain’t Russian twentieth century, so I’ll not accept dismissive angst. Get me Barrow on the phone.”
“I’ll call him for you,” said Van Der Mier, as she flipped open her silver mobile phone. She pressed one key, and held the phone to her ear. Wickenden eyed Elizabeth with a glow and half-smile. Was Barrow on her speed dial?
Van Der Mier connected. “Hello, Professor Barrow? It’s Elizabeth Van Der Mier, from the…that’s right. Listen, we just wanted to confirm your last statement, about the Carav…yes, well that’s what I thought…but the fact is that Inspector Wickenden wanted to…no, don’t worry. I promise. Thank you, Professor…”
Harry had grabbed the phone from her hand. “If you don’t mind, miss.” He pressed it to his own ear.
“Is this Professor Simon Barrel? Yes, Barrow. Good. The fact is that we’ve got a freshly recovered painting in the office down at New Scotland Yard that looks exactly like the Caravaggio that you authenticated. Now, are you absolutely…yes, I understand. Please calm down, Professor. No, you’re not implica…no. It’s just that this looks so good. If you could…if you could…excuse me, if you could just tell us whether or not this…copy, then, was made in the presence of the original, then…of course you’re not, but we would appreciate your coopera…all right, thank you, then. Right, that would be fine.” He folded the phone shut and returned it to its owner, who was not amused. “Thank you for your cooperation, and the use of your telephone, Miss Van Der Mier. I’ve got a case to solve. I do not like loose ends. I finish every crossword puzzle I begin, including the Sunday crossword, or I do not sleep at night. And you want me to get a good night’s sleep, believe me. Miss Van Der Mier, what do you make of this?”
Elizabeth nested her chin on her fist, which rested on her chest-crossed left arm. “It’s so well done. I don’t know if it would stand up to any tests, but it certainly looks…Barney, how good is it?”
Barney was still knelt before the canvas, which spread loose on a tabletop. “It still looks fantastic. But there are a lot of artists who are brilliant copyists. I’d have to get it back to the lab to determine whether this one took the time to get the chemical details right…but I think I’ve solved the mystery for you.”
“How’s that?” Wickenden had been pouring two and a half packets of sugar into his flower-patterned favorite tea mug, and was trying to fold the half-empty sugar packet, in order to save it for his next cup. Now he spilled the remaining contents of the packet onto the desk before him.
“What is it?” Elizabeth leaned in.
Barney smiled. “Everyone was so preoccupied with the painting, and no one thought to look on its back. It’s easy to lose the trees for the forest. See?” He turned the canvas around, to reveal a clean bright white removable sticker that read CHRISTIE’S, LOT 34.
“Well I’ll be…,” Elizabeth trailed off.
“That’s the painting that went missing from that American, Grayson’s, flat.” Harry just stood, his sugar-covered hands on his small hips. “Kirsty!” His secretary looked up. “Get me Christie’s on the phone. Now.”
“It is so perfect that he’s paying you, on top of it all,” Daniela whispered into Gabriel’s ear. Then she noticed the waiter, smiling politely, pen in hand.
“We’ll both have the poulet des Landes in the truffle sauce,” said Coffin, as the black-vested waiter nodded in approval.
“An excellent choice, sir.”
“Best chicken I’ve ever had. To call it chicken is like calling Michelangelo’s David a rock.” The waiter smiled as he withdrew. “And a very happy birthday to you, amore,” Daniela purred. “Forty years young…”
The Ivy, arguably the most beloved restaurant in the world, buzzed in gentle humming tones, never harsh but ever hot, as the clock neared its smile of the evening. Night tried to peer in through the stained-glass windows, but the immaculate facets of the restaurant kept a sense of insularity that made its celebrity clientele return to its camera-free comforts, and made its plebeian patrons feel patrician.
Coffin turned to the handsome woman beside him at the table for two, her hair, he thought, like fire maple leaves before a setting sun. Daniela wore a black slip dress, with a new sapphire necklace around her gently browned throat. Coffin’s eyes were always drawn to the elegance of her clavicle, the sweep of soft bone from shoulder to breastplate that is of unsurpassed beauty in the fairer sex.
“One must find ways of delaying or sublimating one’s inevitable midlife crisis.” He smiled. “Being with you is the best birthday gift I could wish for.”
Gabriel particularly loved the small freckle just above Daniela’s upper lip, barely perceptible except in intimacy. He leaned over and kissed this, wispily.
The waiter returned with a bottle of champagne, which he
poured into translucent flutes, arresting just before the foam flowed over the edge.
Coffin lifted his glass, and met eyes with the dark-curled creature to his left.
“Congratulazioni, Daniela. Now that you are free of that pesky prison sentence and back in the arms of your beloved, what do you plan to do?”
Vallombroso smiled coyly.
“I mean, besides that.” Gabriel grinned despite himself.
“Well,” she began, “revenge. But, thanks to you…You are quite brilliant, you know.”
“I missed you more…more than I would like to admit. Without you, I was…Well, I’ve a mind like a steel sieve. But the important pieces never slip through.”
“Am I a piece, then?”
“You’re the queen,” said Gabriel, as he sipped his champagne.
“Is this another of your chess analogies? Last time we spoke, I was the good thief.”
“I’m afraid so. My therapist says that I never got over losing that chess tournament, and I’ve repressed the desire to actualize my parents’ dream of having a chess master for a son.”
“Weren’t you ten years old?”
“Yes. My glory days are far behind me. Backgammon is safer, anyway. And I never did trust therapists. Surprising that I go to them so often.”
“They tend to be correct a dismaying percentage of the time,” Daniela mused. “For instance, they would likely point out the fact that your parents both died on their thirty-fourth wedding anniversary, in your thirty-fourth year, and link it with your fascination with the fact that this tragedy occurred on the third day of April, the fourth month of the year, between three and four in the afternoon.”
“Why do you…can we just…” Coffin’s lips tightened in.
Daniela put her hand on his. “I’m sorry, Gabriel. But it does no good to…I want to help, you know…because I love you…”