by Noah Charney
Coffin forced a smile. “I’m sure you’re right, of course, about the…It’s also your current age, if I recall. Nothing is ever just a coincidence.”
“Except when it is.”
Coffin was quiet. Daniela looked away, around the plush green room. Then she looked back, but not into his eyes.
“What is it about mathematicians, I’ve often wondered,” she asked, “and people who are exceptionally good at chess?”
Daniela’s eyes flitted now to the waiter, who had rolled a cart up next to their table. He deftly unveiled a plate containing a whole chicken, nearly black, bathed in shaved truffle slices in truffle oil. He slid a knife between breast and bone, the clavicle, thought Gabriel, and laid out the perfect meat on a large white plate.
“I think that it’s some combination of logic and forethought. One must anticipate every potential move of every piece on the board, and form a prescient countermove. Adequately obsessive-compulsive. Keeps the mind elastic. Mmm, and don’t forget to save room for the sticky toffee pudding.”
The waiter placed the overfilled plates before Daniela and Gabriel, then gracefully left them to dine.
“Chess or no, I always need lots of diagrams with colored arrows to sort out the plot, so don’t think too highly of me. It takes real genius to map it all out in one’s head.”
Daniela smiled and nodded. “With regard to revenge…”
“What about it?” Gabriel speared another slice from his plate.
“I’m all for the biblical variety,” Daniela said, as she slipped a piece of truffly chicken between her teeth. Gabriel looked up at her, with a smile.
“I know you are.”
“But is satisfaction in biblical law, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth…”
”…or a…”
”…or, exactly. Is it an inherent part of human nature, or has human nature evolved to accept it because of its authoritative source and its longevity. If it didn’t go back to Hammurabi’s Code and…”
”…Matthew 5:38.”
”…and Matthew 5:38. How do you remember this stuff?”
“That one’s easy, come on. And I told you. I remember the important things. Your birthday, on the other hand…”
“Well, what do you think?”
“What do I think? I think that people are programmed to act in prescribed ways. It takes only observation of individuals, and knowledge of culture and society, to logically conclude courses of action that may then be reacted to.
“I think that there are animal instincts that we’re born with, and based on our environment as we live, our instincts are programmed. That’s the big secret. If you can gather information about someone’s life, through observation and research, and if you can infer how different environments and experiences will affect said person, then you can predict action and reaction.”
“So, you just gave away your secret?”
“I’ve been lecturing on it for years, but I don’t think anyone’s really paying attention. Art thief and patron profiling. That’s how I catch my prey.” Gabriel punctuated his sentence by dramatically harpooning a piece of meat, then continued.
“But nothing is complete yet. I never laugh maniacally until after I’ve succeeded. I’ve seen enough films. Don’t count your…well, you know.” He took a bite of chicken. His recoiled reaction ejaculated in English: “This chicken is fucking good, dear God.”
“Shall we speak in English now? I need practice,” Daniela smiled, as she spoke in an English thickly accented. “I like when you swear. You sound more a real person.”
“Sorry,” he said, with mouth full. “I like words.”
“But I like you can be silly, too. Wouldn’t do to think too much of the time. “She sipped her champagne. “Speak of which, I never understood why you like to use those quotations when you’re on the job, shall we say. It’s rather melodramatic and makes people think…”
“That is precisely why I use them. I know how both sides of the game function. Creating a false profile protects the innocent.”
Daniela thought for a moment. “Very clever. But what makes you think you’re so innocent?”
“Me? I’m a saint.”
“Not in my bed,” she smiled. “I’m glad you’re not a religious, uh…”
”…zealot?”
“Zealot.” She took a bite. “Mmm, this is good for my vocabulary. Zealot…” Daniela winked. “Always think one step ahead.”
“Or more, if possible.”
“So that’s why you love your work, is it? The criminal mind is your chess opponent?”
“That’s a heavy-handed way of putting it, but I’m sure you’re right. If we were to go further, you could say that I do it to impress my parents, after I disappointed them back in my tempestuous youth.”
“I’m sure they sit on a cloud somewhere, very pleased with your performance. I know I am. Vengeance is the sweetest revenge.”
Gabriel started laughing.
“What, Gabriel?”
“Sorry. Your English is marvelous, I often forget that you…you can’t say ‘vengeance is the sweetest revenge.’”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. It just sounds funny. Vengeance and revenge mean the same thing.”
“Now you’re just teasing me.”
“You’re right. I’ve got an even better quotation for you. ‘There is no vengeance which may be inflicted, as biting and as limitless as regret.’”
“Is that another one of your biblical…”
“No, made that one up myself.”
“I’m impress.” Daniela lifted and clinked her glass with Gabriel’s. “And this chicken is so fucking good.”
“So you see, Mister Grayson, we’ve not established the connection between the painting you purchased and the recently recovered Caravaggio Annunciation. But we have determined that the painting that you thought you purchased, the anonymous Suprematist, listed as Christie’s lot 34, was a fake. I know this will come as a shock to you, particularly in receiving this information from Scotland Yard. Rest assured that you are under no suspicion. We merely wish to keep you informed, to the degree that we are permitted. An expert has determined that this fake Caravaggio painting that we recently found was actually beneath the painting that you bought. Yes, that’s right. Someone, presumably the thieves, used chemicals to dissolve the fake Suprematist painting on top, to reveal this fake Caravaggio underneath. No, we can’t say why, nor why it was abandoned. Obviously, this fake Caravaggio was not what they had hoped to find beneath…right. I’m afraid I can’t say. But the canvas is the same, with the Christie’s label and serial number on the back, and there are traces of the Suprematist painting still on top of the Caravaggio.
“It’s a complicated mess, really, but I assure you that we’re on top of things. Yes. Yes, of course. You see, the case to which I was assigned was another one, about which I’ve been told not to speak. But I’ve appropriated part of the stolen Caravaggio case, as I managed to recover the stolen Caravaggio in the midst of my own investigation. It’s a long story, but suffice it to say, we appreciate your…yes. The point is, Mr. Grayson, that no one claims this fake Caravaggio, so the painting is still technically your property, and it is to be returned to you. I’ve been in consultation with the people at Christie’s, and you did legally purchase the artwork, although I’m afraid it no longer looks as you had hoped. Christie’s explained it to me in simple terms, as I’m a bear of little brain, and long words bother me. Yes, from Winnie-the-Pooh, I think. It’s just as though you bought a car that you thought was red, and it turned out to have been painted blue underneath…I know it sounds funny, but…right. Well, I’m not sure when…I can’t talk about the investigation more than I have, no…but the case is considered solved by the ones who pressed charges…that’s right, the church from which it was stolen, so the case is closed. I’m afraid that I’ll have to live with a happy ending for the victims of an unsolved crime. While that conclusion gives me indigestion,
it’s not my place to complain. Nor to you, sir, you’re right…The painting will be returned to you shortly. Thank you for your understanding. Right, then.”
Wickenden hung up the phone. He looked down at his right hand, at the tiny piece of graphite from a pencil that had broken under his skin when Frank Scheib had accidentally stabbed him in class, at age seven. It had never extricated itself. He liked to use it as a focal point, whenever thought was required.
Had he just answered his own question? Sometimes having to teach crystallizes thoughts and sifts the gold from the soil. It must have been the thieves who stripped that ugly Suprematist painting off the canvas to reveal the fake Caravaggio. But they must not have been happy with what they found, as they seemed to have abandoned it. So what had they hoped to find instead?
The phone rang. Harry’s gaze broke from his pencil wound, and he picked up the phone from his desk.
“Hello? Oh, for God’s sake, Irma, I’m thinking. What? Uh, I don’t know…how much? All right, then, and…fine…” He fingered the small orange plastic tube in his coat pocket. The pills inside ticked together. He removed his hand from his pocket.”…a pint of skim milk, and whole-wheat bread…look, I know that you don’t like the malted grain…I’ve got work to do, Irma…in a little while. At seven, all right? I…I…you, too.”
He cradled the phone. Where had he left off? Oh, right. Who could the informant have been? Not the thief, surely? What would the thief have had to gain from the police discovering the painting? It could only augment the case and inch the police closer to the capture. There were no untoward fingerprints on the painting or its canvas. Unless it was a red herring. But who would go to all this effort, and after the recovery and return of the stolen original Caravaggio had been announced in all the newspapers? And the informant must have known that the painting would just be returned to the man they stole it from, this Grayson. What the hell had happened?
Bizot and Lesgourges sat on the floor of the latter’s apartment. Containers of mostly eaten Chinese food, along with one and a half empty bottles of wine, lay like land mines around them. They leaned against an old black leather couch. The luminescent spire of the Invalides stared in at them through the window and the starlit night outside.
After many moments, Bizot spoke again. “But I really…”
“Bizot,” Lesgourges held up a silencing finger,” if that Delacloche confirmed that the painting we found in the safe at Galerie Sallenave was the Malevich White on White which had been stolen from the Malevich Society, why are you still going on about the case? Isn’t your job done, until charges are pressed, if ever they are?”
Bizot thought, as he gazed out the midnight window.
“I keep thinking that there was some clue that we missed…”
”…we found enough clues, Jean. We followed the treasure hunt and came away with the treasure.”
“That’s what bothers me. We followed each clue that was laid out for us, as we were meant to. That’s the sand that’s still in my sock. We were meant to, and we were strung along like puppets.”
“But we decided that they were trying to make a point, not keep the painting,” said Lesgourges.
“That’s another pebble in my shoe. They don’t like Malevich’s idea of spirituality. So, they were trying to make a point. But to whom?”
Lesgourges lit a clove with a spark and crackle. “What do you mean, to whom?”
“I mean,” Bizot tried to stand up for dramatic effect, but thought better of it and remained propped against the couch, on the floor. “I mean that no one has changed. We kept this out of the press, so the only people who even know that the affair occurred are the police and the Malevich Society. And, rather than yield the public mouthpiece the thieves had wanted, the Malevich Society may not even press charges.”
“But, Jean…”
“We’re like children, led on until we discover the correct answer in a way that feels like a personal revelation, when we’d never have been allowed to fail.”
They sat in silence once more.
“More shrimp in black bean sauce?” Lesgourges offered. “No? Well, I’ll finish it.” He ate in silence. They both leaned back farther into the couch.
“I’ve been thinking,” began Lesgourges.
“Always a bad sign.”
“And I did a little research, I don’t think I told you. About the number square in Dürer’s engraving.” Lesgourges readjusted his posterior. “It’s called a magic square. It’s a mathematical term for a group of evenly spaced numbers in which the sum of the horizontal, vertical, and diagonal lines each equal the same number.”
Bizot was impressed. “Where did you learn all this?”
“The internet.”
“Hmm.”
“This particular one is called a gnomon magic square, because clusters of any four contiguous numbers add up to the same sum. There are eighty-six different combinations of four numbers, in this particular square, all of which add up to thirty-four.”
“That’s amazing.”
“It seems that the engraving Melencolia I is about the intellectual struggle of a self-conscious genius rationalizing the empiricism of science and the imagination of art in the secular world. Enlightenment science removes the mystical element of faith, and the artist mourns the loss.”
“That doesn’t sound…”
”…I know. That’s a direct quotation off…off the internet.”
“Hmm,” said Bizot. “Well, I’m still impressed.”
“It seems that the other two Dürer engravings in the series may be part of the same overall theme, rationalizing the enlightenment of science with the mystical awe inspired by religion and art. Knight, the Devil, and Death is about this struggle from a moral standpoint, while Saint Jerome in His Study shows it from a religious one. And all on the internet, which they have on computers these days. As my old professor used to say, ‘Salvation in reading.’ But I never listened to him.”
“That is all very interesting. But, as Sherlock Holmes used to do, we must put ourselves in the mind of those we wish to catch, to think as they would. And I can’t imagine that these destroyers would read up on their art history.”
“They didn’t actually destroy anything, Jean…”
“No,” Bizot interrupted. “But if we’re dealing with iconoclasts, we’re dealing with philistines. They haven’t taken the time to understand why the Malevich painting looks the way it does. Not that I profess to understand it, but I know enough to know that a difference of opinion does not grant the right to destroy. They’re just reacting to what they read into it, because it goes against their doctrine. They’re making a judgment based on the aesthetic, not the internal content, and their judgment is that no one should be allowed to come to their own decision about the painting. They made it disappear.” He paused for breath. “I don’t think there’s a deep-seated reason why they chose Melencolia I to lead us to the stolen painting.”
“Do you think there is a deeper reason why Dürer chose to use a magic square with the number thirty-four as the key?” Lesgourges stared out the window. “I read that some scholars think that Melencolia I is Dürer’s reaction to his mother’s death, and that there’s some connection between his mother and the number thirty-four. But I can’t remember the rest.”
“For thoughtful people, there is a reason for everything. So, yes, I think that Dürer had a reason. But not for these criminals. Melencolia I just served their needs, on a superficial level, because it has numbers in it. It’s not solving the philosophical puzzle. This is about solving the literal puzzle: what we see on the surface, not how we read what we see. These people think only skin deep.” He paused. “And what’s with you and all this reading? You know I don’t approve of you improving yourself.”
Lesgourges said, “If Sallenave is somehow to blame, or at least connected with the thieves, then how do you explain his art collection? Not just what’s for show in the gallery, but in the private apartment?”
&n
bsp; Bizot wove the air with his hands. “This is the art that you’re supposed to have. If you are a serious and wealthy collector of prints, then you must have Rembrandt and Dürer. I’m not saying that these criminals don’t admire an artist’s beauty and skill. I’m saying that’s all they admire. To look at the Malevich White on White, a supreme display of artistic ability does not come immediately to mind. The ignorant would say, ‘I could do that, the artist displays no skill,’ and not consider why it was done, or that their antagonistic reaction is exactly what the artist wanted to provoke.”
“Do you think we might be on the wrong track?” Lesgourges asked. “I mean, altogether?”
They sat in silence.
“Yes.” Silence. “Anyway, I don’t like it,” Bizot continued, his short, fat arms crossed. “It’s too smooth. And I don’t like to feel I’ve been used. There are too many loose ends here, in that there are none. Everything tied itself up too nicely. The truth is not so clean. They must have made some mistake, and I’m going to find it. This case may be closed, but I’m not finished yet.”
Silence.
“I thought of something else today,” Lesgourges offered, “not that it matters now. The final clue we needed, Melencolia I, which led us to discover that the combination to the safe was thirty-four, dialed seven times…Well, the engraving was on the third floor of the building at 47 rue de Jérusalem. Three-four-seven. Do you think that’s just a coincidence?”
Bizot looked over to him, then back out the window. “Nothing, it seems, is ever just a coincidence.”
CHAPTER 32
Sunlight dipped toward the horizon, over pencil-sketch trees calli-graphed onto the impossible blue of the sky, tinged a burnt scarlet. The moon was already aloft, its craterous yin-yang hanging in the premature daylit night.
Lord Malcolm Harkness stared out at the sky from behind the antique warbled glass panes of a window in the study of Harkness Hall. He leaned into a tall brass-studded leather armchair, his back to an immense desk in the bookshelved room. Works of art dotted the ivy-green walls wherever bookshelves ceased momentarily, before winding their way on along the wall several feet farther on.