by Cathy Ace
Els also began to sob. “We’ll all miss him, and that’s why I wanted you all to be here, together, so we could acknowledge that. And…” she paused and looked at her daughter, seeking support, it seemed, “…because I wanted to tell you all something. Before he died, my father told me some terrible secrets. Secrets that involve you. Secrets he’d kept to himself almost his whole life. Secrets that frightened him.”
Els had everyone’s attention. I watched the faces in the room; a few looked more than a little apprehensive. Johannes Akker’s wife began to cry, stroking her husband’s arm. They knew what was coming.
“My father told me about the cover-up of the death of a young man with whom most of you served in the army, and he also helped to conceal the fact that one of your group, Charlie de Groot, died in suspicious circumstances.”
Menno van der Hoeven leapt to his feet. “No one say anything. Not a word. Anything you say could get you into trouble—and not just because you are in a room with a retired police officer.” He stared at Bud, his face red. “I am a lawyer. I can speak to you alone about this matter. I understand what the law in the Netherlands says about possible crimes of the past. Do not speak. I say Willem lied. Say no more.”
Els looked shocked. “Menno, how can you say this? My father would not lie about this, not when he knew he was close to death.”
Consoling his mother, who looked utterly confused, Menno replied, “I have said what I will say. That is the end of it. I advise no one to respond to what you have announced.”
I watched everyone’s reactions. My gaze fell upon Bud. We exchanged a look that conveyed a great deal of understanding and dread, and I stood, ready to play my part in what we both knew was about to unfold.
Abstract: Resolved
THE SINGLE ELECTRIC FAN ELS had set up in the corner of the shop provided nothing in the way of refreshment—it was doing little but moving heavy, hot air around the place, and it thrummed annoyingly. I noticed the creaking of old chairs as people turned to look at me with surprise.
“I think you might all want to take Menno’s advice,” I began, “and stick to it while I speak. Els, Ebba, you might want to sit down. I’m afraid what you found out about Willem isn’t the last discovery you’ll make about him, and this might not be what you want to hear right now, but it’s high time everything came out into the open.”
I walked to the front of our little gathering, and stood with my back to the painting of Willem Weenix as The Laughing Cavalier. I gave myself a moment to take in the scene before me, and mentally pictured what John Silver would be doing at Jonas’s house at that moment. It would all be over in a matter of hours—for Bud and me, at least. For everyone else it was the belated arrival at the end of a journey upon which they had all agreed to travel together, knowing it might come to this.
“When Bud and I arrived in Amsterdam,” I began, “we knew we were following the wishes of his late, and only recently ‘discovered,’ uncle, Jonas Samuelsson, or, as you knew him, Jonas de Smet. We came here because Jonas wanted it that way. We did his bidding, and we have, for the most part, I believe, fulfilled his wishes. I’d like to tell you about him. The real Jonas, that is. He was the eldest son of Bud’s grandparents, a big brother to Bud’s mother. He was born at a time when Europe was about to be torn apart by war. He had a noticeable birthmark on his face. I believe these circumstances led to his growing up with a specific sense of right and wrong. His character was molded by an overbearing father, frustration at being subjugated at home, and being bullied by his peers because of his appearance. On top of all this, his young life was terrorized by the Nazis, who shaped the world in which he lived during his most formative years. Jonas found his escape in the art he discovered in the pages of the illustrated volumes his young sister recalled as being his constant companions. By the time he arrived in Amsterdam and began to live his life here, Jonas’s temperament was uneven. He was given to violent outbursts, often as a result of having drunk too much; he was a solitary as well as social drinker, so those outbursts might have been quite frequent. In his own way, he was controlling—as witnessed by the fact that so many of you followed his lead toward art. Even Bud and I followed his detailed instructions after his death. He probably traded on how his disfigurement made people feel differently about him than if he hadn’t had it; sympathy, curiosity, revulsion, and guilt can lead to a complex set of responses when it comes to personal relationships.”
“Jonas was a complicated man,” said Bernard softly. “Though I’m not sure he was as you portray him.”
“He had a vicious temper on him,” said Pieter. “I should know. He scarred me for life in one of his outbursts.”
“Indeed he did,” I said. “I realize you might not want to respond when I put certain facts to you, but you should at least listen. In 1950, Jonas was serving his conscription service with you, Johannes, and Pieter, as well as the late Charlie de Groot and Dirk van der Hoeven. A riotous bout of drinking led to the death of a young soldier, who, as a group, you decided to strip and dump in a canal, escaping any difficult questions that might have been asked by either the military or civilian police.”
Only Ana and Bernard de Klerk reacted, with a sharp intake of breath each. Their eyes wide with astonishment, they looked aghast at both men.
“I have been told Jonas spoke out against this course of action at the time, but was voted down. It’s understandable that you panicked and reacted too quickly to a situation you weren’t able to properly judge, given the amount of drinking you had done, and your general youth and inexperience. But the fact remains: you did what you did, and, somewhere, a family never knew what happened to that young man. Bud has put wheels in motion that will hopefully reveal the man’s identity, and establish whether his remains were ever found. It might take time, and it would be a good deal faster if we knew his name.” I paused, but no one volunteered any information.
“Upon returning to Amsterdam after his service, I believe Jonas shared this story with his best friend, Willem Weenix, and six men were bonded by the knowledge of the death of another. Under the direction of Jonas, they struggled to make lives for themselves in post-war Holland, each in their own field, and Jonas used his passion for art to bring the Group together at regular intervals. Maybe you all really enjoyed the art to begin with, but Jonas used his force of character to keep you together as the years passed; he held the moral high ground, giving him leverage over you all. When you two became lovers, Greta, Jonas invited you to join the Group. Then, when Charlie de Groot was found dead in the street, and none of you wanted to be connected to a probable drug overdose, you were all forever further bound by your involvement in disguising a death that was at best suspicious.”
“You do not know what you are speaking of,” said Greta haughtily. Johannes Akker sobbed aloud. Greta turned to him and sneered, “Weakling. Control yourself.”
“It’s too late for him to do that,” I said. Greta guessed what I meant, and the color drained from her face.
“Youth leads to folly,” she said.
“Not always,” I replied, “and in any case, when Charlie died you were all old enough to be aware of what you were doing. A few years later, the ‘gap’ in the Group of Seven was filled by Bernard, who brought new spirit to the art-loving activities of the Group. As more years passed, careers and families were built and developed. You drifted apart, but the threads that always held you together were your complicity in hiding the deaths of two men.”
I waited for a couple of seconds. I sensed a certain relief in the room, which was what I’d expected. I looked over at Bud, who had his phone in his hand. The lighted screen told me he’d just read a text. His grim expression drove me forward.
“Jonas had set out our instructions in great detail and entrusted them to Menno, son of his late good friend, Dirk van der Hoeven.” I bowed my head in acknowledgment of the lawyer, and he returned my actio
n. “About six months ago, Jonas was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He declined treatment and began to set his affairs in order. Hannah, you mentioned he was clearing out his home during that time, and I think that’s understandable. Menno, he came to you with various packages, and instructions for you to follow upon his death. The medical examination of his remains suggests it truly was a fall that killed him, but we will never know exactly why he stumbled at the top of a flight of stairs he’d used thousands of times. However, given the facts at our disposal, I think it’s safe to say his was an accidental death. But that’s not what Marlene thought, was it Menno? Your mother said she thought both her husband and Jonas were killed by people who were trying to get their hands on ‘paintings,’ something you said yourself when you called the emergency services the other night, when this shop was broken into, Els.”
“Well, of course that’s what I said. I thought someone was breaking in to steal the paintings here,” said Els sharply.
“But you don’t have any paintings here. Only the ones Bud and I brought from Jonas’s home. Unless you have a collection of old masters on the walls in your living quarters upstairs?”
“We have some excellent pieces up there,” snapped the grieving woman. “My father was a collector of sorts. I assumed that was what anyone breaking in would be trying to steal, because who would want to steal a selection of prints or our stock of brushes, paints, and canvases?”
“Exactly,” I replied. “No one would want them. But they might want the cash you’re likely to keep on the premises at the end of a busy weekend at the height of the tourist season, and this store isn’t exactly modern when it comes to security measures, is it? The glass at the front provided an easy point of entry, and the thieves hoped to get away with a cash box.”
The distraught woman looked surprised. “That’s exactly what they took, though how they knew where we kept it—under the stairs—is a mystery.”
“Not much of one, Els. That glass front door that they broke allows anyone to peer inside and see what you do with the cash at the end of the day. Being overwhelmed by your father’s heart attack means you probably haven’t thought too much about the robbery. Let’s not make more of it than it was: a common smash and grab. Unfortunately, your father’s heart couldn’t stand the stress. We’re all terribly sorry for your loss, Els, Ebba. Sometimes bad things happen to good people, and you are two innocents whose lives have been forever changed by the actions of criminally minded strangers.” The mother and daughter exchanged mournful glances.
“Unfortunately, others here will find their lives impacted by the actions of those they love and thought they knew. You see, the big question in my mind was, ‘Why did a group of adults collude to hide the death of their good friend?’ It’s puzzling. It’s not beyond reason to understand the half-baked actions of a few irresponsible, drunken army lads, but for six mature men and women to roll the body of a man with whom they’d had a close relationship over years into the canal? Why would you do that? The answer had to be that you didn’t want to come into contact with the police because of Charlie’s death, which you thought was due to his taking too many drugs. I reasoned that it might have been because you’d been enjoying a night when you’d indulged in illegal narcotics too, and didn’t want that known, but then I had to consider that it might be something more. And that’s where Bud’s experience came into play.”
All eyes turned toward Bud, who shifted uncomfortably on his seat for a moment, then returned peoples’ curious looks with a professional air.
I pushed on. “Els mentioned that her father wasn’t keen on the cops, and Greta, you were kind enough to share your disdain for my husband’s profession in a particularly personal way. Thank you for that, because your reaction was instrumental in helping me get to the bottom of all of this.” It was Greta’s turn to be on the receiving end of dagger-looks.
“Bud knows cops often experience a generally negative public reaction to their doing their job. In this instance I allowed my inner profiler to work through the reasons that might be beyond the natural desire to not have a fledgling career blighted by a drug bust. Bud’s last post, before he retired, allowed him to gain a deep understanding of how drug-dealing organizations work across global markets, and he spoke of how your Group of Seven was amply supplied with people in the sorts of positions and professions that would help in that type of undertaking.”
“A bit of use in the privacy of our own homes isn’t the same as being international drugrunners,” said Pieter loftily. “There’s no proof that any of us have done anything like that.”
I looked directly at the man who’d challenged me. “I agree. No proof at all. And even when one considers that we have a group made up of Pieter the money man, Johannes the transport man, Greta the greaser of political and police hands, and two marvelous channels for importing, exporting, and distributing the goods—this very store, and your father’s antiques’ business, Menno—neither Bud nor I could peg any of you as drug traffickers.”
“Good,” snapped Greta. “We are not.”
“I know,” I replied. “But you are a ring of international stolen and forged art smugglers. And we’ve got you all for that. Thanks to Jonas and Johannes.”
“I didn’t say anything,” said Johannes to his friends, quaking. His wife looked at him with disbelief.
“Shut up,” snapped Menno. “I told you all, shut up!” His voice was much higher than usual, the apples of his cheeks pink.
The electric fan hummed and whirred. I could hear the tocking of what must have been an extremely large, old clock somewhere. I waited, then pounced.
“My work as a profiler means I make decisions based upon observations, experience, and the best theories and hypotheses available. It’s my job to look, to see, to understand, to infer, and then, whenever possible, test my theories. A long time ago, I decided to put my skills to work on victims rather than perpetrators. I consider how their life has been lived, and in what ways that life might have intersected with whoever caused them to become a victim in the first place. I turned those processes toward the investigation Jonas de Smet sent us to carry out: a journey to reveal his co-conspirators and bring them to justice. I believe when he discovered he was dying he took the tumultuous emotion he’d held inside him throughout his life and turned it, spitefully, upon all of you. His actions have brought you into the spotlight of the law, and there’s no cover-up possible. There is no escape.”
Els leaned forward in her chair. “Cait, I don’t know what all this is about—but we never, ever moved stolen art through this store. I would have known about it. My father was very old; even before his stroke, I was running the place. I have done so for the better part of fifteen years. And I was on the spot for a long time before that; I’ve worked here since I was in my teens. I had nothing to do with stolen art. Ever.” I knew she was speaking the truth, and the expression on her face bore testament to that.
“You’re right. This place hasn’t been used to shift merchandise for quite some time. I believe it was in the early days, back in the fifties, when all this started, and I’m afraid your father was deeply involved then, and for many years afterwards. When he opened this store in the early sixties it was to provide a legitimate business through which illicit deals could flow. By the mid-nineties, Jonas was a one-man, hands-on operator, no longer needing to use this store; walking tours allowed for the exchange of items in the street in plain sight. Once Jonas left his security jobs in the museums, he operated out in the open—quite literally.”
Els’s puzzled “What?” and her daughter’s equally confused “Grandfather used to deal in stolen art?” led me onward.
“Els, you mentioned your father had been questioned when forged paintings turned up at flea markets and so forth. It’s a reasonable assumption that a man who sells art supplies knows artists of all sorts—some of whom might not be squeaky clean. Amsterdam has alw
ays been a city of art. Galleries and museums have finally started to get their act together when it comes to security systems. Art is frequently stolen around the world. Sometimes it’s as simple as a person taking a piece off a wall and walking out with it under their arm; it happens with amazing regularity, especially when pieces are displayed in commercial properties—like hotels or even corporate headquarters. The pieces might be ransomed, be returned, disappear, or be found. World-famous paintings have been stolen and have then turned up in public lavatories, outside police stations, or inside getaway cars. It’s quite a phenomenon. For example, right here, in Amsterdam, in December 2002, two thieves used a ladder to climb to the roof and break into the Van Gogh Museum. In a few minutes they managed to steal two paintings, View of the Sea at Scheveningen and Congregation Leaving the Reformed Church in Nuenen, valued at $30 million. Those paintings have never been recovered—and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. In 1991, two armed thieves spent forty-five minutes in the very same museum—the one where Jonas had worked for many years—selecting twenty pieces, and then left them all, inexplicably, in their getaway car. Those pieces now hang in the gallery, and Bud and I were fortunate enough to see most of them when we visited yesterday.”
“We all live here. We know about these incidents. What’s your point?” asked Els impatiently.
I stood aside, allowing everyone to see Willem’s portrait. “Splendid, isn’t it? Almost as good as the original? Of course the face is changed, and yes, Jonas has signed it. But this, and the other works Bud and I have had a chance to examine, tell us Jonas’s skills were certainly equal to producing expert forgeries. I put it to you now that over the past several decades, the Group of Seven worked to orchestrate the theft of many pieces around the world, sometimes selling them on, sometimes holding them for ransom, and sometimes simply using their theft as an opportunity to sell fakes to avid buyers happy to believe they have the real painting while a fake hangs on the wall of a museum.”