#37 (A Picker Mystery)

by Scott Soloff

DeAngelo beckoned him over to the painting. "Look closely at the signature. The 'T' contains a small dot of pink paint. It's acrylic. Visible to the naked eye, but not obvious. An expert would consider it an accident."

  Simon walked down the back stairway to the shop. He sat in a large antique wingchair; propped his feet on the ottoman and lit a fresh cigar.

  Events were racing down to the wire. For better or worse this episode of his life would soon be over. He sat with his head back blowing smoke rings towards the ceiling. In his mind, moving the pieces around the board; anticipating his opponent’s moves.

  That morning, a telegram arrived at his hotel:

  Won auction for antique cane at Christie's London.

  Hammer price of eight thousand pounds.

  Forwarded to your shop St. Moritz.

  Good luck.

  Your brother,

  Jean Pierre

  After an hour or so, Simon reached a conclusion. By nature, he was a peaceful man. Live and let live would be one of his guiding principles if he stopped to list them at all. But men have always been at war; either in large numbers or one on one. In this instance, Simon Jones; the son of poor Irish Jews, found himself in an untenable situation. He would not lie down; would not roll over; there would be no concession. Simon Jones would fight to the end and let the cards fall where they may.

  At last, satisfied with his plan, a realization of peace arose within him.

  "Let's do this."

  We have a pow wow

  Pizza boxes were stacked on the kitchen table.

  Mrs. Murphy turned from the sink and said, "They're expecting you, dearie."

  I grabbed a beer from the fridge and a slice of pizza. Walked down the hall to the den. Nathan Berkowitz, aka, Nate Burke, stood up, walked over and gave me a hug.

  "TJ has just been filling me in on your adventure. How're holding up, dude?"

  Nate stands at six foot two, has blond hair with hazel eyes, a high intelligent forehead and keeps in good shape. He did his masters at M.I.T. and immediately after graduation went into business for himself.

  "Dude? What are you, like sixteen? Tell me what you've been up to. After that I'll tell you what's happening."

  TJ, ever the quiet one, is sitting there consuming his pizza and beer. The room is set up very much like an old world men's club. Leather chairs, floor to ceiling book cases and lots of quality art. The rugs are old and expensive, the fireplace a walk-in.

  Nate gets right into it. "Just got back from Ireland. We're in full production mode. The programmers and game artists are putting on the final touches right now."

  Nate's company creates, manufactures and distributes video games. The business has been very good to him.

  "What type of game?" Naturally, I'm curious.

  TJ pipes up, "Very cool, man. A murder mystery takes place in some location and the players have to solve the murder. It can be a castle in Scotland, a home in Beverly Hills, a plantation in New Orleans, a palace in India, whatever. Players select their characters. Sort of like Clue, man, only with lots more options. Burke here is calling it 'Who Done It?"

  Thomas Jefferson Smith is unusually excited. For some reason the idea of this game appeals to him.

  I ask Nate, "When will it be completed?"

  "About a month. We'll introduce it at the E3 convention at the Los Angeles Convention Center in June. TJ is coming, you should come too."

  The Electronic Entertainment Expo is the gaming industry's annual video game conference and show. It's where all the cool new stuff is unveiled.

  I drained my Grolsch and devoured the pizza. On the way to the kitchen for seconds Uncle Moe steps in beside me.

  "Ask the president to check the computer." Moe means TJ.

  Back in the den, TJ opens the laptop. Posted on the anonymous wall is a link to the BBC. An mp3 file opens in a new window.

  It turns out to be an interview on the British Broadcasting Company radio network. The following is exactly what we heard:

  BBC: "Joining us today is the renowned researcher and art historian, Professor James

  Thomas Middleton of Oxford University to talk with us about his recent discovery of an unknown Vermeer. Welcome Professor and thank you for joining us."

  JTM: "The pleasure is mine. Thank you for inviting me."

  BBC: "Well, Professor, let's get right down to it, shall we? Please, if you would be so kind, tell us about your research and what you have uncovered."

  JTM: "It's quite embarrassing, really. The discovery of a previously unknown Vermeer was really a coincidence. In the course of researching the provenance of an entirely unrelated work of art I unearthed some previously overlooked documents."

  BBC: "And, what were these documents Professor?"

  JTM: "An inventory of the effects of Vermeer's sister, Gertruy. She was married to Antony van der Wiel, himself a frame maker. The inventory was prepared in conjunction with the preparation of her will in 1670. There is listed, as part of her personal belongings, a painting of a "moeder en kind" that was a "gift van mijn broer" which was signed 'Vermeer' and dated 1653. The measurements provided are 98.5 x 105 cm. If this information is to be believed, and there is no reason why it should not, this would be one of Johannes Vermeer's earliest works."

  BBC: "In that case, Professor, what do you suppose happened to this painting?"

  JTM: "Under normal circumstances, according to the terms of the will, if Vermeer's sister, Gertruy were to die before her husband, he would be required to turn over to her relatives and heirs all her personal effects."

  BBC: "And, was this the case?"

  JTM: "Not exactly. Gertruy did predecease her husband; however, the painting in question did not turn up in the inventory of items passed onto her family."

  BBC: "Did the painting disappear?"

  JTM: "No, not even close. It is, however, easy to see how it vanished in the historical sense. We have found a receipt in the effects of Antony van der Wiel that indicate that this painting, “Mother and Child" was sold to a traveling Jewish merchant from Budapest. The measurements in the sold painting are identical to Vermeer's gift as well as the subject matter. Since the painting did not turn up when her effects were returned to the family, it is probably safe to assume that it was the painting gifted to her from her brother. At this time we are withholding the name of the merchant in an attempt to track down the painting."

  BBC: "What would you estimate that such a find would be worth in today's market?"

  JTM: "It is difficult to predict an actual amount; however, I can honestly predict that it would fetch what most would consider to be a king's ransom."

  BBC: "Well, well Professor, what an intriguing tale you have shared with us today. We do hope that you will join us again to keep us up to date with this story."

  JTM: "Of course. I look forward it."

  At which point we all sat around with our mouths open. TJ was the first to speak. "Man, Connor really came through. That was so cool."

  Yeah, I thought, very cool. Time for phase two.

  October 1976 St. Moritz

  The bell above the door tinkled.

  Karl Terenz Engelond walked into the art gallery. Ramrod straight; black cashmere overcoat; a homburg fedora and a brown, calfskin attaché under his arm. His massive head rotated 180 degrees. Paintings hung on three walls; several displayed throughout the room on carved, mahogany easels. In the center of the room, towards the back, sat a large intricately carved antique desk. Directly behind the desk stood a lone easel with a painting covered in linen.

  "Ah! Mr. Engelond." Simon hobbled out from the back, supported by an antique cane. He plopped down into the leather chair behind the desk. Neither man offered their hand.

  "Herr Jones, there is a problem with your leg, no?"

  Simon presented him with a cold smile. "Problem with the leg, yes. Unfortunately, the doctors have no idea what is wrong."

  "That is too bad. My sympathies." There was no sympathy in Engelond's voice. "May I?"
>
  "Of course." Simon pointed to the painting behind him.

  Engelond softly placed the attaché upon the desk; walked over and uncovered the painting. He took great pains to examine it up close; then backed away to observe it from across the room. Something in his face changed. Engelond's look was almost beatific. After several minutes he crossed the room and stood before the desk.

  "Ausgezeichnet!" Magnificent. He pointed to the attaché. "Thirty million additional dollars, as we agreed. Bearer bonds, of course."

  Simon had arrived in Switzerland a week ago. Upon arriving at the shop he unpacked the package from Christie's Auction House. An antique cane, coral in color with a long shafted curved handle made in 1872. 'This will do just fine,' he thought.

  The following day the crates arrived from America. Simon spent the better part of the next couple days unpacking and setting them on display. With the chores out of the way he called Engelond and set up an appointment for today.

  "Very good. Mr. Engelond, what would you prefer? Take the Van Gogh with you or, if you prefer, I can deliver to your home."

  Engelond gave the appearance of considering the question. "If you would be so kind, please bring it to my home tomorrow evening. Shall we say 10:00pm?"

  The world turns upside down

  I filled Nathan in on the events of the previous week.

  "Well, buddy, how can I help?"

  Nathan, Thomas Jefferson and I have been joined at the hip since boyhood. We have always had each other’s backs. I gave it some thought.

  "Nate, I think that it's time to reel in the bad guys. We know who they are. The only question that remains is how to do it. The other thing is that I think that I would like to keep you in the background, at least for now. We're too exposed. They know me, Kelly, TJ and probably even Jaw. I'm open to ideas if you guys got any."

  "Hey, man, we could, like always pop 'em." Don't let TJ fool you. He graduated summa cum laude from Harvard Business School. He turns the street talk on and off like a faucet. Equally impressive is to witness his WASP persona when he believes the situation calls for it.

  "No popping. It's bad enough that I had to kill that guy out at the farm. I had no choice, but I still don't like it."

  Nathan stood up and began pacing the room. "We have to set up a scenario where these guys incriminate themselves. The broad strokes are simple. They want the painting, we have the painting. Somehow, someway we have to get them into the same room with you and get them talking. The obvious question is how."

  TJ is bopping his head to some internal rhythm. "Listen, man. Like call theses bad asses up. Tell 'em you had enough and that you're willing to deal. Let them choose the location. We go in, like all wired up. Turn the tapes over to the feds. What do ya think about that, man?"

  "Thin," I reply, "real thin. It will set off their radar. They have to come to us."

  We ate more pizza, guzzled more beer and batted around more than a few ideas. I didn't like any of them.

  My cell rings. "I've got some news on the phone dumps from the bad guys." Its Connor following up on the stuff that TJ sent him from the confiscated cells.

  "What have you got brother?"

  I can hear him riffling through some papers. "The bad news is that the dead guy from the farm house was using a burn phone. For the most part he was calling two other burn phones."

  "I hear a but in there."

  "There was one call. It was to a private security firm in France. Sécurité Internationale de Contrat. They provide 'strategic and operational support' to companies and governments around the world. They have been in business since 2003."

  Little alarm bells were going off in my head. "What else?"

  "Eckhart managed to get into their personnel data base and match up the photo you took with one of their employees. His name was Philippe Martin, a French national, former military. These guys work in two man teams. The man that he was usually paired with was Alain Durand, also a Frenchman, also ex-military. He's the guy that you wacked with the shovel."

  "Where is Durand now?" I can see where this going. The pieces are falling into place faster that I thought possible.

  "Back home, in France. My guess is that they didn't want him around for questioning, you know, with his buddy dead and all. You're going to love this; I saved the best for last. I got the extension that Monsieur Durand called at Sécurité Internationale de Contrat."

  I couldn't help but smile. "LaVache. Jean Pierre LaVache."

  The only thing that I hear on the line was long distance static. After a long pause Connor asked, "Holy cow, Batman, how in the hell did you know that?" I told you that he enjoys Americanisms.

  "We met briefly. Quite the gentleman, really. For a bad guy."

  "That's what I like about you brother, always full of surprises. How do you want to proceed?"

  "Let's move to Phase Three."

  "Don't you think that we're moving a little too quickly?" Connor should know, being a professional con man and all that.

  "Yeah, you may be right but at this point I want to finish this as soon as possible." I was careful not to mention the painting while talking on a cell. Might as well broadcast it to the entire world. "The sooner this is brought to a conclusion the sooner everyone will be safe. Besides, the excitement is building quickly and it may be best to strike while the iron is hot."

  "Whatever you say. You're the boss. Phase Three it is, I'll get on it right now. Talk soon."

  I turn to Nathan. "I have an idea. I'm not entirely sure about the specifics, but I know the first step."

  I told him what I had in mind. Just at that moment my cell rang again. I thought maybe Connor was calling back with something that he forgot.

  Doo Wop once told me in passing that if you want to make God laugh, make plans.

  The screen on the cell read 'Private Number'.

  "Picker."

  An electronically modulated voice spoke. "Mister Picker. We... have... you're girlfriend. You... will... do as... we say or she is... dead!"

  I hung up the phone.

  October 1976 Engelond's Chateau

  The two men sat.

  Outside was cold; 34 degrees. Three inches of snow covered the ground. The stars almost close enough to touch. The closest building was on a hill over 1700 yards to the east. Almost a mile.

  "Thank you for bringing the picture." Engelond’s voice held no gratitude.

  Simon had, moments ago, knocked on the door; limped in with the cane in one hand, the wrapped painting in the other.

  "Not a problem. Consider it part of the service." For some inexplicable reason, Simon found himself completely at peace, even with the knowledge of what lay ahead.

  Simon was seated on a white couch facing the sliding glass doors. His cane rested on his right; next to his leg.

  Engelond was obviously distracted. "May I?" he asked, pointing the painting.

  "Of course."

  Engelond stood, walked over and unwrapped the painting. He lifted it; strolled to the easel and set it up. For the next ten minutes the only thing that he did was to look upon Van Gogh's Mountains at Saint-Rémy. Not a word was spoken. The thought never crossed Engelond's mind that the painting before him was anything but the original.

  Finally, determined by some internal mechanism, Engelond went to the bar. He reached behind and pulled out a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson Special handgun. Calmly, he walked behind Simon; knelt down on one knee; raised the gun next to Simon's head and pointed it at the glass sliding door.

  Engelond cocked the gun and fired it at the patio door, shattering the glass. Then he gently placed the gun on the coffee table directly in front of Simon.

  Engelond returned to the bar. He reached behind and retrieved a Glock 17; walked back to the couch and sat down facing Simon. He placed the Glock down on the table.

  "Herr Jones, I apologize in advance for what I'm about to do. It is the logical conclusion to our little affair. Surely you can understand. I'm certain that if our positions were re
versed that you would do the same."

  "Well, Karl, when you put it that way, I'm sure that you can appreciate what it is that I have to do."

  Karl Terenz Engelond, Sr. let out a deep, throaty, hearty laugh. "And exactly what is it that you have in mind Simon, since we're being so informal. For instance, I know that you can't touch that gun."

  "Let's be honest, here, Karl. It belittles us, men with our accomplishments to tell lies. You plan on killing me, not to tie up loose ends, but because you possess some pathological, practically genetic hatred of my people."