by Abigail Keam
“Not at all, cherie,” Jean Louis said as he whisked her into the hallway.
There stood people gathering at the buffet table. Most were going into the dining room with their full plates while some gathered in the breakfast room.
There were a few couples dancing in the grand entryway. Asa and Jean Louis joined them.
Jean Louis bantered on about his next portrait assignment until he stopped dead in his tracks. “The painting is gone,” he ranted.
“What?”
“The John Henry Rouson painting is gone! The one I gave to Lady Elsmere. It’s not here.”
Asa turned and stared at the blank wall. “I think I heard Lady Elsmere say that she was donating it to the Headley-Whitney Museum for an equestrian art show. She sent it out to be cleaned and appraised.”
Jean Louis gaped at Asa in wide surprise. “But that was not the stipulation of the gift. She was never to remove the painting . . . and it was never to be cleaned. You must excuse me but I need to check on my luggage. I am leaving in just a few hours.”
“But we were having such a good time.”
“Do you know where the painting is now?”
“It’s probably in Charles’ office . . . he runs this place but he is on vacation.”
“I know where that office is. It’s on the other side of the house.”
“Is there a problem with the painting?”
Jean Louis took out a perfumed handkerchief and mopped his sweating upper lip. “Everything is wonderful. Thank you for a lovely dance, Madame X.”
Asa nodded and watched the little fat man rush up the grand staircase. “That’s really a shame,” said Asa, pouting to no one in particular. “He is such a good dancer. What a waste.”
42
Much to Lady Elsmere’s chagrin, Jean Louis didn’t even say goodbye. It was assumed that he had called a cab and left during the party.
At least that’s what Lady Elsmere assumed.
Everyone else knew differently.
43
Jean Louis knew his way around the Big House. He had hidden and waited until the last guest left at 2:15 a.m. and Liam had turned out the lights at 3:30 a.m.
He had to hurry. He knew that the horse staff started to arrive at 4:30 a.m., but he should be long gone before then. Of course, he would have been halfway to Europe by now if that stupid woman hadn’t loaned out that painting he had given her. Thank goodness he had stumbled upon the fact it was going to have a cleaning. That just could not happen.
He quickly went to Charles’ office and unlocked the door with a duplicate key he had made. Jean Louis had had duplicates made of all the keys to the estate. How else could he have gotten into June’s estate checkbook and lifted several checks from the back? Nothing would be noticed until the checks were cashed and still the crime would not be tied to him. Maybe some suspicions, but no proof.
If a former benefactor caused a fuss about checks missing from a checkbook or an article of some importance missing from its nook, Jean Louis had already discovered something about the benefactor. Usually something naughty that the benefactor did not wish to be known to the world. That stopped all accusations.
But Jean Louis didn’t have anything over the Lady Elsmere. Years ago, an affair between the mistress and the butler would have caused a scandal, but he knew June well enough to know that she would relish the notoriety.
Sometimes Jean Louis pined for the good old days when scandal was something juicy a grifter could really sink his teeth into.
Focus, thought Jean Louis. Get that painting and get out. He pointed the flashlight about until he flashed behind the desk. Not expecting to see a person, he cried out while dropping the flashlight.
44
The office suddenly flooded with light as a person sitting in the chair behind the desk flipped on the desk lamp.
Much to Jean Louis’ chagrin, there sat Asa Reynolds holding the John Henry Rouson painting.
“Looking for this?” she taunted.
45
Gone was the black satin dress with jeweled straps. Asa was now wearing a black duster with evil looking black boots that came up mid-calf. Her hair was swept up in a French braid.
“You frightened me,” complained Jean Louis. “Almost gave me a heart attack.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t go sneaking around people’s houses in the wee hours of the morning.”
“I forgot something.”
Asa laughed. “Yes, I know. You forgot this.” She jiggled the painting.
“Don’t do that, please.”
“Why not, Jean Louis? I admit it is a handsome painting of some horses, worth some serious money, but not a great fortune.”
“You don’t know what you’ve got there.”
“Maybe I do.”
Jean Louis snorted. It sounded girlish. “Give me the painting, Asa, and I will cut you in.”
“How about I cut this?” Asa flashed a switchblade toward the painting.
Jean Louis screamed, “Mon dieu, don’t damage that painting! It’s priceless!”
“What’s the matter, Jean Louis?”
“If you harm that painting, I’ll kill you. I swear I will!”
“No you won’t. Violence is not your style. Oh, I admit you’ve been a bad boy most of your life, but hurting people physically . . . not you. You like to cheat, steal, con, extort, blackmail and threaten your victims, but you’ve never gone beyond that. Maybe your daddy did.”
“My papa’s dead. Has been since the War.”
“Not really. He died years after World War II.”
“My father was a farmer who died in the Résistance,” insisted Jean Louis, inching toward the door.
Your father was a German named Albert Boehmer who was a member of the Kunstschutz. You know what the Kunstschutz was, don’t you. A Nazi military unit specially formed to confiscate art and precious artifacts. And since Albert Boehmer was a close relative of Bernard Boehmer, a Nazi collaborator . . . the fix was in.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about. Fairytales. Rumors. Lies.”
“Your great-uncle Bernard Boehmer, along with Hildebrand Gurlitt, Ferdinand Moeller and Karl Buchholz were commissioned by Adolph Hitler and his right-hand man Goering to sell sixteen thousand pieces of ‘decadent art’ removed from German museums in 1937-38 to help fund the war effort. What was not sold was to be burned and some of it was, but a great deal of it was confiscated by those I mentioned who recognized the paintings as great art and very valuable regardless of the Nazi decrees that the art was garbage.
“The paintings were hidden, disguised and passed secretly down through their families . . . like your family.”
“That’s ancient history. Why keep the paintings a secret now?” Jean Louis fumed.
“Because the museums might want their paintings back . . . or the Jews . . . or Gentile families from whom the paintings were stolen. There would be lawsuits and perhaps imprisonment. Who knows what the World Court might decide? What I do know is that these paintings don’t belong to descendants of Gurlitt or Moeller or Boehmer.”
“Perhaps what you say is true, but where are these stolen paintings, eh? I see nothing but a John Henry Rouson that you are holding. It was painted long after World War II.”
“That’s where I must congratulate you, Jean Louis. It’s the Purloined Letter.”
“De quoi parlez-vous?”
“A short story by Edgar Allen Poe where an important document is hidden in plain sight.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Stolen artwork hiding in plain sight, but you made some mistakes. We both know how paintings are insured. The backs of the paintings are photographed as well as the sides of the canvas. That’s why most of your collection has the sides cut off and new canvas sewn on.
“That’s what really gave you away. You never in your life dreamed that a guard from a famous museum would happen to be curious about new frames or sewn canvas on supposedly minor classics. He must have pull
ed one painting from its frame during the Valentine party and seen the new canvas sides. Dead giveaway.
“And I see in the bottom left-hand corner of this painting, a small scratch. My bet is that Mr. Bailey thought this painting might be a fake and deliberately scratched it. Maybe he thought it might have been a painting stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.”
“That imbecile. I walked in on him taking a fork and scratching my beautiful painting.”
“And Terry found that there was paint underneath.”
“He began writing in a notebook. He accused me of defrauding Lady Elsmere and that I had given her a fake. Ah, if he had only known.”
“What’s underneath this Rouson, Jean Louis? I know the real John Henry Rouson painting is in a private collection.”
“One of the most important paintings in the world. A Monet!”
One of Asa’s eyebrows arched. She was not expecting this. “So you forge a minor masterpiece over a priceless masterpiece and give it to a patron for what reason?”
“I can’t go about the world with these paintings. I paint over them and give them a safe place to hide, and then collect them when I want. I either steal them back or encourage the new owner to give them to me. I have keys to all the houses where I store my babies.”
“Why not put them in a large safe deposit box in a bank?”
“How long do you think it would take other art collectors to know that an important art collection was in a bank vault and for that bank to be robbed or an employee to be bribed? The art world is very small. Non. Non. Must always be on the go and hide my babies where no one would think to look.”
“Seems awfully complicated to me but then it’s part of the game. You like the extortion, the blackmailing, the stealing. When you want money, you tell the ‘owner’ what the true secret of the painting is and that you will call Interpol on them for having a stolen painting, or will expose some dark secret if they don’t give you money.”
“You make me sound horrible. I’m just trying to make a living.”
“Let’s get back to Terry. Did you kill him?”
“I saw his little black notebook and the scratch marks on the Rouson. I knew he was suspicious of something. Then I found out who he was and that he had been a guard at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. He probably thought the painting was from the robbery.
“I went to see him. To frighten him a little. That’s all.”
“Mother had his dog tested. He tested positive for cyanide poisoning,” lied Asa, trying to trap Jean Louis.
“I must confess that I went there with the intention of doing away with him, but I couldn’t. Like you said, I’m not a violent person, but on the way out I poured the cyanide in the driveway. The dog must have come behind me and licked some of it.”
“So you had nothing to do directly with the murder of Terrence Bailey?”
“He was murdered? I thought he died of a heart attack.”
“Probably brought on from stress by you.”
“Likely as that is, causing stress is not punishable or one spouse in all married couples would be cited for murder.”
“What about Mavis Bailey?”
“What about her?”
“Did you try to kill her?”
“Again . . . I went looking for that little black notebook. She woke up and discovered me, so I had to give her a little tap on the head.”
“Like you gave my mother a little tap on the head?”
Jean Louis shrugged. “Madame X, I have enjoyed our little chat, but I must be leaving now and with that painting since you now know what it is. I’m afraid I can’t leave it behind.”
“I’m afraid I must insist that you stay.”
Jean Louis pulled a gun out from his coat. “I know I said I was not a violent man, but you are pushing me to be one. Now please hand over the painting and I will be on my way. If you insist on interfering with me, I will have no choice but to shoot you. Not personal, you understand.”
“You insist?”
“I do.”
Asa leaned over the desk and handed the painting to Jean Louis.
“Your phone on the floor, please.”
Asa threw down her cell phone.
Jean Louis motioned with the gun. “Now we are going to take a little walk to the freezer. If you keep moving in place, you will be found before you freeze.”
Asa got up slowly and moved past Jean Louis out the door with her hands held up.
Smug, Jean Louis followed her out the door. As soon as he walked out into the hallway, he felt a gun barrel at his temple and heard the click of a revolver.
46
“Give me a reason to shoot,” groused Goetz.
Asa swirled around and grabbed the gun from a startled Jean Louis.
“This is not possible,” complained Jean Louis. “You are after the wrong person. This woman,” he pointed at Asa, “was trying to steal Lady Elsmere’s painting. I was only trying to stop her.”
“Nice try but no cigar,” commented Goetz as he pushed Jean Louis down the corridor.
“I am a French citizen. I have diplomatic immunity. You can not arrest me.”
“Shut up,” demanded Goetz, “or I’m gonna make you shut up.”
“American police brutality,” complained Jean Louis. “You heard it,” he said to Asa. “You are my witness that this gorilla threatened me.”
“I didn’t hear him say anything,” replied Asa “I just hear you flapping your gums.”
Goetz pushed Jean Louis into the kitchen where waited two police officers. “These nice men are going to take you down to the police station where a nice woman from Interpol is waiting to talk to you.”
Jean Louis paled and then spat at Goetz. “They will learn nothing. You have no evidence. Nothing.”
Asa stepped in front of Jean Louis. “That’s not exactly true. You are misguided if you think that your paintings were loaded on a plane and flown out of the country.
“We got a warrant and they are at the Bluegrass Airport being gone over with OCT. You know what that is, I’m sure. Optical Coherence Tomography. They are going to see what’s really underneath all that paint.”
“You can’t do that!” shouted Jean Louis. “Those paintings are mine!”
Asa smiled. “Dear boy, you know as well as I that if those are paintings looted by the Kunstschutz, you have no more right to them than the Man in the Moon. Admit it. You have simply lost.”
Jean Louis’ shoulders slumped and he gave Asa a mournful look as a police officer slapped handcuffs on him. “Madame X. How could you spoil such a lovely evening?”
“Besides the theft of the paintings, I’m going to see if I can pin a murder charge on you for the Baileys. You killed them with your harassment, just as sure as you stuck a knife in their guts,” sneered Goetz.
“I protest most vehemently. I did not kill that old couple. I may have threatened the old man. I may have hit his wife on the head, but it was not intentional. That couple died of natural causes. I’m sure the autopsies will prove that.”
Goetz stuck his face so close to Jean Louis that they were touching noses. “If you weren’t the direct cause, then you aggravated the events that lead to their deaths. I’m going to get you on something relating to their demise,” promised Goetz.
He shoved Jean Louis toward an officer. “Get this scum out of my sight. He makes me sick.”
Asa and Goetz watched the police put Jean Louis in a police cruiser and start down the driveway.
Then they heard clucking in the grand hallway and went to check on it.
Watching out a second floor window in their nightclothes stood Bess, Lady Elsmere and Liam whispering to each other.
“You can come down now,” yelled Asa. “The show is over.”
“We did just as you said, Asa,” blurted Lady Elsmere. “We stayed in my bedroom and didn’t come out until we heard the police siren, but we are dying to know what happened.”
“Go to bed now and I’ll
tell you later this morning. We’re going to join Mother at the airport. She is assisting with the OCT on the paintings.”
“Shoot, I could drop dead any time,” groused Lady Elsmere. “I need to know now.”
“Miss June, she’s right. We are all very tired. I’ll stay with you. You’ll see. There is another day in store for you,” comforted Bess.
Lady Elsmere gave a sweet smile. “I’d rather have Liam stay with me.”
Liam’s eyes flickered for a brief instant before he mumbled, “It would be my great pleasure to stay with you, Lady Elsmere.”
Asa and Goetz looked at each other but didn’t comment. They didn’t want to know and both excused themselves as fast as possible.
47
June and I sat glumly on a wooden bench at the church waiting for the funeral to begin.
“I should have done more,” I recounted. “I didn’t act fast enough.”
“Who thought that pudgy little man could be so dangerous?” comforted June, who felt somewhat guilty herself. “After all, he was in the Bluegrass on my behalf. I had no idea that he was such a con artist. None.”
“What did you do with his portrait?”
“I put it up in the attic. I hope like in Oscar Wilde’s story, Dorian Gray, the portrait will take on my sins.”
“That’s a shame. It was a nice portrait,” I fibbed.
“Do you think she will kick us out?” asked June, looking at Mavis’ daughter glaring at us.
“I hope not. After all, I did go to her mother’s rescue when she called, and solved her father’s death.”
“Do you think Jean Louis killed him?”
“The autopsy showed death caused by a heart attack. I think seeing Mavis’ mother is what did the trick. Terry died of fright seeing a ghost.”
“What do you mean, Josiah?”
“Terry was too savvy a guy to be frightened of Jean Louis. He knew a thug when he saw one. He could have just called the police with his suspicions.
“I think he was enjoying himself trying to solve whether the Rouson painting was legit or not. After all, if he could have solved the Gardner theft, he would have been a national hero. He didn’t understand that the Rouson painting was part of something more sinister.”