“Even mine,” he agreed. “I have some Mayan pieces that came into my possession from private dealers who could not authenticate their origins. I treasure them, but I assure you that if they are ever proven to have been stolen, I will immediately return them to their proper owners.”
“And what’s the likelihood of that happening?”
His smile grew broader and more ironic. “Very slight. Very, very slight. And until it happens, I consider them my personal property, honestly and honorably purchased.”
“Will you give me the names of those dealers?” asked Mahsimba.
“You will forgive me if I do not,” said Mauch. “I view them as honest men, and I don’t approve of bringing grief to honest men.”
“I understand perfectly,” said Mahsimba. “Perhaps you can tell me less than their names. Are any of them living here on Martha’s Vineyard?”
Mauch took time to answer. Then he shook his head. “No,” he said. “One used to live here, but he’s here no longer.”
“Do you know where he is?”
Mauch shook his head. “He has, ah, departed the island. Where he’s gone I cannot say.”
18
“He told you more than he told me,” I said to Mahsimba as we drove out of Vineyard Haven and headed up-island along State Road. “When I talked with him he never indicated that he knew much about Great Zimbabwe, only that he was aware of the eagles in the museums. You got him to admit that he knew a lot more than just that.”
“You were once a police officer, J.W. You know that people will sometimes give you information only if you ask the right question.”
True. I wished I’d thought to ask the Carl Mauch question, but I hadn’t. Maybe my brain was wearing out. Maybe I was an early Alzheimer’s victim. Had I grown old? Was it time to wear my trousers rolled?
“You should ask Georgie Hall about illegal art sales,” I said. “Mauch might shun gossip, but I don’t think Georgie Hall will. Unless it applies to her, that is.”
“Do you think Mrs. Hall would buy illegally obtained works of art?”
“Mauch seemed to think a lot of people will if there isn’t a paper trail identifying the objects as stolen. I know that Georgie Hall is not above a deal from the bottom of the deck. She and Matthew Duarte were glad to pull a fast one on Gerald Jenkins.”
“I believe you said that Jenkins has less money than Mauch or Hall, and that his collection is smaller.”
“Yes. African art is his specialty, and he recognized the eagles in the photo I showed him. He said he’d heard nothing about them being on the Vineyard, and I think he would have had them on display if he’d had them. He likes to have his stuff out where he can see it. My impression was that he’d love to have them, but probably wouldn’t have had the money to buy them if and when they passed through Daniel Duarte’s hands.”
“It is possible that his anger at Matthew Duarte and Mrs. Hall might lead him to tell us something we might otherwise not learn.”
“Yes, that’s possible, but he was pretty careful about his comments when I talked with him.”
Mahsimba nodded. “First we will see what Mrs. Hall can tell us.” He looked about him. “Your island is very lovely. These stone walls are similar to some I’ve seen in Britain.”
“Another reason why they call it New England.”
We came into North Tisbury, passed the great oak, and took North Road on toward Menemsha. At Tea Lane I took a left, then another one into Georgie Hall’s driveway. The sight of her huge new house caused Mahsimba’s brow to rise and his lips to curve up fleetingly.
Georgie Hall was all wide smiles when she opened the door. She grasped Mahsimba’s hand warmly, and was delighted to see me again.
“My husband tells me that your friend Mr. Crandel is a man of considerable means and that his family has been on the island for generations! How splendid. Do come in.”
Green is a hue that unites folks of many skin tones. We followed Georgie into her house beautiful until she waved us into the same overstuffed chairs in which she and I had seated ourselves when last we had talked.
“Ah,” said Mahsimba, eyeing the niche in the far wall, “my friend Mr. Jackson did not exaggerate your excellent taste in art, Mrs. Hall. I believe your Bakuba portrait sculpture is as fine as any I’ve seen in the British Museum.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Mahsimba. Coming from an African that is high praise indeed.” She arranged herself in her chair. “Now, gentlemen, how may I be of use to you?”
Mahsimba spread his graceful hands. “If time allowed, Mrs. Hall, it would be my greatest pleasure to ask for a tour of your wonderful house. Alas, Marvell’s winged chariot is at our back, so I must forgo that delight.” He leaned back in his chair. “Instead, I hope you will allow me to take advantage of what Mr. Jackson has characterized as your extensive knowledge of your island’s artistic society.”
Her pink mouth kinked up at its ends and a plump hand fluttered. “Oh, my,” she said, “I wouldn’t think of myself in that way.”
Mahsimba’s smile was elegant. “You are too modest, madame. I have visited many galleries since my arrival here, and your name and intelligence have been remarked upon wherever I have gone.”
She beamed. “How charming of you to inform me, Mr. Mahsimba. I suppose I do have some knowledge of the Vineyard’s artists and collectors.”
“I have been assured,” said Mahsimba, “that you are not only familiar with all public matters, but that many individuals confide their most private hopes and fears to you, sure in the knowledge that such confidences are completely secure. Such a reputation is enviable and rare.”
“You are too, too kind!”
“And too admiring, I assure you, to ask you to reveal any of those confidences. However, I am bold enough to hope that you will speak to me on an issue of public concern. To be precise, I am interested in your views on the possibility of illegal art sales taking place right here on your lovely island.” He raised a graceful hand. “Of course, I know that a woman of your ethical standards would be the first to condemn such activity. But often it cannot be proved, and there are only rumors of such deeds.
“Your reputation for keenness of observation, intelligence, and unbending honesty have brought me to your door in hopes that some breath, some faint wind might have carried such rumors to your ears. If so, I dare hope that you will reveal them to me, and that the ten thousand miles I have traveled to your door will not have been traveled in vain.”
“Ten thousand miles! My!” Georgie Hall’s hand lifted to her throat as she gazed at her exotic visitor. I gazed at him too, wondering how much I might also be bamboozled by his charm.
Our hostess made her decision. She leaned forward, eyes bright. “Now, I am certainly not one to spread gossip,” she said, “but I have heard…things.”
“Things?” Mahsimba’s voice became as secretive as hers.
“Well! I would be the last one to speak ill of thedead, but Matthew Duarte was not above committing, shall we say, questionable business acts. He knew everyone, of course, and certain people who had frequent dealings with him have come into possession of objects that I, for one, rather doubt they came by totally honestly.”
“Ah!” Mahsimba frowned conspiratorially and leaned closer. “Yes, I’ve heard certain names.”
“Gerald Jenkins? Am I right?” Her voice was eager, her eyes were bright.
Mahsimba said nothing, but beamed at her and leaned back in his chair.
“I knew it!” exclaimed his hostess. “And to be frank I’ve had my suspicions of Charles Mauch, too, however respectable he may seem!”
Mahsimba looked at her admiringly. “You are as keen as you are modest, Mrs. Hall. I also have it on good authority that Mr. Mauch may have certain items of questionable origins in his collection.”
Georgie Hall could not have looked more pleased. “I’m not surprised, Mr. Mahsimba. Some people have much more money than character, sad to say.”
“How true; how sad bu
t true. Have you ever heard anything about how these dubious items are transported to or from the island?”
Georgie Hall sighed. “I’m sorry to say that I can’t be of help to you in that area. I don’t know anyone in the transportation field, I’m afraid.” Her brow furrowed. “By sea or air, I would guess.”
And an excellent guess it was, I thought, since those were the only ways to get to the island.
“I’m sure you’re correct,” said Mahsimba. “To continue my poor metaphor, have any other names floated by on the wind?”
“Well, the Butterses have a small collection, of course, but I believe they brought most of their items with them when they returned from Africa.” She examined her perfect nails. “I don’t really know them well, I’m afraid, though I do see them occasionally at openings and parties.”
“Has Samuel Hopewell’s name been mentioned?”
She gave an audible sniff. “Samuel Hopewell? Samuel Hopewell is merely Matthew Duarte’s accountant. To my knowledge, he knows nothing at all about art. Certainly I’ve never heard him mentioned with regard to anything remotely aesthetic.”
So much for Samuel Hopewell. Mahsimba glanced at his watch and flowed to his feet. “You’ve been more than generous with your valuable time, Mrs. Hall, and even if other duties weren’t calling us, we would be amiss to take further advantage of you. I thank you a thousand times for your kind assistance.”
As we left he repeatedly admired her and her house, and by the time she had waved good-bye from her porch, she had invited him, but not me, to a small gathering at her home the following weekend.
As we drove away, Mahsimba allowed himself a sustained smile. “Well, J.W.,” he said. “What did you make of Mrs. Hall’s contribution to our quest?”
“Her dismissal of Sam Hopewell as anyone involved in the illegal sales of art makes him an immediate suspect.”
“She was right about Mauch.”
“True. Of course, she didn’t include herself as the benefactor of shady practices.”
“You speak of the Bakuba head. Yes, there is that. But she probably sees that purchase as a sharp business success rather than as an immoral act. Women such as Mrs. Hall only accept themselves as wicked when their questionable activities are clothed in romance. Simple theft, even of a Bakuba portrait, lacks the glamour necessary to make it acceptably amoral.”
I drove toward Gerald Jenkins’s house. “When you’re through here,” I said, “would you mind having a talk with Sam Hopewell? He should be in Duarte’s office.”
Mahsimba glanced at me. “Because Mrs. Hall’s certainty that he knows nothing about art, stolen or otherwise, makes you sure that he does?”
“Not so much that as the fact that I’d like to get into the barn where Duarte stored his artwork before selling it. I presume there’s an alarm system and that it can be turned off or on from the office. I’d like to know where the switch is. Maybe while you and Hopewell talk, I can spot it. I should have done that when I was there before, but I didn’t.”
“Perhaps I should just ask Mr. Hopewell to show us the room.”
“If he will, it’ll save me some work.”
“Have you always had criminal impulses, J.W.?”
An interesting question. After a while, I said, “Well, I can still remember stealing a piece of candy from the paper store when I was five. My father made me put it back and apologize to Mr. Irving. Since then I’ve broken all of the Commandments at one time or another.”
To my surprise he made no saucy retort, but only nodded and after a pause said, “Yes. Many of us have.”
19
Gerald Jenkins and Mahsimba had conversed for no more than five minutes before some sort of mutual recognition passed between them and I found myself following them on a tour of Jenkins’s house, listening to the two of them comment on his collection of Africana. It was as though they were old friends meeting after years of separation. We passed from room to room as they studied and critiqued sculptures, baskets, ceramics, carvings, paintings, weapons, jewelry, tools, and utensils. Jenkins was the proud but modest owner and Mahsimba was the knowledgeable, admiring guest. I was ignored.
Jenkins showed us no soapstone eagles, but when we returned to his studio he was more than willing to talk about them and express the hope that if we ever located them he’d be allowed to make a bid for them, however unlikely it was that he could afford the purchase. As we left, Mahsimba received an invitation to return soon. It was his second such invitation of the day. In the invitation tourney, it was Mahsimba two, Jackson zero.
As we drove toward West Tisbury, Mahsimba said, “Well?”
“You got the grand tour. That was more than I got.”
“He has a very fine collection. Small but elegant. I must admit that I like him.”
“I do too. I hope it’s not clouding my vision.”
He nodded. “A warm heart is important in love, but a cool head is better in this sort of work.”
The old conundrum emerged into my consciousness: Which is best? Cold heart and hot head, cold heart and cold head, hot heart and cold head, or hot heart and hot head? Or should we avoid the extremes of hot and cold, and deal only with warm and cool? What would Socrates say? Or Nietzsche? Or Archy and Mehitabel?
“While you were getting the tour,” I said, “I tried to estimate where, if anywhere, he might have a secret room for his special treasures. I couldn’t fit one inside the house, but maybe he has one in the basement.”
“It is possible,” said Mahsimba, “but my impression of Gerald Jenkins is that he displays his favorite objects.”
“Yes.”
In Duarte’s office, Hopewell was looking more rumpled than when last I’d seen him. His desk was cluttered with ledgers and papers, and his computer screen was filled with numbers. My presence did not please him but he tolerated me when I took a seat at the side of the room and left him and Mahsimba more or less alone together at his desk.
Hopewell’s fingers danced impatiently over some papers until, seemingly noticing them at their work, he placed them flat on the desk. “So you’re from Zimbabwe, eh? I’m afraid I have to admit that I don’t know where that is, except that it’s in Africa somewhere. When I grew up we had the Belgian Congo and South Africa and those are about the only countries I can remember being south of the equator. Geography was never my strong point.”
Mahsimba gave no sign of offense. “The country that was Southern Rhodesia when you were in school is now Zimbabwe. We are bounded by Zambia on the north, Mozambique on the east, Botswana on the west, and South Africa to the south.”
“It’s all pretty confusing,” said Hopewell. “All these new countries in Africa and Asia. I can’t keep up with them. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize, I’m often confused myself.” Mahsimba smiled the smile I was beginning to recognize as a calculated and effective diplomatic tool. “I take it, Mr. Hopewell, that you are not a great traveler.”
“Good Lord, no! America is good enough for me, and I’m not interested in much of that either! No, New England is more than big enough for me. In fact, I’d be hard-pressed to think of any reason to leave the Vineyard. Why go somewhere else when everything you like is right here? You know what I mean?”
Mahsimba smiled the smile. “I’m sure many people share your view. Did your late partner share your reluctance to leave your lovely island?”
“If anything, he was worse. He hated to travel and only did it if it was absolutely unavoidable and if it was within the forty-eight states. He wouldn’t even go to Canada! He disliked any food he hadn’t tasted in his mother’s kitchen, and he loathed the idea of having to learn foreign customs. I believe it was in part our shared dislike of travel that made our relationship as pleasant as it was. Whatever happened on the TV news, we were right here on Martha’s Vineyard, the best place in the world.”
“I would have imagined that dealers in international art would have to make frequent trips to foreign lands in search of new acquisit
ions.”
“Not necessary these days, Mr. Mahsimba.” Hopewell gestured first toward his computer and then toward the crowded shelves around the room. “Everything is on the Net or between covers. Matthew could bid, buy, and sell anywhere in the world without leaving this office. It’s an electronic age.”
“And once you’ve made your purchases and sales, may I ask how your goods are transported to and from the island?”
Hopewell shrugged. “By the usual means. Usually professional shipping companies, sometimes special couriers.”
“One would think being on a small island would complicate your business dealings.”
Hopewell allowed himself a smile. “If the Vineyard was a poverty-stricken pile of sand, that might be the case, but this little island is wallowing in money and people looking for ways to spend it. Any difficulties Matthew might have had transporting his merchandise were more than compensated for by his proximity to customers anxious to buy what he had to sell.” His voice became cynical. “Matthew sold them goods that allowed them to see themselves as sophisticated, not just rich. There’s always a market for such items.”
While he spoke, I let my eyes roam the office, taking in the door and windows and lingering on Matthew Duarte’s desk, whence, I noted, an electric wire led unobtrusively beneath an Oriental rug and disappeared into an inner wall. When Hopewell made his last remark, I looked at him with unexpected appreciation. He seemed less inclined than many people to rationalize his work.
“Your desk suggests that you are a man of business as much as a man of art,” Mahsimba was saying.
“Only a man of business,” replied Hopewell. “Matthew handled the art. Oh, I know what I like, but I’ve often been advised to keep my artistic opinions to myself and I’ve been smart enough to do just that. No, I handle the dollars and cents and that’s all. Matthew, God bless him, was smart enough to let me do it because he had no head for figures and knew it. We were a good team.”
“And now that he’s gone?”
Vineyard Enigma Page 11