The Art of Deception Read online

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  In memory of I.M. and Sheran

  Each morn a thousand roses brings.

  —“THE RUBAIYAT,” OMAR KHAYYAM

  What has been done will be done again;

  There is nothing new under the sun.

  —ECCLESIASTES 1:9

  1

  The Vandal

  December 1916

  It was ten days before Christmas when Inspector Lestrade called at 221b Baker Street to wish us, I assumed, the compliments of the season. But I was wholly mistaken, for he brought with him a most difficult case which defied resolution. Little did we realize that the aforementioned crime would produce tentacles which would reach into the darkest of secrets.

  Prior to laying out the details of the case, Lestrade warmed his hands before a crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in and the windows were thick with ice crystals. Only then did he take a long, deep breath as if readying himself for a problematic task. “What appeared to be trivial vandalism has now blossomed into widespread destruction of valuable art throughout the West End of London. These senseless acts have been perpetrated in exclusive galleries and always at night when there were no witnesses to be found. But there are other features which make this business entirely unique.”

  “Inspector, one must be careful in applying the term unique to a given crime, no matter how outlandish it may seem,” said my wife, Joanna, who was standing at the window watching snow fall and dust the pavement below. “If you carefully observe any criminal activity, regardless of how exceptional it may appear, you will discover it has been committed before and in most instances solved.”

  “Even those which resemble the Gordian knot?”

  “Particularly those,” Joanna replied. “For by definition, the Gordian knot presents an intractable problem, yet it can readily be solved by creative thinking.”

  “Which is why I have intruded on this most pleasant of holidays,” said Lestrade. “But I am afraid this is one knot which even you and the Watsons will have difficulty untangling.”

  “We shall see.” Joanna stepped over to an inlaid shelf that held a Persian slipper which once belonged to her father. It was in the toe of this slipper that Sherlock Holmes kept his supply of rough-cut shag tobacco. Joanna reached in for a well-rolled Turkish cigarette and carefully lighted it with a strike-anywhere match.

  “Holmes used the slipper to maintain the freshness of his tobacco,” my father reminisced.

  “I employ it for the same purpose,” said Joanna and started to pace the floor of our parlor, leaving a trail of smoke behind. “And now, Lestrade, if you would be so kind, please describe the details of the crime which brings you out on this frosty morning. Commence with the initial, trivial act.”

  “But I would think that destruction of the most valuable works of art would be more revealing,” Lestrade argued mildly. “For it is here that the vandal seems to concentrate his activities.”

  “No, no,” Joanna insisted. “We must begin at the very beginning of this tangled web if we hope to untangle it.”

  “Very well, then,” Lestrade commenced. “Some ten days ago the perpetrator broke into a pricey gallery in Kensington and proceeded to slash the painting of a handsome woman from the late Renaissance period. The work of art had already been seriously damaged by time and weather, and thus was not considered to be of great value.”

  “Was it a single cut?” asked Joanna.

  “So it would appear,” Lestrade replied. “But after slashing, the vandal ripped the painting apart, ruining it completely.”

  My father and I quickly exchanged knowing glances, for this case seemed similar to one which had occurred years earlier and involved a crazed perpetrator who was apprehended and was currently residing in an institution for the mentally ill.

  “Inspector,” I interrupted, “your case resembles that of the insane art vandal of some years back.”

  “So I believed initially,” Lestrade went on. “But there are now additional features which suggest otherwise.”

  “Such as?” I inquired.

  “This vandal has now broken into several upper-class homes, only to deface and not steal the works of art.”

  “How many homes?” Joanna asked at once.

  “Two,” Lestrade answered. “One of which is the residence of the Earl of Wessex.”

  Joanna’s brow went up. “The Earl of Wessex? The fifth in line of succession to the Crown?”

  “The same.”

  The Crown! Just the mention of it raised the investigation to another level. Lestrade now had our undivided attention and every detail would be pored over with the utmost scrutiny. Joanna abruptly stopped pacing and came over to join us at the warming, three-log fire. “Is the earl in any way connected to the art galleries which have been despoiled?”

  “He purchased a painting at Hawke and Evans a week before his home was broken into,” Lestrade replied. “This very gallery has been invaded twice by our vandal.”

  “And the name of the second home you mentioned?”

  “An elegant house on Bayswater near Hyde Park that belongs to Mr. Felix Dubose, a well-known jeweler who has stores throughout London.”

  “Does he have any relationship to the Crown?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Or to any of the involved galleries?”

  “Again none. The painting in the Dubose home was a gift from his brother who purchased it at a gallery in Paris. The brother personally carried it back to England as a surprise anniversary present.”

  Joanna said ever so slowly, “That complicates matters.”

  “Indeed.”

  Joanna began to pace once more, with her head sunk upon her chest and her hands clasped behind her. It was a sign that her brain was shifting into yet a higher gear. Back and forth she went, trying to connect the pieces of the ill-defined puzzle, but with no apparent success. She stopped briefly to tap on the window which caused some of the ice crystals to fall off, then extinguished her cigarette before coming back to the inspector. “What was the nature of the paintings which were defaced?”

  “They were all portraits of women, some young, some old,” Lestrade answered. “Most were done by Italian artists from the Renaissance period, a few by French painters named Renoir and Cézanne. I could make no connection between them, nor could the experts at the art galleries. So at this point, all we can say is that the vandal disliked women and went out of his way to deface any of their depictions.”

  “Hmm,” Joanna hummed, obviously not impressed with the inspector’s conclusion. “Was there evidence of forced entry at the crime scenes?”

  “We inspected the front and rear entrances to the galleries and homes, and found no such indication,” Lestrade replied.

  “Then, how did the vandal gain entrance?”

  “That is to be determined.”

  “That must be determined, for therein may lie a most important key to the crime.
” Joanna wrinkled her brow, concentrating on the information at hand. She nodded at one thought and shook her head at another, as if one piece of data fit while another did not. Several minutes passed before she spoke again. “I take it no clues were discovered.”

  “Only a tattered scarf,” Lestrade said and reached into his topcoat for a wrapped package. He carefully removed the wrapping to expose a soiled, old scarf which he held out like it was contaminated. “This garment, which we believe belonged to the perpetrator, was found at the scene of the latest act of vandalism.”

  Joanna asked, “Are you of the opinion that it was left behind unintentionally?”

  “So the evidence would suggest,” Lestrade responded. “The vandal was going about his work when a security guard on his rounds opened the door to the restoration section of the gallery. The vandal became alarmed and bolted, knocking the guard to the floor in the process. On his way out, the scarf became snagged on a door chain and the vandal, in his hurry, did not stop to retrieve it.”

  “Was the security guard able to describe the vandal?” Joanna inquired.

  “Unfortunately not,” Lestrade replied. “The restoration area was quite dim, for the lights were off, and all the guard could see was an ill-defined shadow moving in the darkness.”

  “Did the security guard give chase?”

  “Only after gathering himself, for the fall landed him in a stack of standing paintings and unfinished canvases. By then, the vandal had made good his escape.” Lestrade moved the scarf closer to the light of the fire to give us a better view. “As you can see, it is old and worn and appears to contain no worthwhile clues. Nevertheless, I shall show it to one of my sergeants who is quite good at tracking down the source of a given item of clothing.”

  “An excellent idea,” said Joanna. “But it is not the source of the scarf which is important here. Rather, it is the features of the man who wore it.”

  “Unfortunately there are no clues pointing to its owner.” Lestrade raised the scarf even higher and allowed it to unfold itself. “As you will note, there are no tags or written names or initials on the garment. Thus, the identification of the vandal remains a mystery.”

  “May I?” Joanna requested, reaching out a hand.

  “By all means.”

  Joanna held the scarf up to a nearby lamp and examined every square inch on both sides, first by gross inspection, then with the aid of a magnifying glass. Over and over she went through the same process, paying particular attention to the edges of the scarf and the areas where it appeared most worn. Like a bloodhound that has picked up the scent, she continued her researches, seeming to measure and remeasure with her fingers several stained markings. Finally, she sniffed at the garment and made a face, indicating the presence of a disagreeable odor.

  “Coal tar,” Joanna remarked.

  “Is that of importance?” Lestrade asked.

  “Very,” Joanna said and gave the scarf back to the inspector.

  “But surely that does not reveal the identity of the vandal.”

  “That remains unknown, but there are a few helpful hints you may find of value.” Joanna returned to the Persian slipper for another cigarette and went back to pacing. “You should be searching for a man in his middle years who once had a quite good income, but now has fallen on hard times. He is neat and tidy and cares greatly about appearance. I also note that he suffers from an obvious skin condition that affects his neck and scalp, and requires treatment with coal tar lotion.” She stopped pacing to smile at Lestrade and waited while he hurriedly took down notes.

  “You gathered all this from the old, worn scarf?” Lestrade asked incredulously.

  “There is more,” Joanna continued on. “Your vandal is tall and thin, with a height that may well reach six feet.”

  Lestrade jerked his head up abruptly. “Really, madam! You must certainly be joking.”

  “I never joke about clues,” Joanna replied. “You know my methods. I do not simply see, but observe, and all the information that I have just given you is based entirely on findings within or on the scarf. Shall I elucidate?”

  “Please do so.”

  “The scarf is made of Harris tweed, an expensive, fine weave, so we can reason the vandal was once a man of some means. Yet he continues to wear this worn, tattered garment which indicates he has fallen on hard times. I can deduce he is neat and tidy because he carefully and evenly cuts off any dangling threads, with scissors I suspect, thus attempting to remove evidence that the garment is old and threadbare. It is obvious he suffers from a chronic skin condition, for there is the distinct odor of coal tar, which is a remedy for a number of skin ailments involving the neck and scalp. Since the smell is so strong on his scarf, we can rightly reason that the skin condition affects the back of his neck as well as his scalp.”

  “How can you be aware that the vandal’s scalp is likewise involved?” Lestrade challenged. “He would not wear the scarf on top of his head.”

  “Again it was a matter of simple observation,” Joanna explained. “Stuck firmly in the coal tar lotion on the garment are long strands of hair, to which was affixed large, reddened scales which therefore must originate from the man’s scalp. Some of these strands, by the way, are gray in color while others are brown, indicating the vandal is in his middle years.”

  Even I, who was accustomed to watching Joanna arrive at extraordinary deductions from the smallest clue, had to be impressed with her ability to make so much from so little. But for her to determine the vandal’s frame and height from the scarf did seem a stretch too far. I was about to inquire into her line of reasoning, but Lestrade asked the question for me.

  “How could you possibly establish the vandal’s shape and height with any degree of exactness?” asked he.

  “I had to make some basic assumptions, but I think you will find my reasoning sound,” said Joanna. “Now, Inspector, please hold the scarf out by its ends while I take accurate measurements.” She went to a nearby drawer for a ruler and began measuring. “You will note that the garment is six inches in width, and that in its middle the coal tar stain covers five inches top to bottom. We can assume this neat, tidy man would conceal the entire back of his neck to hide his most unattractive skin condition. Thus, the man’s neck runs five inches from its top to its bottom, where the thoracic spine begins. In an individual of average stature, the length would be three to three and a half inches. Since the length of the neck almost always correlates to a person’s full measure, we can deduce the owner of the scarf is of greater than average height. Furthermore, we know that in most instances a five-inch neck belongs to a six-foot man, and thus it is reasonable to estimate our vandal is six feet tall.”

  “Remarkable,” Lestrade commented, shaking his head in wonderment. “How do you come by such information?”

  “I make it my business to know what others do not,” Joanna said nonchalantly, though for a moment she seemed pleased at the evident admiration. “The clues were sitting there, waiting to be discerned.”

  “But how then do you know he was thin?” Lestrade asked, again jotting down the data. “Tall people can also be obese.”

  “Which this individual was not,” Joanna attested. “My measurements also revealed that the width of the coal tar stain was only three inches. A neck that is five inches in length and only three inches in width at its rear must obviously be possessed by a tall, thin man.”

  “So noted,” Lestrade agreed. “But I am curious as to whether this man’s rash might be more generalized and not confined to the neck and scalp. This, too, could aid in his identification.”

  “I should leave that up to Dr. Watson and his considerable experience in the practice of medicine,” said Joanna.

  “A most excellent question, Inspector,” my father replied. “And I suspect the answer is yes. You see, the skin condition Joanna so ably described fits well with the diagnosis of psoriasis, which is characterized by red, scaly lesions that may be present on the extremities and torso as wel
l.”

  “And at times it is associated with a most deforming type of arthritis that involves the small joints of the hands,” I added. “It may also affect the fingernails, causing them to become heaped up and crusted over.”

  “So, Inspector,” Joanna summarized, “you are searching for a tall, thin man with red, scaly lesions on his neck and scalp and perhaps elsewhere on his body. He is in his middle years, with long, gray hair, and carries the distinct odor of coal tar wherever he goes. His attire and shoes are most likely worn and no doubt out of fashion, for he has now come on hard times.”

  “These are most helpful clues,” Lestrade told us, with a nod of gratitude. “We shall see if there is an individual with these characteristics who is associated with the vandalized galleries or has been seen in their vicinity. The presence of a deforming arthritis in his hands would be noticed by most.”

  “Do not count on our vandal having severe arthritis of the hands,” Joanna suggested. “Such an individual could not grasp a knife and proceed to slash a painting on thick canvas, nor tear it apart.”

  “So noted,” Lestrade said again, as he jotted down a final entry. “Your observations will be put to good use, but I am afraid they will not lead to rapid resolution which is so important at this point in time. The art galleries, which depend on Christmas sales for much of their yearly profits, are being greatly harmed by these crimes. People tend to stay away from businesses that have been vandalized, and this is particularly so for art galleries, where shoppers unjustly fear that paintings may have been damaged or somehow altered, yet still put on display. Add to this the newspapers telling of how recently purchased paintings have been traced to and torn apart in private homes, and you can understand why sales at virtually all galleries have dropped off precipitously. Some are even said to be facing bankruptcy. Thus, time is of the essence in putting a stop to this vandalism.”

  “The pressure on Scotland Yard to solve this case must be enormous,” my father ventured.