The Art of Deception Read online

  “As am I,” Dubose said, and gently shifted his position. “Now tell me how I can be of help.”

  “We are tracking all of the vandalized paintings, from the moment they were purchased to the day of the defacing,” said my father. “We are in hopes this will provide clues that will lead to the apprehension of the villain.”

  “Mine was a straightforward transaction,” Dubose reported. “I stopped at an art gallery in the Marais section of Paris to browse about when I spotted the Cézanne. It was exceedingly lovely and even more expensive, but I simply had to have it.”

  “Do you recall the name of the gallery?”

  “It carries the name Galerie Galbert and it is somewhat of an artistic powerhouse, with galleries in Italy, Switzerland, and Greece.”

  “Do they have a branch in London?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Pray continue.”

  “After purchasing the Cézanne, we returned to our hotel on the Champs-Élysées, from which we departed the following day.”

  “I take it you returned by ferry?”

  “We did, and a rough journey it was, for the weather over the weekend had become storm-like, with high waves that pounded us relentlessly. I have a brake on my wheelchair which I applied, but it still required Bikram’s strong arms to keep me from bouncing about.”

  “Was the painting placed in storage aboard the ferry?”

  “Heavens, no!” Dubose replied at once. “We anticipated some turbulence, and one can readily imagine the damage it might do to a fragile painting. For that reason, the Cézanne was always in Bikram’s hands or on my lap. We were met at the dock by a motor car and driven home.”

  “Do you reside at your brother’s home?”

  “He wishes me to do so, but it would be most inconvenient, for a man in a wheelchair requires somewhat special accommodations. The doors must be widened, cabinets and shelves lowered so they can be within reach, and of course there must be no stairs or steps. My home in Notting Hill is so outfitted and, with the assistance of Bikram, I get along quite nicely.”

  “Since it was to be a surprise gift, I suspect you kept it well hidden in the event your brother paid you an unexpected visit.”

  “Exactly so, Watson. The Cézanne was covered and placed on the top shelf of a locked closet, where it remained until the day it was given to my brother.”

  A dead-end, I thought dispiritedly. Despite my father’s careful questioning, we had discovered no clues that would connect the Cézanne to the other vandalized paintings. My father and I exchanged subtle glances, indicating it was time to depart. But it was at that moment that a final question came to my father’s mind. “Was the Cézanne wrapped as a gift?”

  “Of course, for removing the wrapping adds immeasurably to the delight of receiving a gift,” Dubose answered, and looked to his aide. “Who did the wrapping for us, Bikram?”

  “The art gallery that repaired the frame, sir,” Bikram replied.

  “Yes, yes,” Dubose recalled immediately. “Several of the screws on the frame had become disjointed, so we thought it best that it be fixed by an expert.”

  “Was the expert at an art gallery?” my father asked at once.

  “Naturally,” Dubose said. “Who else would you trust with a Cézanne?”

  “And the name of this art gallery?”

  Dubose looked once more to Bikram who answered, “The very fine gallery of Hawke and Evans, where it remained for an entire day so the necessary repairs and reconditioning of the frame could be done in a most excellent manner.”

  With that information in hand, we bade Albert Dubose good-bye, with wishes for a speedy recovery, and with the very same thought in both our minds.

  Joanna now had her common denominator.

  6

  The Art Historian

  On our arrival home we found Joanna and her son waiting for us in the parlor, chatting over cups of tea. Johnny appeared to be well, but his face was a bit drawn and fatigued, no doubt from the long day that had begun at dawn.

  “Ah, Johnny,” my father greeted the boy warmly. “How nice to see you again.”

  The lad hurried over to shake my father’s and my hand, saying, “It is always a pleasure being in your company.” He moved in closer to us and sniffed at our clothes once, then twice, and asked, “Have you two been in contact with a carcass?”

  The grandson of Sherlock Holmes, I thought to myself. He not only carries the great detective’s looks, but his brain and nose as well. “Would you care to guess what we encountered?” I asked. “Was it animal or human?”

  “The odor is the same for both,” Johnny replied. “But since my dear mother told me you were visiting a hospital this morning, I would place a wager on the source being a very ill or dead human.”

  “It emanates from a patient who is quite alive,” my father replied. “But before we delve into those details, I must inquire on the status of the cholera outbreak at Eton.”

  “I am afraid it continues to spread,” Joanna answered. “There have been five more cases reported, two of whom are Johnny’s classmates. I am surprised London’s newspapers have not reported more on the particulars of this dreaded outbreak.”

  “I suspect their articles have been somewhat sketchy on numbers, so as not to unduly alarm the public,” my father surmised. “Even the editorials play down the extent of the outbreak and assure it will shortly be brought under control.”

  “Surely this is the case,” said I. “The safe water supply and modern sanitation facilities should limit the number of those afflicted.”

  “It will, but not before considerable harm is done,” my father went on. “As one editorial so wisely pointed out, cholera is not a disease of the past, but one lying in wait, and given the right set of circumstances, will strike with deadly effect.”

  “But highly unlikely in England,” I ventured.

  “And highly unlikely in Italy and Spain, yet in the past year alone outbreaks have occurred in Naples and in a fishing village south of Barcelona.” My father gave further thought to the dreadful infection before grazing over to Joanna and asking, “Are they certain the disease was brought to England by a Spanish ship?”

  Joanna nodded. “Which is believed to have become contaminated during a brief stopover in Morocco.”

  “Well, let us hope that Eton is both the beginning and the end of this outbreak, so we can devote our full energies to the art vandal,” said my father.

  “That reminds me,” Joanna interjected. “The art historian Edwin Alan Rowe called, having returned from his tour earlier than expected. He of course has heard of the art vandal and is quite eager to lend his assistance in solving this case. I took the liberty of setting a meeting with him this afternoon at the National Gallery.”

  Johnny’s lidded eyes opened noticeably. “May I inquire as to the details of this case, Mother?”

  Joanna sighed to herself, knowing there was no way to get around the lad’s inquisitive mind. She studied his face briefly, no doubt having the same thought I had earlier. He looked so much like a young Sherlock Holmes, with his long, narrow face, heavily lidded eyes, and jutted chin. “I shall give you a brief summary, but you should hold your questions until I am done.”

  “Of course, Mother.”

  Joanna outlined the case of the art vandal, describing the defacing of the paintings and the various places where the vandalism occurred. She emphasized the point that most of the destructive acts happened in art galleries, and only a few in private homes. In conclusion, she added, “Scotland Yard believes this is the work of a crazed individual. Are you of the same opinion?”

  Johnny gave the matter his fullest attention before asking, “Do the private homes invaded belong to the owners of the art galleries?”

  “They do not,” Joanna replied. “They are separate and distinct.”

  “Then how could this vandal possibly know that the paintings were in these homes?”

  “That is the key question.”
/>   A thin smile came to Johnny’s face. “Mother, I am afraid you are not dealing with a crazed person, but rather a clever one who has a purpose.”

  “Which is?”

  “To learn that, you will have to catch the villain.”

  “We may well be a step nearer to this vandal,” my father chimed in. “For my son and I have now connected the Cézanne to a local art gallery.”

  “How so?” Joanna asked at once.

  “Albert Dubose informed us,” my father continued on. “He did indeed purchase the Cézanne from a Parisian gallery and brought it back to London under the careful eye of both he and his manservant, Bikram. The only time the painting left their possession was when Bikram took it to a prominent London gallery to have its frame repaired and reconditioned. Would you care to guess the name of the gallery?”

  “Hawke and Evans,” Joanna breathed.

  “Hawke and Evans indeed.”

  “And that is where we can place our villain,” Joanna said in a rush. “Think of the various occurrences which lead to that conclusion. The Hawke and Evans gallery was broken into twice, not once, and this is more than any other gallery. Furthermore, both of the paintings in the private homes had also been retouched by hands at a single London gallery, namely Hawke and Evans.”

  “We also know that, according to Delvecchio, the slashed paintings in the other galleries were previously retouched by the restorers at Hawke and Evans,” my father added.

  “That, too,” Joanna agreed.

  “But who at Hawke and Evans might be responsible?” I asked.

  “Any of them, past or present, for none should be placed above suspicion,” Joanna replied.

  “But our main suspect—the individual with the obvious dermatitis involving the scalp and neck—does not work at Hawke and Evans,” I countered. “Lestrade told us by phone that he carefully questioned Simon Hawke in this regard and the owner emphatically stated that no one in his employ matches that description.”

  “Which complicates matters,” Joanna conceded. “Yet the man with the noticeable dermatitis is most certainly our vandal. But how he fits in at the gallery remains beyond our grasp.”

  “Could he be a hired hand?” I wondered.

  “Unlikely, but possible,” Joanna said before glancing at her watch. “Oh goodness! We must hurry or we shall be late for our meeting with Edwin Alan Rowe.”

  “May I come along, Mother?” Johnny requested.

  “I think it best that you rest, for you have had a very long day already. I believe a nap would be quite in order.”

  “But you must promise to tell me of any important knowledge the art historian imparts to you.”

  “You have my word,” Joanna assured and hurried to the coatrack. “Now we must be off, but on our way out I shall ask Miss Hudson to prepare one of her most sumptuous lunches for you.”

  “Please do not, Mother, for at the moment I have little appetite,” Johnny begged off. “Perhaps it is the fatigue that accompanies a tiresome journey and the excitement of the day which dampens my desire for lunch. After a brief respite, however, my appetite should return and I will ring for Miss Hudson whose lunches are unsurpassed and to which I always look forward.”

  We grabbed our hats and coats and hurried down the stairs, all believing that the fatigue and excitement of the day had indeed dampened Johnny’s usual keen interest in Miss Hudson’s wonderfully prepared lunches. But in retrospect, we should have known better, for his symptoms were the prodrome of something far more serious to come.

  * * *

  On entering the National Gallery, we spotted Edwin Alan Rowe at the place we were appointed to meet. Tall and slender, with long gray hair and hawklike features, he was studying van Gogh’s famous painting Sunflowers and seemed most interested in the lowest section of the canvas. Out of the corner of his eye he must have seen us, for he waved us over and, after rapid introductions, regaled us with the story that lay behind the remarkable work of art.

  “Van Gogh actually painted five Sunflowers, of which the National Gallery has one, whilst the others are spread all over the world,” Rowe informed. “What makes the paintings so unique is that they are all done in three shades of yellow and nothing else.”

  “You seemed to be focusing your attention on the lower portion of the canvas,” I inquired. “Is there a reason?”

  “I was studying his signature on the painting which of course is Vincent, his first name,” Rowe replied. “As you may know, there have been numerous attempts to forge Sunflowers, most of which were not that good. But there was one in particular that was well done and duped some of Europe’s so-called experts. We were asked to authenticate it, and determined it was a forgery based on van Gogh’s signature. You see, to age a painting, forgers use a special baking technique that produces small cracks and wrinkles in the canvas, and these of course are signs of aging. Our forger performed this task admirably, but for some reason the paint applied to produce the name Vincent remained relatively recent. Thus I always tip my hat to van Gogh’s first name.” Rowe studied the lower section of Sunflowers once again, then gave it a final nod. “But you are not here to learn of van Gogh, but to delve into the mystery of the art vandal. So, with that in mind, let us retire to a more private setting.”

  We followed him up to the second level and into a small, cramped office with barely enough room for a desk and three chairs. On the walls were photographs of men who at one time or another had occupied the upper echelon of the National Gallery. A thick mahogany door muted any sounds coming from the corridor.

  “I of course have read the newspaper accounts of the art vandal, but know little else,” Rowe began. “So please be good enough to furnish all the details and any clues you may have at your disposal.”

  Joanna provided Rowe with a concise, yet comprehensive summary, with particular emphasis on the nature and sites of the West End vandalism. She concluded by informing the historian of the connection of the destructive acts to the Hawke and Evans gallery.

  Rowe steepled his fingers and peered at us over them. “Hawke and Evans, you say?”

  “So the arrows seem to point,” Joanna replied.

  “Which raises the possibility of the said gallery collecting insurance on the damaged paintings, for Hawke and Evans is known to be hanging on the edge of financial insolvency.”

  “As a result of the recent vandalism?” asked Joanna.

  “Oh, no,” Rowe went on. “Their financial difficulties started with the death of Andrew Evans who was the founding partner and the driving force behind the gallery. Hawke was allowed in because he married Evans’s sister, and subsequently paid a large sum to have his name placed first on the signage. It was at this time that Evans’s health was failing and he wanted the extra money to provide security for his wife. In any event, it was Evans who had the eye for the art and the business acumen that is so necessary for an art gallery to thrive. When Evans passed away, the downfall of Hawke and Evans began.”

  “But why bother to slash paintings in other galleries?” Joanna pondered.

  “As a cover,” Rowe answered. “If you destroy others, it takes attention away from yours. Nevertheless, I have my doubts that this is the purpose behind the vandalism. There are too many galleries involved. One or two would be acceptable. Five would be an unnecessary exaggeration.”

  “And the vandalism at private homes surely does not fit with that notion,” said Joanna.

  “That, too,” Rowe concurred. “Which brings us to the possibility that the damage was done to stir up the restoration business for the art gallery. Restoration is most profitable, for although labor intensive, it requires little space and even less materials. It is not uncommon for extensive restoration to involve months of work which can cost a hundred pounds or more. In unscrupulous galleries, the time needed to complete the work is prolonged and the cost inflated. But this possibility is unlikely for a reason.”

  “The damage is far too extensive,” Joanna noted.

  �
��Precisely,” Rowe agreed. “Widely slashed canvases are most difficult to restore and when they are, the mending is quite noticeable unless done by a master restorer, of which there are few. The vast majority of vandals used either paint or lipstick to deface paintings, and those can be removed with solvents before the retouching is undertaken. So, with these facts in mind, I believe we can exclude insurance and restoration as causes. There must be another that fits better.”

  “There is,” said Joanna. “But I neglected an important clue which points to the most likely reason. I did this purposely so that you would give us the broad range of possibilities, and not focus on a single answer.”

  “And that clue is?”

  “The vandal made a vertical slash on all the canvases and then lifted and folded one edge.”

  “He is searching!” Rowe cried out.

  “But for what?”

  “A number of possibilities, but the most likely one is there is another painting that was hidden beneath the slashed portrait.” Rowe rubbed his hands together, clearly warming to the new subject. “Concealing one painting beneath another is an age-old device used by thieves and smugglers to hide and transport the work of art from country to country to a waiting buyer. Think about it for a moment. How often is a painting taken down and removed to ascertain if something of value lies behind it? Virtually never is the answer.”

  “Unless one knows it is there,” Joanna interjected.

  “And that raises a difficult question,” Rowe said quickly. “Allow me to give you an example. Several of the paintings slashed date back to the Italian Renaissance and have remained in their frames since that time. How could the vandal possibly know that yet another painting was hidden behind the original?”

  “Could he have read about it in some obscure document?” I suggested.

  Rowe’s eyes brightened. “An excellent idea, and one that connects to similar cases I have dealt with over the years. Mind you, these are long shots, but they would be a best fit. In one instance, a master forger on his deathbed gave his son an old letter that spoke of a hidden painting behind a painting. The son retrieved it, but was apprehended while trying to sell it on the black market. The second case was more challenging and required a court order to unravel. Here, the information was passed from brother to brother in a last will and testament. And the third case will surely draw your interest. The thief, who was also an art historian, had come across an ancient scroll while on a sabbatical leave in Italy. The scroll mentioned such a concealment, but the name of the concealed painting was written in code. The code spoke of a gallant warrior protecting the secret masterpiece, and that turned out to be Saint George Slaying the Dragon by Carlo Crivelli. With the message deciphered, my colleague devised a plan to remove the Crivelli painting, which revealed a masterpiece by none other than the great Michelangelo da Caravaggio.”