“The very same,” she said.
“Then you must use all of your talents to catch this persona pazzi before he does more damage.”
“Why do you believe this person to be crazy?” asked Joanna who was fluent in German, and knew bits and pieces of Italian. “Have you experienced this sort of vandalism before?”
“It occurs in Italy as well,” Delvecchio replied. “But it is usually done with paint or lipstick, and never by slashing. This is someone who truly hates works of art and wishes they no longer be seen by anyone.”
“Or perhaps he hates only women,” I ventured.
“That is true so far, but who is to know what this madman will do in the future?” Delvecchio moved over to the damaged painting that now showed only half of a woman’s face. “As you can see cutting is not enough for this idiot. He has to tear the canvas apart for good measure.”
“Can it be repaired?” Joanna inquired.
Delvecchio gave the painting a long, studied look before saying, “It will take a great amount of time, for the work has been retouched on multiple occasions. Thus, not much of the original remains.”
That detail seemed to pique Joanna’s interest. “Would the vandal know that it had been retouched over and over, thereby debasing and bastardizing its intrinsic value?”
“That would be most unlikely, madam, for one cannot detect new restorations to the work by eyesight alone.” Delvecchio switched off the lights and caused the room to darken. Next he reached for a handheld ultraviolet lamp and shined its light on the half of the painting that remained intact. “You will note that there are many areas of black blotches which indicate retouching. From my earlier studies, I estimated that over seventy-five percent of the painting had new colors applied at one time or another.”
“Yet Hawke and Evans still purchased it, so the painting must have retained its value,” Joanna noted.
“Oh no, madam, this painting belongs to the Crown and we have been commissioned to do the restoration,” Delvecchio explained.
Joanna’s eyes narrowed noticeably. “To the best of your knowledge how many other vandalized paintings were ever the property of the Crown?”
“Only the one at the home of the Earl of Wessex,” Delvecchio replied. “It was given to the earl as a gift, so I was told.”
Joanna sighed briefly, signaling her disappointment at the failure to make connection between the vandal and the royal family. She glanced around at the large number of paintings waiting to be attended to by Delvecchio. “You have a considerable backlog of work ahead of you.”
“It will require months and months to clear this lot, madam, for I am the only restorer on the premises.” Delvecchio gestured to several damaged paintings on the nearby wall. “In addition, I must attempt to restore the slashed portraits from the other art galleries. These very same works were retouched here only months ago, but now the restorations will be much more difficult.”
Joanna’s eyes narrowed suddenly. “Were all the defaced portraits at the other galleries previously retouched at Hawke and Evans?”
“So it would seem, madam,” Delvecchio replied, giving the vandalized works of art a final look. “I am afraid Mr. Hawke will eventually have to bring in more restorers to assist me.”
“There is currently a great demand for skilled restorers in the art world, for they are in such short supply,” Hawke interjected. “We were most fortunate to obtain the services of Mr. Delvecchio.”
“But surely there were restorers here at Hawke and Evans before Mr. Delvecchio,” Joanna remarked. “For an art gallery of this caliber, I would have assumed you had arranged for a transition that brought in new hires as the older ones departed.”
“But sadly that was not the case, for the sudden departure of our former restoration experts was totally unexpected,” Hawke said, then went on to describe the tale in detail.
It was indeed a most sad story as yet another criminal activity had engulfed Hawke and Evans a year earlier. The gallery’s two premier restorers, one named Harry Edmunds, the other James Blackstone, had secretly used their unique skills to produce spot-on forgeries that were sold on the London black market. Copies of Renoirs and Manets were done so wonderfully well that they commanded fees of a hundred pounds or more, and were purchased the moment they appeared on the market. Some of the very best forgeries began to be shown in the homes of aristocrats, while others found their way to auction houses, where experts were called in to authenticate the paintings. They quickly determined that the works were forgeries when they discovered undeniable evidence of recent production, as well as flaws in the pigments used. Furthermore, the experts knew the locations of the original paintings, which were being held in museums and private collections outside of London.
Hawke concluded by turning to Inspector Lestrade, saying, “Scotland Yard was called in and the good inspector here devised a splendid trap on the black market for the forgers and it worked to perfection. Harry Edmunds is now residing in Wormwood Scrubs where he will spend the next five years of his life. His compatriot, James Blackstone, was never apprehended, although he was clearly implicated. Some believe he fled to Australia, for there was evidence indicating he had done so.”
“Were his bank accounts looked into?” Joanna asked.
“It was our first order of business,” Lestrade joined in. “James Blackstone had deposits of over a thousand pounds at both Lloyds and the Bank of England, which were princely sums for a man with a yearly income of less than a hundred pounds. We have kept a close eye on these accounts, and there has not been a single attempt to withdraw or transfer any of those funds. This is quite strange for a man who has disappeared and remains so, and who can never be employed again with this scandal attached to him. Nevertheless, as Mr. Hawke mentioned, there is evidence he set sail for Australia, and he may be waiting for more time to pass before reaching for his ill-gotten gains.”
“Have the Australian authorities been alerted?”
“On several occasions, but without result,” Lestrade replied. “But keep in mind, an individual can easily vanish in that vast country.”
“Particularly so in what they refer to as the bush,” my father said.
“And even more so in their outback,” Lestrade added.
“I am surprised this crime was never covered by the newspapers,” Joanna remarked. “I do not recall having read of it.”
“We begged the inspector to remain close-lipped and not disclose these forgeries, for had they become known our gallery would have been ruined forever,” Hawke said, giving Lestrade a sincere nod of gratitude. “No one would have ever purchased a painting from us, and for good reason. The very last thing a reputable art gallery wants is to have its name associated with forgery. With such a crime hanging over our heads, every painting would become suspect. And of course the Crown, for whom we do considerable restoration work, would be obliged to withdraw from any further affiliation with Hawke and Evans. Word of this impending disaster never leaked, thanks to the inspector.”
“Well done, Lestrade,” Joanna lauded, but with a sly smile to my father and me. We were very much aware that the inspector would go to great ends to inform the newspapers and magazines of any crime solved by Scotland Yard. These publications would in turn heap great praise on the Yard and those involved, thus covering for their abysmal failure rate when it came to crime solving. I can only begin to imagine the immense pressure placed on Lestrade by higher-ups to keep his investigation secret in every way. Otherwise, every detail of the forgeries would have been publicly disclosed.
Joanna returned her attention to the figures depicted in the defaced paintings. She studied the faces and religious icons at length before asking, “Did the vandal concentrate his efforts on symbols of Christianity?”
“So it would appear,” Delvecchio replied. “It was the Madonna he seemed most interested in disfiguring.”
“Was the slash made in the sign of the cross?”
“No, madam. It was random and mad
e only to disfigure.”
Joanna cautiously used the tip of a finger to lift up the torn edge of the painting, so she could peek behind it. Its backing had taken on a brownish hue with age and had no markings upon it. “Were the backings of the five ruined pieces also slashed?”
“No, madam. They remained pristine in every instance.”
The loud hum of an electric fan abruptly filled the air and for the moment drowned out further conversation. A hot draft from an overhead duct blew down on us and quickly warmed the basement further. The duct itself penetrated through a thick brick wall that closed off the far end of the room.
“It will shortly quiet down,” Hawke said, then waited patiently as the noise of the fan began to dissipate. “We had a central heating unit installed, which helps protect our paintings, particularly those undergoing restoration. Mr. Delvecchio insisted on it, for without it he could not guarantee his work.”
“Is the room temperature that important?” my father inquired.
“It is not so much the temperature, Dr. Watson, but rather the humidity and cleanliness of the air,” Hawke replied. “Our restorer can explain it best.”
“When it comes to paintings, dryness protects while humidity destroys,” Delvecchio elucidated. “That is why the figures painted on the walls of the Egyptian pyramids have survived for thousands of years. The dry desert air protects them, you see. Prior to my arrival, Mr. Hawke used a coal-burning stove and fireplace to heat the area. It was not very effective and, in addition, it polluted the air with dust particles. The new system is far superior in every regard.”
“And far more expensive,” Hawke noted, and pointed to the brick enclosure. “The installers surrounded the furnace with bricks on all sides to limit the escape of heat and particles produced. We had primarily walled off the fireplace for the same reason.”
“And to eliminate the bad smell,” Delvecchio added.
Hawke groaned under his breath at the remembrance. “Apparently several large rats or squirrels had found their way into the chimney where they became trapped and died, leaving a most unpleasant odor behind. When the fireplace was closed off, the heat no longer escaped and the odor never recurred.”
Joanna carefully placed a wetted fingertip on the brick enclosure in several places above and below her shoulders. “The bricks are warm, but not hot, which indicates they are serving their purpose well. This also of course permits the heat to be more evenly distributed.”
“Just as the installers predicted,” Hawke said, but then a quizzical look crossed his face. “Are the warmed bricks in any way related to the acts of violence?”
“I think not,” Joanna replied, but she eyed the enclosure again, side to side, ceiling to floor, as if measuring it. “The furnace within must be quite large.”
“So large it had to be disassembled before it could be moved into the building.”
Joanna nodded, apparently satisfied with the explanation. She then strolled over to the three remaining defaced paintings and studied them at length. I saw nothing that distinguished them from the other ruined portraits. The slashes went across the Virgin Mary’s face, splitting the canvas into two. In one painting the religious icons were badly damaged, while in the others the icons remained unharmed. If there was another signature to the vandal’s work, I could not detect it. Now Joanna was repeating the same inspection she had performed on the other canvases. She gently inserted a finger between the cut edges and pulled one side open. Then she peered in, at first with the naked eye, then with a magnifying glass.
“Are there any clues present?” Hawke asked anxiously.
“Only those telling us that we are dealing with a very deliberate vandal,” replied Joanna, and turned to Delvecchio. “I take it the backings of these paintings have not been replaced?”
“No, madam. There was no need, for they remained pristine and unscarred.”
“Ah, so you had mentioned,” Joanna said, as if reminding herself. “Well then, we won’t intrude further on your valuable time. But I would suggest, Mr. Hawke, that you change the lock on the door in the alleyway to a newer and perhaps improved model.”
Hawke’s brow wrinkled with concern. “Do you expect the vandal to return here yet again?”
“I do.”
“Based on what?”
“The singular fact that he was interrupted while here last,” Joanna replied. “I am afraid our vandal has unfinished work at Hawke and Evans.”
“Then we shall prepare for him with surprises even he could not anticipate,” Hawke vowed.
“Do not underestimate this vandal, for he is most clever,” Joanna cautioned.
“May I remind you, madam, that there are only two entrances into this gallery and I can assure you both will be closely guarded.”
“And I assure you, sir, that our vandal will be much aware of this very same fact.”
Joanna’s warning gave little comfort to Simon Hawke, but it was the truth and the owner needed to be forewarned. It was clear to all that a rapid resolution was not to be had in this case, and on that rather pessimistic note we departed the gallery.
Outside, we gathered in a circle and pulled up our collars against the chilled wind and falling snow. Christmas shoppers were now out in force, entering and leaving the shops up and down the fashionable avenue. But none even approached Hawke and Evans, and none would until this dreadful case was solved.
We held our silence as a group of carolers, all splendidly dressed in Victorian attire, passed by us on the footpath singing the sweet “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” More than a few of the shoppers, with wrapped gifts in hand, gathered around the young carolers and happily joined in the most pleasant Christmas song. Their merriment did little to raise my spirits, for I feared we remained in the dark as to the who and why of the baffling case before us. Inspector Lestrade seemed to share my opinion.
“I am afraid we have come up empty,” he said, shivering against the cold. “I saw no new clues.”
“There are a few which could prove helpful,” Joanna suggested.
“Such as, madam?”
“The lockpick.”
“But there are hundreds of lockpicks in London,” Lestrade countered. “And most of them are quite good.”
“But not good enough to penetrate a Chubb detector lock,” Joanna went on. “Such a feat would require a master lockpick who towers above the others. How many can fit into that category, Inspector? I will wager very few.”
Lestrade gave the matter thought as he tapped a finger against his chin. He then considered the question further, now moving his lips while he counted. “Three come to mind, madam. There is Samuel Marr who we can eliminate, for he is currently serving a sentence at Pentonville.”
“But he was caught!” Joanna challenged.
“Only because one of his crew ratted on him,” Lestrade explained. “The other two worthy of consideration are Joseph Blevins and Archie Griffin, both sharp as a knife and always one step ahead of Scotland Yard.”
“Who is the more needy of the two?”
“Blevins, for he is said to be going blind.”
And thus he would be the less costly of the pair, I thought to myself, remembering that our vandal was a man of limited means. But would a blind man still be picking locks? Of course he would. Picking a lock depends on feel and not sight.
“Then it is he who you must start with,” Joanna said.
“Neither will confess, madam, for it is not in their best interest to do so,” Lestrade pointed out. “A confession would send them to prison and both know it. There is no getting around that.”
“Oh, but there is, Inspector,” said Joanna. “Bring the pair in for questioning that is to be done at Scotland Yard, which will emphasize the gravity of the situation. Place each in a separate room and tell them you know of their involvement in the crime at Hawke and Evans, mentioning an eyewitness who will remain nameless. If they describe the man who hired them, they will be set free with a warning. If they refuse, they
will be charged and can expect the worst.”
Lestrade nodded slowly. “They would certainly have no allegiance to the vandal, and would wish only to save their own skin.”
“Precisely,” Joanna agreed, clearly warming to the plan. “You might also inform each that failure to identify the vandal will add significantly to their sentences.”
“You do of course realize that in all likelihood they will not know the vandal’s true name.”
“But they will know his face and that is what we require at this point in time.”
“Let us hope one of these fish bite.”
“Use the correct bait and he will.”
We hurried to the warmth of our waiting four-wheeler and remained silent as we rode back to 221b Baker Street where we hoped to indulge in one of Miss Hudson’s sumptuous brunches. The snow was falling heavily now and a very white Christmas seemed assured, but the joy of the season would certainly not visit the art galleries in the West End. My mind returned to the Hawke and Evans gallery where so little was learned. I could think of nothing that would lead us in one direction or another, and attempting to track down the vandal via the lockpick he hired seemed a long shot indeed.
“What bothers you so, John?” Joanna asked, breaking into my thoughts. “And before you inquire, I determined you are bothered because of the tightening of your jaw and the stern expression on your face. You appear to be a man trying to solve an unsolvable riddle.”
“I see so few clues in this case. All we have at our disposal are slashed paintings and a picked lock, which leaves us quite in the dark.”
“Ah, but there is more.”
“Such as?”
“The backings of the five slashed paintings.”
“You consider them to be important?”
“Exceedingly so.”
“Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my attention?”
“To the curious nature of the backings.”
The Art of Deception Page 3
