“I did, but they stuck firmly to their stories,” Lestrade replied. “I am afraid you have dug a dry hole, as our American colleagues would say.”
“I think not.”
“Then which of the two do you believe guilty?”
“Both.”
An odd expression crossed Lestrade’s face. “I beg your pardon!”
“You will shortly see my reasoning,” said Joanna. “Let us begin with the near-blind lockpick.”
“Even if he is guilty, his vision is such that he can barely distinguish light from dark, and will be of little assistance in describing the vandal.”
“Blind people often sharpen their other senses which could prove of value here. You should not underestimate them, Lestrade.”
We followed the inspector into a small room that was windowless and bare except for a wooden table and three chairs, one of which was occupied by a gaunt, hollow-cheeked man, with unkempt hair and a beard that had not seen a razor for many a day. But his most remarkable feature was his hands that had long, delicate fingers, like those one might expect to find on a violinist.
“Joseph Blevins,” Lestrade introduced, “you are about to be questioned by a lady who often assists Scotland Yard. You are to answer her inquiries as if they were asked by a police officer. Any false statements will be held against you.”
“I have never been interrogated by a lady before,” said Blevins, staring past us into a sightless world. “Perhaps we should have a cup of tea for starters.”
“Tea later perhaps, but only after you have answered the questions posed to you by the daughter of Sherlock Holmes,” Joanna retorted.
The name of the great detective and his closeness to the questioner must have struck a nerve, for Blevins’s mouth dropped open to expose dreadful dental hygiene, with only a few rotten teeth remaining. He attempted to gather himself, but still spoke in a weak voice. “It does not matter who you are, for I am innocent.”
“I have an eyewitness who states otherwise,” Joanna challenged.
Blevins smiled mischievously. “How could there be an eyewitness when the night was pitch black?”
Joanna smiled back. “I did not say the crime occurred at night. How could you know this if you weren’t there?”
Blevins squirmed in his chair before an answer came to him. “The inspector asked me about my whereabouts on a particular night, so that is when the break-in must have occurred.”
“Good,” Joanna approved. “There is a brain behind your bony forehead, but let us see how you maneuver around my next question. You may wish to think before answering.”
Blevins’s nearly sightless eyes widened, now further on guard.
“Did you not feel regret when you stomped on that lovely flower bed alongside the Dubose home?” Joanna asked. “Certainly you must have sensed it.”
“How could you know it was me?”
“The eyewitness.”
“But it was the dark of night.”
“Here I am afraid your sightlessness proved to be an even greater disadvantage,” Joanna elucidated. “For in your journey alongside the house, you and your hirer passed by the window of a well-lighted kitchen. The light shined out into the garden, allowing both of you to be seen by the help as you trampled the flower bed.”
Blevins was about to come to his own defense, but then thought better of it and remained silent.
“I suggest you give it up and stop wasting our time,” Joanna demanded. “Tell us all and the good inspector might decide to be lenient, for otherwise you are facing up to ten years at Pentonville, where you will probably not live long enough to serve out your sentence.”
“Ten years for only picking a lock?” Blevins asked desperately.
“Oh, there is more to your crime than simply picking the door that allowed entrance into the Dubose home, for you performed the same task at Hawke and Evans,” Joanna went on. “It was during the latter crime that a security guard was assaulted and injured.”
“But I did not go downstairs where the assault occurred,” Blevins pleaded.
Well, well, I thought to myself, so the lockpick actually entered the art gallery, along with the vandal. But why? What purpose could he serve? The same question had apparently come to Joanna’s mind.
“Once you were inside the gallery, I take it there were other locks to be picked,” Joanna probed.
“Two,” Blevins answered. “One that led down a flight of stairs, the other to a small room off to the side of the main gallery.”
“Do you know what was behind the door to the second, smaller room?”
“An office of some sort.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Because the man who hired me instructed me to remain by the office door until he returned from downstairs.”
“Do you have any idea what he did in the office?”
“I cannot be sure, for all I heard were large pages being turned, one after another.”
“Pray tell how do you know the pages being turned were large?”
“They make a different sound than do the smaller ones.”
Joanna nodded, seemingly pleased with the new information. “Can you describe the man who hired you?”
Blevins considered the matter briefly before saying, “He was tall, close to six feet, for I had to reach up to his shoulder while he guided me. The creaking sound of his footsteps on the wooden floor—compared to mine—would indicate he was somewhat heavier than me. His clothes were old, particularly the shoulder of his coat that felt threadbare. And most annoying, he had the deep smell of coal tar embedded in his coat. So strong was it that it seeped into my own clothes as well.”
“Very good,” Joanna said, pushing her chair back.
“Madam, before you leave, please speak with the inspector about leniency,” Blevins beseeched.
“I shall do my best.”
We departed and walked quickly down a deserted corridor to a quiet alcove that was well away from the room where the questioning took place. Only then did Lestrade speak in a somewhat annoyed voice.
“You should have told me about the eyewitness,” he growled.
“There was no eyewitness,” Joanna explained. “I invented him to induce Mr. Joseph Blevins to confess to the crime. There was a lighted window in the kitchen that overlooked the garden and there was a trampled flower bed just outside the window. So I mixed in those two observations with my imaginary eyewitness and came up with a rather convincing story, wouldn’t you say?”
“Madam, you never cease to amaze me,” Lestrade said sincerely. “However, your fabricated scheme has left me with quite a problem, for I must now write a report that details how the confession was obtained from Mr. Blevins. I cannot do this without including your imaginary eyewitness, which of course is no eyewitness at all.”
“Then you are obliged not to write such a report, and thus be most lenient with the nearly sightless Joseph Blevins who I suspect will never again be a threat to society.”
“Are you suggesting we allow Joseph Blevins to go free?”
“I am suggesting you let justice and common sense supersede the written law.”
“After all, Inspector, it is Christmastime,” I chimed in.
Lestrade sighed resignedly. “Shall we be allowing the second lockpick, who you say is also guilty, to go free as well?”
“Only after he has provided us with the information we require,” replied Joanna.
We entered a small room quite similar to the one we had used to question Joseph Blevins. But the individual sitting behind a wooden table was altogether different than the emaciated Blevins. Archie Griffin was a large, well-built man, broad across the shoulders and middle-aged, with neatly combed gray hair. His clothes were presentable, with a colorful sports coat and white shirt that had its collar unbuttoned.
Lestrade again made the introductions, but on this occasion noted that Joanna was the daughter of Sherlock Holmes. If that fact moved Archie Griffin, he did not show it.
Joanna went directly to the point. “We know you are involved, Mr. Griffin, so do not waste our time denying it. There is evidence against you, but it is less than overwhelming and for that reason we can offer you a most lenient way to escape punishment. Tell us all and you walk out with a warning. If, on the other hand, you deceive us or omit details we deem to be important, you will be marched out of Scotland Yard in handcuffs, without saying good-bye to your wife and family.”
“I want a written statement to that effect,” Griffin insisted.
“Absurd demands will not advance your cause,” said Joanna. “If you must, speak in a third-person fashion.”
“Which will not be a confession and cannot be construed as such.”
“Obviously.”
Griffin cleared his throat, as if preparing for a formal presentation. “Let us say a friend of mine was approached by an unnamed person to pick the lock of an art gallery. It is a pricey place, so the lock will be difficult.”
“Was he informed that it was a Chubb detector lock?”
“Now that you mention it, I believe he was.”
“Would your friend be required to enter the gallery once the lock was picked?”
“That was an absolute requirement, as I recall, and that would make the job a bit dicier,” Griffin replied. “Pick and run is far more simple and less likely to end with a bad result.”
“Which translates into being discovered.”
“Exactly, for such galleries often employ security guards that patrol throughout the night. In any event, my friend, who was going through a prolonged slow period, showed some interest initially but it quickly faded when he learned the hirer was willing to pay only a single pound for the job. With that, my friend said good-bye and took his leave.”
“But only after telling the prospective buyer of a colleague who was down on his luck and would be willing to perform such work at a discounted price.”
“Quite so.”
“Be careful with your next answer,” Joanna warned. “Did this down-on-his-luck colleague have a particular handicap?”
“I was told he had a problem with his sight.”
“And finally, did your friend give a description of the hirer?”
“I cannot help you there, for they met in darkness in an alleyway next to a pub. According to my friend, the prospective hirer wore a thick scarf that covered his neck and lower face.”
“Did it carry an odor?”
“Coal tar, disgusting coal tar.”
With an approving nod, Joanna said, “Inspector Lestrade will see to your release shortly.”
Lestrade accompanied us to the front entrance of Scotland Yard and hailed a four-wheeler for us. Opening the door of the coach, he asked, “How did you know that both of the lockpicks were involved?”
“There were a number of clues indicating we were dealing with a nearly sightless individual,” Joanna replied. “These included the multiple scratches around the keyhole and the trampled flower bed indicating at least two individuals had walked over it in single file, as if one were leading the other. And then there was the cost of an experienced lockpick. The blind one would be far less expensive for obvious reasons and that would be an important consideration for our vandal who had fallen on hard times.”
“And the involvement of Archie Griffin?”
“The vandal would attempt to hire the best at first, and turn to the lesser talent when he had no other choice.”
As we rode away, I could not help but believe the man with the terrible dermatitis was the key player who was involved in every aspect of the criminal ongoings. For he was the vandal who knew the paintings and their locations, who hired the lockpicks and directed their activities, and who slashed the portraits to peer inside. And it was no doubt he who would place the hidden masterpiece on the black market and sell it to the highest bidder. Yet we were no closer to his identity than we were on day one.
“We have to put a face on the vandal,” I thought aloud.
“Agreed,” said Joanna.
“But where do we look next?”
“On the first floor of Hawke and Evans, for there is where it lies.”
“What is the basis for that conclusion?”
“The sound of turning pages the blind lockpick heard,” Joanna said, and leaning back on the headrest, she closed her eyes and drifted off.
12
Delvecchio
Big Ben was striking ten when our four-wheeler reached the front entrance of Hawke and Evans. As we stepped out, we noticed two constables exiting from the alleyway alongside the art gallery. They must have recognized Joanna, for both tipped their hats to her.
“Good morning, Officers,” Joanna greeted and, pointing to the alleyway, asked, “Is there some problem which brings you here this morning?”
“A minor disturbance, madam,” the taller of the constables replied. “Late last night, a security guard within the gallery thought he heard a knock on the side door. In order to investigate, he went to a barred window and shined his light into the alleyway. There was nothing to be seen, so he continued on his nightly rounds and gave it no further concern.”
“He must have had some worry, for he reported the incident,” said Joanna.
“Not to us, but to Mr. Hawke who then called us, for he wishes to take no chance that his gallery will be vandalized yet again.”
“I take it you investigated the side door.”
“We did indeed, and found nothing of interest.”
“In that case we will detain you no further.”
“Very good, madam.”
Joanna watched the constables stroll away and, when they were well out of hearing distance, said, “Let us have a quick look.”
We walked carefully down the alleyway and searched for anything out of order, but there were no signs that someone had come and gone or caused mischief in the narrow passageway. The door and its lock showed no evidence of damage or forced entry. But it was the barred window that drew Joanna’s attention. I saw nothing of interest other than the thick iron bars that were heavily rusted.
“You will note that the small window is a good fifteen feet away from the side door.”
“And?” asked I.
“And there is no way the security guard’s torch could have illuminated that door,” Joanna answered.
“But surely the vandal would not have knocked to announce his presence.”
“He would have if he wished to determine if there was a guard on duty.”
I had to smile at Joanna’s conclusion which both the constables and I overlooked. “The light shining through the window would have been a sure sign.”
“Which could have been seen at a distance, should the guard have decided to crack open the door and peer out.”
“So it would seem our vandal is determined to break into the gallery yet again.”
“Which tells us he firmly believes that this is where the masterpiece he so desperately wants is hidden.”
We hurried along to the front entrance and entered a deserted art gallery. There was not a single person to be seen, despite the Christmas season and the throngs of shoppers on the street. A slender, middle-aged clerk stepped out of the shadows to greet us as potential customers, but upon recognizing us and knowing our purpose she quickly retreated.
In a small office at the rear of the display room, we found Simon Hawke holding up a painting to the light for careful inspection.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” he remarked and placed the canvas on a stand beside his desk. “It is entitled Crucifixion for obvious reasons.”
The painting showed Christ on the cross, with his wounds spurting blood that was being collected by small, angelic figures hovering above. People gathered at the bottom of the cross, including the Virgin Mary, were clearly in mourning.
“It was painted by Bernardo Daddi, an early Italian Renaissance artist of some note,” Hawke went on. “Unfortunately, his work has never been of great value, and this particular work has been devalued
because of the badly faded angels collecting the blood of Christ. With appropriate restoration, it would become more desirable.”
“So the painting is here for a restoration?” Joanna asked.
Hawke nodded, his eyes still on the canvas. “But we are so far behind, it may well take months before Delvecchio can give it his attention.”
Joanna moved in for a closer look. “I see the Virgin Mary at the bottom of the painting is also noticeably faded.”
Hawke nodded again. “She, too, will need retouching.”
Joanna inquired, “Was this painting in the gallery the night the vandal broke in?”
“It was, awaiting restoration,” Hawke replied. “Why do you ask?”
“Because for some reason the vandal decided not to deface the feminine figure of the Virgin Mary,” Joanna noted and gave the matter more thought as she restudied the painting. “Perhaps because it was not a true portrait.”
“Perhaps.”
“Are the areas to be restored recorded in detail?”
“Oh, yes. We note and list every defect, including fading, scratches, creases, and so on. The cataloging is done in the presence of the owner and the restorer, with me standing as a witness. The document avoids any dispute once the restoration is complete.”
“Done in duplicate, I would think.”
“Most certainly, with one belonging to the owner, the other remaining here.” Hawke reached over to his desk for a large, metal ring folder, with a sturdy cardboard cover. He opened it and pointed to a front page that lay atop a stack of others. “On the Crucifixion, for example, we meticulously described the color and fading of the flying angelic figures.”
“Who actually writes the description?”
“The restorer, for he knows the words and terms that fit best.”
Joanna examined the page, paying particular scrutiny to the signatures. Then she turned to the next underlying document and the one after. “Do all these documents pertain to paintings awaiting restoration?”
“Some refer to those waiting, but most are records of those completed over the past few years.”
“Each nicely documented,” Joanna noted, and gestured to another similar, metal ring folder that lay close by. “Does that also record restorations done by Hawke and Evans?”
The Art of Deception Page 10
