The Art of Deception

by Leonard Goldberg

  “No, madam. That folder holds the receipts for paintings I have sold to other galleries who have a client for such work,” Hawke replied. “The price is clearly noted, for on occasion the purchasing gallery may wish to return the painting if their client reneges. With such a receipt in hand, there can be no dispute as to the amount paid.”

  “Quite wise,” Joanna said, and quickly flipped through the pages which were much smaller than the restoration documents. “Such details are always of importance.”

  “Do you believe the receipts may somehow relate to the acts of vandalism?” asked Hawke.

  “Only if you can give me a reason why a returned painting might be the target of a vandal.”

  “I am afraid I cannot.”

  “Nor can I, but all gathered information may later turn out to be significant on a case such as this,” said Joanna and looked at the door. “And now, Mr. Hawke, if you would be so kind, please accompany us to the restoration section, for I have a few questions for Mr. Delvecchio.”

  Simon Hawke led the way down the stairs, after signaling to the female clerk that he would be absent momentarily. The restoration area was brightly lighted and quite warm due to the nearby central heat furnace that was hidden behind a brick wall. The restorer, Giuseppe Delvecchio, was seated in front of a painting that had the hallmarks of works done by French impressionists. It depicted well-dressed children playing in a park near a calm, blue lake that had boats upon it. We watched Delvecchio wrap a bit of cotton around a wooden dowel, then wet it with solvent and gently swirl it against the canvas. As a layer of varnish was removed, a child’s head appeared. Another dip and swirl brought out the little girl’s golden hair.

  “It appears to be a Renoir,” I commented.

  “But it is not, although its owner insists it is the work of Pierre-Auguste Renoir,” Delvecchio replied. “Most likely it was painted by Frédéric Bazille, who was a fellow student and greatly admired Renoir’s style.”

  “Did you so inform the owner?”

  “I did, but he was convinced it was an authentic, unsigned Renoir, and I saw no benefit to argue the point.” Delvecchio rose from his chair to stretch his back and asked, “Are you interested in Renoir?”

  “To a limited extent,” I replied, as rehearsed on our ride to the gallery. “It is Paolo Veronese who arouses my curiosity.”

  “Is there one particular work of his that you admire?”

  “La Bella Nani.”

  “Ah, I see you have been to visit the Countess of Wessex.”

  “I have.”

  “She considers Veronese among the greats, but not all share that opinion.”

  “Do you?”

  “No,” Delvecchio said at once. “How can you worship the work of an artist who paints a large woman with a head that is far too small for her body?”

  “It did seem a little off.”

  “Yet that oddity is considered one of his very best works.”

  “I hope you did not express that opinion to her,” Hawke interjected.

  “I may be crazy, but I am not a fool,” Delvecchio said, with a mischievous smile.

  Joanna asked, “Did she bring the painting into the gallery?”

  “No, madam,” Delvecchio answered. “She insisted I visit her home. Apparently Scotland Yard wished the painting to remain in place.”

  “To keep the crime scene intact.”

  “So I was told.”

  “Did you find her to be as well informed as I did?” I asked.

  “The countess is very knowledgeable, particularly in the paintings from the Italian Renaissance,” Delvecchio replied. “But why she places Caravaggio above Raphael is beyond me.”

  “With Veronese being well below both.”

  “All would agree to that assessment.”

  “I take it she nonetheless wished for you to restore the Veronese painting.”

  “That was her wish, but only after thoroughly investigating my credentials.” Delvecchio huffed. “She actually made a long-distance call to the Uffizi in my presence.”

  “Was she satisfied?” I asked.

  “Women like the countess are never satisfied.”

  “I say!” Hawke said indignantly.

  “I withdraw the remark, although it is true,” Delvecchio said. “She must be in control of everything, including her husband and the dog.”

  One could not but like the restorer, for like most Italians he was outspoken and forthright, but with no meanness and a pleasant spirit.

  “But I must say I got along well with the husband who knows nothing about art,” Delvecchio continued on. “And I even managed to befriend their mastiff Nelson.”

  “While I was there, the hound eyed me rather warily,” I recalled.

  “Did you give him a dog biscuit?”

  “I did not.”

  “You should have, for to a dog nothing is more important than food, and the person who provides it automatically becomes a friend.”

  “So you knew beforehand that the countess had a dog.”

  “I had no such information,” Delvecchio said. “It was only good fortune, for I always carry one for my own sweet greyhound, Mimi.”

  Joanna gestured to a water dish on the floor near the wall. “Do you bring the dog to work? Or more importantly, does she ever spend the night here?”

  A most intriguing question, I thought immediately, for the greyhound would have barked at a nighttime intruder and frightened him away. Unless of course the dog was familiar with that individual.

  “I am not permitted to bring my dog because when I did he barked incessantly,” Delvecchio said in a sad voice.

  “The barking went on and on,” Hawke added. “And was most disturbing, for it could be heard in the gallery above.”

  “It was so unusual for Mimi to behave this way, for at home she is quiet as a lamb.” Delvecchio pointed to the thick wall that enclosed the central heating furnace. “She barked and even clawed at the wall, as if she had picked up the scent of a rabbit or some other prey.”

  “A pest control expert was called in and seemed convinced that a squirrel or some other rodent had become trapped in the chimney behind the wall that had been bricked off to prevent the loss of heat, so I had to pay a mason to brick off the top of the chimney as well,” Hawke stated unhappily. “All of the masonry came at added expense, which the gallery could ill afford, with our business so depressed. And I fear that it will continue to be so unless the despicable vandal is caught.”

  “We now have a partial description of him,” I encouraged.

  “So I have been told,” Hawke said. “Inspector Lestrade inquired about a person associated with the gallery who had a red, quite noticeable rash about his neck and back of his head. No such individual has ever been employed here.”

  “Did the restorer who was a forger and supposedly fled to Australia have an obvious skin condition?” asked Joanna.

  “James Blackstone certainly did not, nor did Harry Edmunds, although the latter did suffer from terrible dandruff,” Hawke remembered.

  “Describe in detail Edmunds’s dandruff,” Joanna said at once.

  “It was quite severe, in that he would shed large white flakes that ended up on his shoulders,” Hawke recounted. “He wore a very tight beret to minimize this most unattractive shedding.”

  “Did he apply a coal tar lotion in an effort to control the dandruff?” Joanna asked.

  Hawke shrugged. “He used all sorts of remedies, but none worked well. Nevertheless, because of their peculiar odors, we insisted he use the lotion at home and not in the gallery. We were concerned the odors might seep into the canvases he worked on, perhaps by touch, which of course would be disastrous.”

  “He is our vandal!” I said excitedly.

  “But he does not have the noticeable rash that Inspector Lestrade described,” Hawke countered.

  Joanna waved away the contradiction. “Edmunds’s dermatitis was located on his scalp which he kept hidden with his tight beret. And the
large dandruff flakes you depicted were in fact small plaques of psoriasis that were embedded in the scarf the vandal unintentionally left behind.” She considered the matter further and asked, “Did Edmunds wear a scarf around his neck while at work?”

  “Never,” Hawke answered. “But he always had the collar of his coat up to mimic the French artists he so admired.”

  “Which concealed the lesions on his neck,” Joanna said, as all the pieces fell into place. “I believe Harry Edmunds is the vandal we are seeking. By chance, is Mr. Edmunds quite tall and rather thin? Does that fit his description?”

  “It does indeed.”

  “Then he is beyond a doubt our vandal,” Joanna reiterated.

  “That is impossible, for Harry Edmunds is currently imprisoned at Wormwood Scrubs where he is serving a five-year sentence,” Hawke argued. “You must admit, madam, that undeniable fact renders your conclusion quite impossible, does it not?”

  “Only if you assume that Harry Edmunds remains locked up behind the walls of the prison,” said Joanna and searched for a nearby phone.

  13

  Scotland Yard

  “Dead!” Joanna exclaimed in disbelief.

  “Quite, according to the governor of the facility,” said Lestrade.

  We were seated in the inspector’s office at Scotland Yard, listening to his every word. Moments earlier he had completed a phone call to the governor at one of His Majesty’s most secure prisons, which was located in the Hammersmith district of London.

  “Was he killed by another inmate?” asked Joanna.

  “No, but rather in an explosion,” Lestrade replied.

  “An explosion in a secure prison?” Joanna questioned. “Please explain how that could have occurred.”

  “Wormwood Scrubs is one of England’s most progressive prisons, where deserving inmates are given the opportunity to learn a trade, so they might be gainfully employed upon their release,” Lestrade elucidated. “In one of their workshops the ability to repair and restore furniture is taught, but always under careful supervision so that tools and other such instruments, which can become weapons, do not go missing. Apparently Harry Edmunds was mixing up a solvent to be used for removing old varnish when the accidental explosion happened.”

  Joanna nodded slowly. “He used a similar solvent to remove old varnish from paintings, so he would be quite experienced in doing the same to furniture.”

  “That was their thinking, madam. The prison officials were aware of his talent, and even allowed him to teach others how to go about restoring and refinishing. Edmunds was apparently in the midst of preparing a batch of solvent when another prisoner, who was smoking a cigarette, came too close to the mixture and caused a fiery explosion that killed Harry Edmunds.”

  “I take it the body was badly burned.”

  “To a crisp.”

  “Yet positive identification was still possible?”

  “I asked Governor Bradshaw the very same question and he assured me there was not the slightest doubt as to the identity of the body. First, there were several inmates who witnessed Edmunds mixing up the solvent just prior to the explosion. Next, the measurement and weight of the corpse were the same as those recorded for Edmunds upon his entrance to the jail.” Lestrade paused to review his notes from the phone call. “In addition, a ring and pocket watch engraved with his initials were found on Edmunds’s body. And finally, a careful check of the entire population at the prison revealed only one missing inmate, and that individual was Harry Edmunds.”

  “The witnesses and the ring and the engraved watch found on the body are highly suggestive, yet not proof that the body belonged to Harry Edmunds,” Joanna thought aloud. “But the fact he was missing from the prison roll is much more difficult to get around.”

  “All put together, the prison officials feel confident they have enough evidence to make a positive identification,” said Lestrade. “And the coroner who examined the body was of the same opinion.”

  Joanna reached for a cigarette in her purse and, after lighting it, began to pace the floor in Lestrade’s office. She circled a standing lamp with a brass base twice before speaking. “I am still not convinced that Harry Edmunds is dead.”

  “But the prison has proof that says he is.”

  “And we have proof that says he isn’t, for every piece of evidence clearly indicates that Harry Edmunds is our vandal.”

  “At an official inquest, do you believe your proof would supersede the judgment of a coroner who actually examined the body?”

  “You raise a good point,” Joanna acceded. “But tell me, when did Harry Edmunds’s death occur?”

  “Three weeks ago,” Lestrade replied. “So unless a burned corpse was able to pass in and out of Wormwood Scrubs as often as it wished, which of course it couldn’t, then it is impossible for Edmunds to have perpetrated the acts of vandalism that have been plaguing us for the last two weeks.”

  “Another good point,” Joanna admitted, as she continued to pace. “But my father once said that if you eliminate all other factors, then the one which remains must be the truth. It is a cardinal rule of deduction and it applies here. Thus, we must eliminate Harry Edmunds’s death for him to be the vandal.”

  “Which means you will have to disregard the coroner’s ruling,” said Lestrade.

  Joanna waved away the inspector’s argument. “Coroners for most prisons are not the sharpest knives in the drawer. Chances are he was told the name of the deceased and given the evidence which surrounded his death. He no doubt took the path of least resistance, which required the least amount of thinking. Let me assure you if this matter was under investigation for an insurance claim, the company would have surely sent in their own medical examiners to either confirm or deny the insured person had died.”

  “Do you propose that we bring in another, perhaps more expert, examiner?” Lestrade asked.

  “We have one sitting in front of you,” Joanna replied.

  “Oh yes, Dr. Watson, of course,” Lestrade recalled.

  “Who would not be swayed by the findings of others,” Joanna stated firmly.

  “Are you suggesting the body be exhumed?”

  “We may have no other choice.”

  “That will require a great deal of paperwork, for it cannot be done without a court order.”

  “Inspector, it would be in your best interest to expedite the exhumation, for the longer the permission to do so takes, the greater the chance our vandal will find the masterpiece and disappear forever.”

  “If things go well, the permit will be issued in a day’s time,” Lestrade estimated.

  “Then please begin the process immediately,” said Joanna. “By the way, where is Edmunds buried?”

  “In a potter’s field, for his wife claimed she was too impoverished to afford a proper funeral.”

  Joanna stopped pacing and gave Lestrade a lengthy look. “Too impoverished, you say?”

  “So I was told.”

  “Did you check her finances, in particular a bank account and the money it might contain?”

  “None were uncovered.”

  “Did you bother to look at her style of living to see if it matches that of a poor woman?”

  A quizzical expression crossed Lestrade’s face. “To what end?”

  “To determine if she is lying.”

  “Why would a poor widow lie on such a matter?”

  “To give a reason why she could not provide a funeral for her husband,” Joanna answered. “While the real reason was she knew the man being buried wasn’t her husband.”

  “That is a bit of a stretch,” said Lestrade.

  “But it fits, if my hypothesis is true,” Joanna asserted, and turned to me. “John, what questions should be asked prior to the exhumation?”

  “Hold on!” Lestrade interrupted. “You do realize you will be dealing with a charred corpse that is burned beyond all recognition.”

  “The flesh may be gone, but the skeleton remains intact, and that i
s where the unique findings may lie,” I explained. “You see, bones often leave behind an undeniable signature.”

  Lestrade suddenly showed great interest and searched for a notepad and pen. “Please be good enough to give me some examples, for future reference should the need arise.”

  “Very well,” I agreed. “I shall begin with the head and work my way down. If you find any of the anatomical terms confusing, do not hesitate to interrupt.”

  “Do your best to use words that the court will understand,” Lestrade requested. “Such clarification may be important when I present the argument for exhumation.”

  “I shall keep that in mind. Now starting with the skull, the examiner should look for congenital abnormalities, such as micrognathia, which is an underdeveloped jaw and gives the appearance of a person with a small, recessed chin.”

  “Which would be easily recognized in a photograph or on actually viewing such an individual,” Lestrade noted, as he wrote.

  “That is the point, Lestrade,” I said. “One must take the skeletal finding and apply it to a given appearance. In this regard, the teeth embedded in the jaw are an even better example. If the person you are trying to identify had a full set of teeth and the skull has none, you immediately know you are dealing with two individuals and not a single personage.”

  “A dentist would be an important witness in that instance.”

  “And provide indisputable testimony to the court. Such evidence was used recently in a murder trial up in Scotland.”

  Lestrade nodded to himself, obviously pleased with the case I recounted. “And I would think that a missing hand or leg would be the most convincing evidence.”

  “Quite so, for one cannot grow another limb, and if a prosthesis has been substituted, it is easily discerned,” said I.

  “Let us hope the burned corpse’s skeleton reveals such a marking, although my natural pessimism tells me that we shall not be so fortunate.”

  “To the contrary, Inspector, for in the majority of similar cases I have been involved with, the individual’s bones have left behind a personal signature.”