The Art of Deception

by Leonard Goldberg

  “Excellent!” Joanna gleefully rubbed her hands together and turned back to the forger’s wife. “You are about to be undone by a dog’s nose.”

  Before she could utter another word, Toby Two dashed into the kitchen and, ignoring Joanna, went directly to the chair that stood between a canvas and the oven. She pointed at it motionlessly, with her tail held back straight as an arrow. This type of behavior was most unusual for Toby Two, for she had a particular liking for Joanna and always went to her first where she would await a delightful scratching of her head. But on this occasion, the hound continued to point and Joanna allowed her to do so.

  Toby Two was the granddaughter of the original Toby, a dog made famous by Sherlock Holmes who worked so brilliantly with her in The Sign of the Four. The current Toby was the product of a second-generation Toby and an amorous bloodhound, which endowed her with the keenest sense of smell imaginable. The dog’s mixed breed bestowed on her the features of a long-haired spaniel, but her floppy ears, sad eyes, and snout were those of a bloodhound.

  Finally Joanna relented and came over to Toby Two to give the hound a pleasant scratch. “Picked up the scent of coal tar, have you?” she asked and reached in her purse for a lump of sugar which the dog eagerly accepted. Now that their bond was firmly reestablished, Joanna turned to my father. “I see you did exactly as I requested.”

  “On our journey over, I allowed her a brief whiff of diluted coal tar which I must say was not to her liking,” my father reported. “Yet when I tossed the small vial out of the window, she became unhappy and simply laid about.”

  “Because you traveled away from the scent and it eventually disappeared,” said Joanna.

  “Precisely so,” my father agreed. “For as we drew nearer to the Brixton address the scent reappeared and, now understanding the game was afoot, Toby Two’s tail began to wag.”

  “And she went directly to the chair because that is where Harry Edmunds sat to produce his forgeries and left the strong odor of coal tar behind,” I chimed in. “But is it not surprising that the scent stayed for such a long period of time? After all, Edmunds has not set foot in this house for months.”

  “You must keep in mind that there are two noteworthy factors in play here,” Joanna explained. “First, one finds windows in most of the house, but not the kitchen and certainly not in the enclosed, adjoining room. Thus, there is no aeration and the scents will linger on and on. Secondly, dogs have a nose that is a thousand times more sensitive than those on humans. I can assure you that, to Toby Two, the aroma of coal tar in this room is overwhelming. Yet you will note she has no interest whatsoever in the pantry.”

  “Is that of importance?” asked my father.

  “Only that it proves Charlotte Edmunds is a liar,” Joanna replied, walking into the pantry to fetch a jar of marmalade and a tin of caviar, which she presented to Toby Two. The hound remained disinterested. “Harry Edmunds never touched these expensive items, yet his wife insists he was the one who purchased them.”

  “I may have misspoken,” Charlotte said defensively.

  “Let us see where else your memory has failed.” Joanna reached for Toby Two’s leash and led the way to the staircase. “We will have a look in the bedroom which often provides the best of hiding places.”

  We all ascended the stairs and entered a cramped bedroom, with barely enough space for a bed and vanity chest. Toby Two sniffed about the bed and pillows, but appeared uninterested. However, when Joanna released Toby Two’s leash, the hound quickly bounded over to the brick fireplace which seemed too large for the room. She ignored the cold ashes and stood on her hind legs, so that she could press her nose against the midlevel of the hearth. Then she excitedly pawed at the bricks and made a most unhappy sound.

  “Hello!” Joanna exclaimed and, pulling Toby Two away, began to inspect the bricks which appeared to be mortared in place. She carefully pressed on them, one by one, until a few gave way, then did others, which allowed the stones to be removed. Joanna reached into a hidden space and extracted a thick stack of five-pound notes. Leaning down, she allowed Toby Two to smell the fresh banknotes. The dog’s tail wagged furiously.

  “How quaint,” Joanna said, and looked over to the forger’s wife. “Saving for a rainy day, were you?”

  Charlotte Edmunds had no control over the noticeable hardening of her expression.

  “All this money,” Joanna went on, “and Harry Edmunds could not lay a finger on it. You see, Scotland Yard has had this house under surveillance since the moment Edmunds was arrested for dealing on the black market with his forgeries. Even when he was imprisoned, they continued watching the house and his wife, waiting for her to resume their shady business.”

  “Was Scotland Yard that obvious?” I asked.

  “Not intentionally,” Joanna answered. “But in this neighborhood, the presence of the police would be quickly noticed and the word would spread. You can rest assured that both the now freed Edmunds and his wife knew their house was being watched.” She turned to Charlotte and asked with a thin smile, “Didn’t you, dear?”

  “They tried to be so clever,” Charlotte said bitterly.

  “Which worked to their advantage, for it kept your husband poor and forced him to go about his business on the cheap which led to mistakes. Like with his last Renoir, he is now making clumsy errors.”

  “You will never catch my Harry,” Charlotte blurted out.

  “To the contrary, he will spend his Christmas at Wormwood Scrubs,” Joanna predicted, then pulled on Toby Two’s leash. “Come on, girl. Let us see what other mischief you can stir up.”

  Down the stairs and out the back door we went, and entered a small, flowerless garden. To the rear was a wooden shed that had a thatched roof and a locked door. If there was anything of significance in the shed, Toby Two gave no indication of it. However, when the door was opened, the dog dashed in and sniffed at a wheelbarrow and tools with only a modicum of interest. I noticed there were no items that a restorer or forger would use, and no cabinets that might hold paints, brushes, or canvases. In a far corner was a dirty pine chest which Joanna opened and found empty. She tried to drag the chest aside, but she was met with resistance which required her to pull with even more force. As the chest finally moved, it produced the scraping sound of wood rubbing against wood. Toby Two instantly dashed over and began digging at the newly exposed ground. It took less than a minute for the hound to uncover a hidden, locked trapdoor that measured three-by-three feet and had atop it the carved initials HE. Charlotte was asked to open it, but refused, saying she had no key and did not know if one existed. Joanna gave her a look of disbelief, then gestured to a jimmy bar on a nearby shelf. Without permission, the sergeant from Scotland Yard grabbed the bar and used it to pry open the trapdoor. With care he extracted a large, square object that was wrapped in thick tarpaulin.

  “Shall I open it, ma’am?” the sergeant asked.

  “Please,” said Joanna.

  The sergeant slowly removed the double wrapping and held up the concealed item. It was a magnificent painting by Renoir, with his name clearly signed into it. The portrait showed two lovely girls, one a teenager, the other much younger, sitting on a terrace that was festooned with flowers. The red and blue colors were so stunning they literally dazzled the viewer.

  “I wonder what Renoir called it?” I asked.

  “Two Sisters on the Terrace,” the sergeant answered.

  Joanna spun around to the Scotland Yard officer. “Are you a Renoir aficionado?”

  “No, ma’am, but my wife is, and we have a reproduction of this very work hanging in our parlor.”

  “You may wish to mention this sighting to her, for it must so resemble the original.”

  “I shall, ma’am.”

  “And now, Sergeant,” Joanna said, refocusing her attention, “please recheck the space beneath the trapdoor and see if anything remains.”

  The sergeant reached in to the length of his arm and retrieved a much smaller item that
was wrapped in heavy sackcloth. Within were letters that had been well protected from the elements. The letters were addressed to Charlotte Edmunds and each carried a distinct postmark.

  “You have no business reading my personal mail,” Charlotte cried out.

  “Then I shall make it my business,” Joanna said as she carefully studied the postmarks. “Two of the letters were mailed weeks before your husband’s escape from Wormwood Scrubs and the third following his departure. Let us see what they have to say.”

  I peered over Joanna’s shoulder while she read from the first letter. The handwriting was neat and obviously masculine in nature.

  My dearest wife,

  I have become aware of an early release program which I plan to take advantage of. Once executed I shall be free in every regard and we can spend the rest of our days in great comfort which will be provided by the wealth to come.

  Eternally yours,

  Harry

  “Ah!” Joanna exclaimed. “He writes in code which is quite easy to decipher. The letter was sent two weeks prior to Harry Edmunds’s escape that he refers to as an early release program. Then he writes that once the plan is executed, he will be free in every regard. That is code for burning Derrick Wilson to an unrecognizable crisp so that dear Harry can take his place and be discharged from prison while everyone believes he lies dead cold in the ground. And finally he speaks of wealth to come which no doubt will be derived from the hidden masterpiece.”

  “So his wife knew of everything in advance,” said I.

  “She had to,” Joanna agreed. “How else could she understand the code?”

  “The information in outline could have been passed during her visits to the prison,” the sergeant added. “They no doubt used imprecise wording that only they could understand.”

  “Clever pair, these two,” Joanna noted, opening the second envelope after reading its postmark. “The next letter was mailed from Wormwood Scrubs a week before Edmunds’s escape.”

  Again I peered over her shoulder as she read aloud from the neatly written letter.

  My dearest wife,

  The early release program I mentioned earlier looks more and more promising. As I go through the various steps, the news may be upsetting to you, but rest assured all is not what it seems. There will be no need for tears, for in the end all will work out well.

  Eternally yours,

  Harry

  “The upsetting news is the notice she will receive that her husband died in a fiery explosion,” Joanna deciphered. “Then he writes that all is not what it seems, which translates that it was Derrick Wilson who died and not me. So she had no need for tears and thus did not provide a proper burial for him.”

  “She really should have,” I thought aloud. “A grieving widow at graveside would have added a nice touch.”

  “Indeed,” Joanna concurred, reaching for the third and final letter. “This is the one which should tell us the most, for it is dated after Harry Edmunds’s escape. With a little luck, it will speak of his future plans.”

  This letter was not as neatly written as the others, but was still clearly legible.

  My dearest wife,

  Please prepare for our future. As in your dreams, there should be two tickets to Canada in hand for early January. Be like an Angel and meet me on the Road to Paradise at a time that is special to you.

  Eternally yours,

  Harry

  “So,” Joanna interpreted, “the loving couple plan to travel to Canada in early January, no doubt on a posh ocean liner. Those tickets will be quite expensive which indicates his wife knows where their hidden money is located. It also tells us that Edmunds has narrowed down the list of paintings that could conceal the masterpiece, for why else would he request tickets be scheduled for an early January departure. That is only two weeks from now, during which time he not only has to take possession of the masterpiece, but sell it as well.”

  “Which means Harry Edmunds will strike again very soon,” I surmised.

  “That is a certainty, but where is another matter,” Joanna said, then reexamined the final letter. “And he wrote to meet his wife at a specific time and a place characterized by the words angel, road, and paradise. These three words all have their first letter capitalized, which indicates their importance.”

  The shed went silent as we attempted to decipher an address which somehow fit the three capitalized words. Could they represent a district, a street or neighborhood, or perhaps a restaurant they once frequented? The possibilities seemed endless, but we continued to seek an answer, for it represented the opportunity to capture Edmunds before or shortly after he struck again.

  Joanna reached for a cigarette, but decided against it when she considered the straw on the floor and the thatched roof of the shed. Instead, she turned to Charlotte Edmunds and warned, “You would be wise to give it up, for you are clearly an accessory to these crimes which include murder. The court may be lenient if you cooperate.”

  Charlotte parted her lips as if she was about to speak, then firmly closed them.

  “Your choice,” said Joanna before returning to the problem at hand. “Is there a street or avenue that carries the name of Angel or Paradise?”

  “There is an Old Paradise Street in Lambert,” my father offered. “And a Paradise Street in southeast London.”

  “Are there any establishments of note on those streets?” Joanna asked at once.

  “I believe there is a pub or two on the street in Lambert,” my father recalled.

  “Do their names come to you?” Joanna urged.

  My father thought back, then slowly shook his head. “It was so long ago that they may no longer be standing.”

  The sergeant suddenly snapped his fingers. “I am familiar with the Paradise Street in south London. We made a counterfeit pinch there a few years back.”

  “Is there a pub or such nearby?”

  The sergeant nodded quickly. “A pub called the Angel, for that is where the arrest took place.”

  Joanna stared at Charlotte. “You are involved neck-deep and it may work to your benefit to tell us when the meeting with your husband will take place.”

  “I know nothing,” Charlotte insisted.

  “To the contrary, you know everything and when you undergo a good and proper questioning at Scotland Yard, I believe all will be revealed.” Joanna gestured to the sergeant who placed handcuffs on the wife. “You have one last chance, Mrs. Edmunds.”

  Charlotte smirked at Joanna. “I am smart enough to know that you cannot force a wife to testify against her husband.”

  “Your testimony will not be required,” Joanna rebutted. “For the hidden money and Renoir and the letters from your husband will speak volumes.”

  “But it does not implicate me in murder.”

  “We shall let the court decide that.”

  As Charlotte was being led away, I asked, “Why in the world would she hold onto those incriminating letters?”

  “It is a fatal flaw women have,” Joanna replied. “We keep all letters from a loved one, as if they are some sort of sacred document. Women are very sentimental, you see; men are not.”

  “But in a way those letters incriminate her husband as well,” I noted.

  Joanna smiled briefly and said, “There was a famous American lawyer who once warned—‘Do right and fear no man, don’t write and fear no woman.’ These letters not only incriminate, but show that the crimes were premeditated.”

  “Edmunds will surely see the gallows, but I suspect his wife, assuming she has a good barrister, will receive a relatively light sentence.”

  “Female accessories usually do.”

  “But despite all the evidence, we are no closer to resolution,” my father interjected. “It is quite clear from the last letter that Edmunds expects to have possession of the masterpiece in the very near future, whilst we have no idea which painting hides the treasure.”

  “I do not share that opinion, Watson, for resolution is now in si
ght.”

  “How so?”

  “Because now I only require two additional pieces of evidence and I, too, will know where the masterpiece is hidden.”

  “May I ask where this information will come from?”

  Joanna glanced out into the back garden to make certain the sergeant and Charlotte Edmunds were well out of hearing distance before saying, “From a very unseemly source, which Scotland Yard would not approve of.”

  “Does this source have a name?”

  “In the underworld, they are known as the Morrison syndicate.”

  “Why call on this particular syndicate?”

  “Because they specialize in stolen masterpieces.”

  23

  An Unseemly Source

  I had never worn a disguise and had no idea how truly effective one might be. But now, looking in our bedroom mirror, I did not recognize the person staring back at me. My silver gray wig and pasted-on, matching moustache, together with my gold-rimmed spectacles, added a good twenty years to my age. At my side, Joanna was likewise unrecognizable, with a wig whose brown-gray hair was drawn back severely into a bun that was held in place by a diamond-studded barrette. She had also applied lipstick in a fashion that gave her a pinched, stern expression. To add age, she had reading glasses on the end of her nose.

  “These disguises are quite good,” I said.

  “Speak like an Afrikaner,” Joanna reminded. “When you say good, pronounce it goodt.”

  “And raise my tongue to my palate when uttering words such as great or greeting, to give the gr a harsher sound.”

  “Precisely so, dear John, for the tone of our voices will be a most important part of our disguises,” said Joanna. “They must have no doubts we are from South Africa.”

  Indeed, I thought to myself, with a bit of concentration, we should have no difficulty passing ourselves off as Malcolm and Olivia Vanderhorst, a very wealthy couple from Johannesburg, who had come to bid on the masterpiece. At least that was who the criminal syndicate was expecting on this cold, dreary London evening. The Vanderhorst name was well known throughout the Empire, for they had a substantial interest in the South African diamond industry. Their wealth could be counted in the millions.