by Gerald Elias
‘Intriguing,’ Benson said. ‘So I won’t keep you. But before you hang up I just wanted you to know that Frankie Falcone returned to Boston two days ago. Lieutenant Brooks asked Sammy Rocchinelli to talk to him wearing a wire if—’
‘Let me guess. If the price was right.’
‘Exactly. And he did it. Would you like me to see if he got a tape of the conversation?’
‘No time now. Later.’ Jacobus hung up. He reignited the embers in the woodstove and threw enough logs into it to keep it going for the day.
Yumi drove. They stopped in Middleton, New York, just off Route 23. Nathaniel had cajoled Abe Spellman, a retired pharmacist and the owner of the violin, to lend it to them for the day. Without saying anything definite, Nathaniel had suggested that Boris Dedubian might be in the process of writing a book on Milanese violinmakers and might want to use photographs of Spellman’s Testore for it. If it all worked out, he hinted, the violin would be worth that much more. Spellman reluctantly handed it over to Nathaniel. ‘Take good care of my baby,’ he said as he parted with it.
They arrived at Boris Dedubian’s elegant midtown Manhattan violin shop and showroom as its doors opened at ten o’clock. Dedubian examined the violin and was baffled. Everything about the violin, bearing the label Carlo Giuseppe Testore, Milan, 1724 looked right. Everything about it appeared authentic. The dimensions, the description of the grain and varnish were exactly consistent with information on the certificate, written and dated on June 28, 1924 by his grandfather, Aram, and passed along with the violin to newer owners ever since. The handwritten certificate, No. 4005, had the proper letterhead with the address of Aram Dedubian’s New York shop on West 42nd Street – a branch of his business that had originated in Paris – in a building that had long ago been torn down:
We certify that the violin in the possession of Mr Lucien Frawley, of New Haven, Connecticut, was made by Carlo Giuseppe Testore, in Milan, in 1724, whose original label it bears.
Description: The back is formed by two pieces of very handsome maple joined at the center, having a broadish figure, which extends upward toward the edges. The sides are of the same material and match the back. The front is of spruce of the choicest selection known to this maker, of fine, even grain. The varnish is of a rich, brownish red and is unusually plentiful. The scroll is in the Maker’s best style. It is a thoroughly representative example of the year in which it was made.
The certificate bore the distinctive signature, Aram Dedubian. It was on the basis of the certificate and the fine condition of the instrument that Borlotti had written an insurance appraisal for one hundred and fifteen thousand dollars.
Boris Dedubian remeasured the instrument. It was exactly the same as what his grandfather noted on the certificate:
Length: 14 inches; Width (upper bout): 6 9/16’; Width (lower bout): 8 3/16’; Width (middle bout): 4 3/8.’
‘Everything about this instrument is right,’ Dedubian said. ‘But something about it is not right. Do you think Mr Testore would mind if we performed some minor surgery?’ Dedubian asked.
Jacobus knew what Dedubian was about to propose.
‘As long as we don’t tell the owner,’ Jacobus said. ‘We assured him we’d take care of it like it was his own baby.’
‘Well, don’t sometimes babies have their tonsils out?’ Dedubian asked, removing the strings, bridge, and chinrest from the violin. Then he proceeded to slide a tool that looked like a palette knife in between the top of the violin and the ribs, digging into the glue with a gut-wrenching crunch. After a few minutes, he gave the knife a twist and the top of the violin came off with a pop.
‘He’ll be none the wiser after I’ve glued it back on. It doesn’t hurt the violin a bit.’
Dedubian inspected the inside of the violin. Everything looked right there, too. Almost.
‘Look at this,’ he said to Nathaniel and Yumi. Jacobus could only listen.
‘The repairs here on the inside of the top. They’re well done, but it’s not my grandfather’s work. They didn’t make wooden cleats like that back then.’
‘Well, couldn’t that have been a later repairman’s work? Or Borlotti’s?’ Yumi asked.
‘I would say yes. But look, there’s as much dust on the cleats as on the plate. If the repair were more recent there would be less dust, no?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Jacobus said. ‘It could all have accumulated since the repair was done.’
‘I suppose that’s possible, but it looks like it has been there for as long as the dust on the label. Long Before Borlotti. It doesn’t add up that he did the repair but the dust was on there before.’
‘I’m not sure that’s very convincing,’ Jacobus said.
‘No. I confess, to me, either,’ Dedubian said.
Jacobus heard Dedubian tapping his fingers. On the top of the violin, he wondered?
‘I should have the original certificate in the vault,’ Dedubian continued. ‘Let’s see if they match.’
Dedubian had his receptionist, Mrs. Prince, bring some tea for everyone and retreated to his inner sanctum. He returned fifteen minutes later. His footsteps were quick and more decisive.
‘Dear friends,’ he said. ‘I can tell you with confidence that both the violin and the certificate are genuine. Genuine forgeries!’
‘Lay it out for us,’ Jacobus said.
‘Jake, I am putting the two documents side by side. On the left is the certificate you brought me from the violin’s owner. On the right is the one from my vault. For the most part they are quite the same. Since these were the days before copy machines of course there will be some minor inconsistencies, but the handwriting is the same, the paper, the ink. It is virtually identical for all intents and purposes. I am asking your friends to look closely at the filing number of the two certificates, which is found in the upper left-hand corner.’
Nathaniel and Yumi together said, ‘Four-zero-zero-five.’
‘That is exactly right,’ said Dedubian. ‘And that’s how I know the one you brought me is a forgery.’
‘I must be slow. I don’t get it,’ Jacobus.
‘Mr Williams,’ Dedubian said. ‘Fraud in this field is your expertise. Is it not?’
‘Yes!’ Nathaniel said after a lengthy pause. ‘You’re right! The ones your grandfather kept in the vault were the originals. The ones he gave to his customers would have had the word “Duplicate” or “Copy” after the number, or at least some indication that they were copies. Whoever forged this must have found a picture of the certificate at a library or on the Internet and made a hand copy.’
‘How could he have known about the paper and ink from the Internet?’ Yumi asked.
‘Easy,’ Jacobus said. ‘He could have gotten his hands on a hard copy of any other authentic Aram Dedubian certificate to give him that information. Once he had that much he could write as many of Grandpapa’s certificates as he wanted.’
‘That’s exactly right,’ Dedubian said.
‘Wait a moment,’ Nathaniel said. ‘It may be that the duplicate certificate is false, but the violin still is exactly what both of the certificates say it is. So you might not approve of the forger’s tactics, but the violin is still a Testore worth a hundred-fifteen grand.’
‘I’m afraid that’s another deception,’ Dedubian said. ‘And here’s the proof. Jake, I have a photo here of the violin for which my grandfather wrote the certificate. He took the photo himself and put his stamp on it. He did that with all the violins of value for which he wrote a certificate. The photo is black and white, but it is clear. Believe it or not, they had surprisingly good cameras in those days. Ms. Shinagawa and Mr Williams. Would you kindly look at the violin on the table and the violin in the photo?’
‘They look similar,’ Yumi said.
‘I agree,’ Nathaniel said. ‘But the photo is old.’
‘Then take this magnifying glass and look again at the photo.’
‘There’s some of the usual wear on the upper right bout
in the photo,’ Nathaniel said, ‘where the varnish is lighter.’
‘And on this violin?’ Dedubian asked.
‘On the upper left bout.’
‘Precisely. Now, you can have wear on either the upper right or the upper left, or even on both bouts. But, lady and gentlemen, the wear cannot move from one side to the other.’
‘What you’re suggesting then,’ Jacobus said, ‘is that someone first forged an otherwise genuine document, and then made a violin to fit its description. The current owner of the real Testore, who may be in China for all we know, has the real duplicate certificate, and would be none the wiser.’
‘That’s right. When we write a certificate we try to describe an instrument as accurately as we can using words. But words can be interpreted. It’s like trying to use words to describe a melody. One would have to be an exceptionally accomplished author to do that. What, really, is “handsome maple,” “broadish figure,” or “choicest spruce”? That description could be applied to hundreds of violins.
‘Mind you, though. This would not work with a Stradivari or Guarneri.’
‘Why not?’ Yumi asked.
‘Because we know of the existence of every one of their instruments. We know them like we know our own children. The documentation is much more extensive and the provenance goes back for generations, even centuries. They are almost like birth certificates. But Testore? A fine maker, yes, but no one would ever have reason to question the authenticity of this violin you brought me today when accompanied by this certificate.’
‘Then, is this violin worthless?’ Yumi asked.
‘By no means,’ said Dedubian. ‘It’s a lovely instrument. I would say it’s worth about fifteen thousand dollars.’
‘So if Borlotti made a dozen of these fakes with the fake certificates to go with them,’ Jacobus considered, ‘and he made a hundred grand on just the Testore, then Mr Borlotti made quite a nice nest egg for himself.’
‘Perhaps,’ Dedubian said. ‘It doesn’t necessarily mean he sold the violins for that much. Only that he wrote the insurance appraisals for that value. But, as you suggest, this Testore could well be only the tip of the iceberg,’ Dedubian said.
Could dollars like these be a motive for murder? Jacobus asked himself. And what could violin fraud have to do with arson? Perhaps nothing. Maybe that Boston thug, Falcone, had nothing to do with it. It still didn’t fit.
While Dedubian reglued the violin and put the strings back on, Jacobus recalled his dustup with Jimmy Ubriaco.
‘There’s one other thing you can help me with, Bo. When you ship instruments overseas, how do you do that?’
‘Very carefully, Jake, very carefully.’
‘You’re a real comedian. It’s like that joke about Carnegie Hall.’
‘You mean, “How do you get to Carnegie Hall?” “Practice! Practice!”?’
‘No. I was thinking about the one where there’s a tourist who’s in New York for the first time. He’s frustrated after a day of getting lost and goes up to a cabbie and asks, “Can you tell me how to get to Carnegie Hall or should I go fuck myself?”’
‘Ha! I’ll have to tell that to my wife, Jake!’
‘Why? Is she a cabbie?’
‘I guess you really don’t need information about shipping.’
‘Truce! Truce!’
‘If you insist. First, you see, the instrument is packed very carefully, in its own case, using Styrofoam peanuts or bubble wrap, and then in a larger box – usually plywood – that is also stuffed with shock-absorbent material. The box is labeled accurately, with many “Fragile” signs that are usually ignored, and we fill out a commercial invoice describing the contents and its value. Of course, we make sure the instrument is insured both with the owner and the shipper.’
Dedubian put the fake Testore back in its case.
‘What are we going to say to Mr Spellman?’ Yumi asked. ‘It will break his heart when he learns his violin isn’t a real Testore and that it’s worth a tenth of what he thought.’
‘I’m a very lucky man,’ Dedubian said.
‘Why do you say that, Bo?’ Jacobus asked.
‘Because I’m not the one who has to make that decision.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Before they left New York in mid-afternoon, Yumi called Marcello Bertoldo in Cremona and first apologized for calling so late at night.
‘But you didn’t!’ Bertoldo said. ‘Mama and I are just finishing our supper. Have you changed your mind? Are you coming back to me?’ he pleaded.
Yumi managed to avoid a direct no in order to ask him for a favor, to call the police and ask them what shipping information was on the bass crate that contained Borlotti’s ersatz coffin.
‘But there is no need to go to the police, princessa! The Vassari are back home and they still have the crate and the case. I will go there tomorrow myself and report back to you.’
‘But I thought they turned themselves into the authorities for their smuggling.’
‘Yes, yes. But you know, here in Italy things take time …’
Except courtship, Yumi thought.
‘Their case probably will not come before the magistrate for years.’
Yumi thanked Bertoldo and wished him and Mama goodnight.
When they returned the violin to Abe Spellman in Middleton, Nathaniel took a most diplomatic approach to breaking the news that his beloved Testore was an anonymous maker’s bastard son.
‘Mr Dedubian wanted us to convey his appreciation for letting him study your fine instrument,’ Nathaniel said. They left quickly afterward, before Spellman had a chance to ask when the book on Milanese makers would be in print.
As they passed through Main Street in Great Barrington, Jacobus asked Yumi to make a quick stop at Fly By Night, the local packing and shipping store and outlet for UPS, FedEx, and Western Union. He had thought of some questions that he should have asked Dedubian, but Simon, the manager of Fly By Night, knew everything there was to know about shipping in general.
‘Simon,’ Jacobus said, ‘I understand how instruments are packed for shipping, but now I’m thinking more about what happens after that. Once you take it to the shipper. Who exactly is the shipper, by the way?’
‘That depends,’ Simon said. ‘If it’s a small instrument it could be any airline cargo, though sometimes it’s safer and cheaper just to buy a plane ticket for someone to take it on the plane and deliver it in person.’
‘What about larger instruments, like a cello or bass?’
‘That also depends. If the total inches – length times width times depth – is over one-hundred-thirty inches it has to be shipped as freight, as opposed to regular air. We usually use FedEx Air or UPS Air – they’re the most reliable – and they’ll deliver it directly to an address. If you send it DHL they’ll deliver it to an airport, which makes it a little cheaper, but it would be your responsibility to pick it up.’
‘How much would it cost?’
‘For what, specifically?’
‘Let’s say to ship a bass in its crate overseas. In two or three days.’
Simon whistled.
‘Whew! A rough guess would be fifteen-hundred to two-thousand dollars.’
‘Would there be a customs charge?’
‘That really depends on the country.’
‘Italy?’
‘It could be exorbitant. Unless you knew the right people.’
Simon gave a little chuckle.
Jacobus thanked him. Since it was nearing the close of the business day, before going home Jacobus asked Yumi to make a call. He suggested they go to Cuppa Cabana, a new coffee shop just down the block near the Mahaiwe Theater, which would be a warmer place to call from than out on the street.
Because Ansaldo Vassari had needed to drive to the airport to pick up the crate, Jacobus discounted the likelihood it had been shipped by FedEx or UPS Air. He asked Yumi to call the DHL customer service representative and ask whether they had shipped a box – she gave him the ap
proximate dimensions – from somewhere on the east coast, probably Boston or New York, to Rome on December 25th or 26th or thereabout. She offered to give the DHL representative her cell phone number and said he could call back when they had the information.
‘Can you wait two minutes?’ the rep asked. ‘I can get it up on the computer in a jiff.’
Yumi waited. Hopeful.
‘Ma’am, the computer’s slow as molasses today. Can you hold another minute?’
She waited some more, hoping that the longer the wait, the better the news would be.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ the rep finally said. ‘We have no record of anything approximating that size going from New York-New England to Rome on those dates. I even checked the twenty-fourth and twenty-seventh. Is there anything else I can help you with today?’
Yumi thanked him and hung up. At least the coffee was good.
They made one more detour before returning to Jacobus’s house, stopping in Egremont Falls to fill Sigurd Benson in with the day’s progress, incremental as it might be, but he was neither at home nor at the schoolhouse.
‘Maybe he’s out fighting a fire,’ Jacobus said.
‘That’s not funny,’ Yumi replied.
Coming up the hill on Route 41 in Yumi’s Camaro, about a half-mile from Jacobus’s house, they were in the midst of discussing the inimitable quintuple counterpoint at the end of Mozart’s last symphony, the Symphony No. 41 in C, nicknamed the ‘Jupiter.’ They tried singing it, even though there were only three of them. So they were distracted – Nathaniel was mentioning something about it being Mozart’s legacy to the music world – when Jacobus, whose sensory apparatus was always on alert, smelled the smoke first.
As they approached the top of the hill from which Jacobus’s precarious driveway descended into the woods, the smell of smoke came through the air vent, growing acrid and stinging their eyes, bringing an uncomfortable cadence to their homage to Mozart.
‘I think it’s coming from your property, Jake,’ Nathaniel said. His voice was tense.
