Duplicity

by Sara Rosett

  “But Mr. Carter has had free run of the house for years. Until our arrival, it doesn’t sound as if anyone used the small sitting room. He could have had both the original and a copy up here, and no one would have noticed. He’d need a canvas, though.” Olive said. “I wonder if he made his own?” She waved her hand, dismissing the thought almost immediately. “No, he’d find an easier way.”

  “It would be rather a lot of work for him to go to—making a wooden frame and stretching the canvas . . . especially when he was surrounded by artwork.” Jasper looked at the stack of paintings leaning against the wall.

  Olive bounced on her toes. “Oh! The inventory. The original one from before the war.” She dashed across the wooden floorboards and retrieved the paperwork, paging through the older inventory that Sebastian had given her before she arrived at Hawthorne House. She’d been putting a tick beside each painting as they re-inventoried Sebastian’s collection. She skimmed down the row of checks, then pointed to a blank space. “This one. It’s the only one we haven’t found. Summer landscape with flowers is the description. It measures thirteen and three-quarters inches by ten and a half.”

  Jasper flipped through the freshly typed inventory. “Let me check the entry for Woman in a White Fur . . .” He grinned. “It’s the same size.”

  Olive took the tape measure from her pocket and laid it on the floor next to the line of paint. “Thirteen and three-quarters inches. Just the same as the painting from the old inventory that we haven’t found.”

  “Oh, I think we know where it is. It has a fresh coat of purple and white over it, and I bet Carter is on his way to deliver it to one unspecified foreign gentleman.”

  Olive stood and slipped the tape measure into her pocket. “I’d better find Sebastian and give him the news. I hope the good news that he’s lost a minor landscape outweighs the fact that it seems Mr. Carter made a copy of one of his favorite paintings.”

  “As long as his Woman in a White Fur is the original, I think he’ll be quite happy.”

  As they bumped down the drive the next morning, Jasper’s motor rattled and shuttered with every dip in the road. “Well done, old bean. You inventoried an art collection and uncovered a forgery.”

  “We did.”

  “I’m only a lowly assistant, remember.”

  “You’re much more than an assistant, Jasper.”

  “I should hope so. Who else can you count on to traipse about the countryside in the dark of night?”

  “Only you, Jasper.”

  He nodded. “That’s correct.”

  “I’m glad we sorted out that Mr. Carter made a copy of Woman in a White Fur, but I do hate to leave without knowing exactly what happened.”

  “We have most of the answers. Mr. Carter was an artist and had the skill to copy the painting.”

  Sebastian had confirmed that Carter had shown artistic talent in his youth and had studied art at university. Carter had dabbled in painting, but he’d had more success in copying other artists than with his original artwork, so he’d abandoned a career in art—at least for a while. Sebastian had contacted the local police, who’d spread word to London and Scotland Yard, but there had been no sightings of him yet.

  Thankfully, Sebastian had reacted as Jasper predicted. Sebastian’s main concern was for his painting, Woman in a White Fur. He’d even thanked Olive for exposing Carter’s actions. “You’ve rousted the man out of my life. I predict he’ll take his forgery and pawn it off on some unsuspecting boob, then he’ll lose all the blunt in some glamorous location like Monte Carlo. That’s where the police should look for him—in the playgrounds of the wealthy. Of course, I doubt they’ll find him. He’s the sort who will live by sponging off others. He’ll hopscotch from one wealthy widow to another so quickly that I’m sure he’ll stay out of the police’s crosshairs.”

  The car bounced in and out of a rut, and Olive clamped her hat to her head to keep it from slipping over her eyes. “I know we worked out what happened here at Hawthorne House, but what about who Mr. Carter was going to sell his copy to? Aren’t you curious?”

  “Of course I’d like to know, but sometimes we don’t get all the answers.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I do hope that someday it’s all sorted out.”

  Jasper slowed to maneuver the motor through the hedgerow that bounded the grounds of the estate. “These things have a way of working themselves out. It might take years, but I’m sure the forgery will eventually come to light. Someone will figure out there are two paintings of Woman in a White Fur.”

  Olive gripped the seat as Jasper turned onto the road and they accelerated away from Hawthorne House. “Then the issue will be figuring out which is the original and which is the forgery.”

  31

  Zoe

  Present Day

  * * *

  Zoe put down the last page of Olive’s report—and she knew it was the last page because the text stopped halfway down, and Olive had signed her name under the last typewritten line. “Well, now we know where Woman in a White Fur was when it went missing in nineteen twenty-three—the attic of Hawthorne House. We just don’t know where it is now.”

  “It sounds as if Pieter has it,” Jack said, “according to your conversation with him.”

  “Yes, I think he probably does have it.” Zoe returned the pages to the envelope and put it deep in her messenger bag. “I think a visit to Lux is in order.”

  “Thinking of a little more B and E after the store closes to see if Pieter hid the paintings there? That’s how these things go. You get a taste for it, the adrenaline rush, and then—”

  “Just a little observation. I want to see what Pieter does when he leaves work.”

  “You want to follow him home, see where he lives.”

  “Possibly.”

  “And then do a little B and E.”

  “No. I promised. No more of that sort of thing. I just want to see how he looks and where he goes. Check up on him.”

  “Just keep an eye on him. Right. Got it.”

  The rain had stopped, but a layer of nearly translucent clouds veiled the sky as they walked to the Nine Little Streets area of Amsterdam. Pieter was still at work in Lux. It was easy to spot his ginger hair through the shop’s window. Zoe and Jack found a restaurant down the street and had no trouble getting a table on the damp outdoor patio where they could keep the store in view. They ordered a dinner of steak and Vlaamse Frites.

  Zoe savored the crisply fried strips of potatoes, then asked, “What do you think about Farina’s story?”

  Jack paused, his knife and fork poised over his steak. “You don’t think she’s telling the truth? That’s quite a story to invent.”

  “I know, but Farina is the type of person who likes drama and . . . flamboyance.”

  “You think she’s exaggerating?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Zoe took a sip of her drink, her gaze fixed on the shop down the street. “But I don’t completely trust her.” Zoe put down her glass. “Pieter is leaving.”

  Jack didn’t turn around. “Closing up?” He signaled for the check.

  “No. There must be somebody else doing that tonight. He’s just walking down the street.”

  “Might be a smoke break. You go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

  Zoe settled her messenger bag over her shoulder and set off at a slow pace. There was plenty of foot traffic and she wasn’t worried about Pieter noticing her, but she still left plenty of space between them as she trailed him to the canal. He turned left and paced along the water at a good clip until he came to a bar. Zoe walked by the bar and got in line at a stroopwafel stall where she could keep an eye on the bar. It was in a building that had been updated. Four large plate-glass windows lined the street. The interior was done up in a modern aesthetic with chrome bar stools and white walls. The only color came from the row of televisions across the back wall, flashing news and sports.

  Zoe texted Jack her location, and he joined her a few moments later
. “I got a quick look as I went by,” he said. “Pieter’s at the bar, having a drink by himself.”

  Zoe handed him a paper-wrapped stroopwafel. “Dessert.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Let’s go over to that bench under the trees that faces the canal.” Zoe took a seat and watched one of the low glass-enclosed water tour boats cruise by. “Can you see him?”

  Jack was turned toward her, his arm propped up along the back of the bench as he looked over her shoulder. “Yes. He’s still at the bar, watching the televisions.” They finished their stroopwafel while Pieter sipped his drink. “He doesn’t look too worried or seem to be in a hurry,” Jack reported. He crumpled his paper wrapper and reached for hers. “I’ll throw them away.”

  While he went in search of a trashcan, Zoe slid over and took up his position on the bench, angled so she could watch Pieter. He was chatting with the bartender, but then his head whipped up, and he focused all his attention on one of the televisions. The bartender moved away, but Pieter remained completely still, his gaze riveted on the TV.

  Zoe squished down so she could see what he was watching. An image of Woman in a White Fur filled the screen, then a photo of Vokos replaced it. After a few minutes the video switched to another story. The moment the video ended, Pieter tossed some money on the bar and stood, leaving his half-full glass. He surged out of the door and was striding down the street by the time Jack returned. Zoe said, “Pieter’s on the move,” as Jack fell into step with her.

  “He’s almost jogging,” Jack said as they raced along, threading through pedestrians to keep Pieter’s bright head in sight. “Maybe he’s late for something?”

  Zoe shook her head. “I don’t think so. A news report about the de Lempicka painting came on, and he flew out of there the moment it ended.”

  “Interesting.” They had to drop back when Pieter left the bustling tourist area around the canals. The streets were pleasant and wide, each side lined with parked cars and bicycle racks below rows of modern multistory apartments. After several blocks, Pieter trotted up the steps to the double glass doors of one of the apartment buildings, punched in a code, and disappeared inside.

  They crossed to the opposite side of the street, still keeping well back. The trees that lined the street along with the rows of parked cars provided some cover, but Zoe still felt exposed in the quiet residential area.

  Jack looked at Zoe. “Now what?”

  “I don’t know. We can’t stay here. If he comes out, he’ll see us right away.”

  “Let’s walk past his building to the street at the other end.” Jack moved so he was on the side by the apartment. The block dead-ended into a busy four-lane road with a tram stop. They could just see the door to Pieter’s apartment building, and they lingered on the corner for a bit with Jack’s head bent over his map as if they were lost tourists.

  After two helpful Dutch citizens offered to help them find their destination, Zoe said, “This isn’t doing us any good. We might as well head back to our hotel. It’ll be dark soon. We can’t stand around here all night. At least we know where he lives now.”

  “We think it’s where he lives. He might be visiting someone.”

  “Good point.”

  Jack changed out his map for his phone. “We might be able to find out, though. What did Farina say his last name was?”

  Zoe stared at the sidewalk for a moment, then looked up. “Ecker. That was it. Pieter Ecker.”

  He checked the street sign and began tapping on his phone. After a few seconds, he said, “The internet comes through again. There are a couple of links to Pieter with this street address, so I’d say this is probably where he lives.”

  Zoe grabbed Jack’s arm and pulled him around the corner of the building, out of sight of the apartment. “Pieter just came out again, and he has a long narrow tube like the kind you use to carry rolled blueprints—or paintings.”

  “That news story must’ve spooked him.”

  Zoe inched around the building to keep an eye on Pieter, who headed in the opposite direction from them. He threaded his arm through a strap attached to the tube and adjusted it so the tube rested on his back, then he bent over one of the bike racks.

  “Oh no.” Zoe gripped Jack’s arm. “He’s getting on a bicycle. We’ll never be able to keep up with him.”

  Jack scanned the street and zeroed in on a hotel. “There are two taxis in front of that hotel. I’m on it.”

  Jack sprinted away while Zoe kept an eye on Pieter. He settled on the bike and pedaled down the street away from her.

  A taxi cruised to stop beside her. Jack swung open the door.

  The driver asked, “Where to now?”

  Zoe slammed the door. “Down the street. Follow that—um—bike.” She leaned back against the seat. “Now’s there something I never thought I’d say.”

  32

  As the taxi cruised through the streets, Jack leaned forward. “Don’t get too close.”

  The taxi driver gave them a curious glance in the rearview mirror but eased off the gas. After a couple of blocks, they reached the busy tourist area. Their driver didn’t have trouble following Pieter because he stayed on the road that followed the canal.

  The driver said, “You know bikes can go places cars can’t. I may not be able to follow him.”

  “Then let’s just hope he stays on the main roads. If he turns off to a pedestrian area, we’ll get out.” Zoe gripped the back of the seat and pulled herself up straighter so she could have a better view ahead of them.

  Jack followed her gaze. “What is it?”

  “I think we might not be the only ones following Pieter. I can just see a woman with whitish blonde hair on a bike weaving along not too far behind him.”

  “Farina?”

  “Looks like it. Although I didn’t see her on the street where Pieter lived.”

  “If it’s her, she must’ve been lingering somewhere, watching him like we were. I’m getting rusty if I missed her.”

  “She could have been in another building,” Zoe pointed out.

  Pieter stayed on the main road, following the curve of the canal, then he turned and navigated around the trams, cars, and pedestrians in the Leidseplein, a large square with restaurants and hotels. All the while, the blonde woman pedaled a few yards behind him.

  As their taxi turned toward the Leidseplein, Zoe caught a glimpse of the woman’s profile. “It is Farina.”

  Their driver edged through a light at the last moment and followed Pieter over another canal bridge. The entrance to Vondelpark was congested, and they had to wait at a red light. Pieter and Farina disappeared into a phalanx of bike riders beyond the red light. The light changed, and Zoe scanned the throngs of people biking as they surged forward. “I don’t see either Pieter or Farina now.”

  Jack pointed. “There. Pieter’s heading for the Rijksmuseum. I don’t see Farina, though.”

  The driver switched lanes, shaking his head. “I can’t go in there—”

  “We’ll get out here.” Zoe was already swinging the car door open as they coasted to a stop. Jack handed the driver some euros, and they scrambled out.

  They jogged through the arched tunnel that cut through the museum. The Rijksmuseum was still open, and late evening museumgoers were milling around the doors. They threaded through the clusters of people, then lengthened their strides as they cleared the other end of the tunnel, coming out into the twilight. Their pace slowed to a jog, then they both stopped as they neared the shallow reflecting pool. “So many people!” Zoe said. “How will we ever find them again?”

  “Look for people with bikes. That hardly narrows it down in Amsterdam, but it’s something,” Jack said as they skirted around the reflecting pool. The Museumplein stretched out in front of them. The smooth rounded wall of the Van Gogh Museum glowed, its glass wall illuminating the walkway between it and the other museums. Sidewalks crisscrossed the wet grassy area, and people were ambling along while children kicked soccer balls, sending
up sprays of water from the damp lawn. Beyond the gift shop, food stalls lined one side of the open area. Some of the stalls were closed, but several had remained open to serve the late museum crowd. Zoe scanned the people milling around the stalls. She reached for Jack to pull him in the direction she was looking. “By the herring stand. That’s Farina.”

  They dashed forward, but a large group of tourists following a tour guide cut between them and the food stalls. By the time they worked through the crowd, Farina was gone.

  Zoe’s phone buzzed, and she dug in her messenger bag. The number was familiar. “It’s Pieter.”

  Quick, rough breaths came across the line when she answered, then Pieter said, “You didn’t say that Vokos was involved in this.” The sounds of wind and the distant laughter of kids came through the phone.

  He couldn’t have gone far. He was obviously still outdoors. “Vokos?” Zoe asked, playing for time as she turned in a slow circle, skimming the crowd for Pieter’s ginger hair.

  “Yeah, Vokos. I’m not messing with him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If he has anything to do with . . . what we discussed earlier today, then I’m not involved.” His breath was choppy, and Zoe had to strain to hear his words over the sound of a tram bell.

  Zoe whirled around to look for the nearest tram stop. As she moved, she mouthed the words to Jack, he’s near a tram.

  Jack jogged closer to the stop by the Van Gogh gift shop, then came back, shaking his head. “I don’t see him.”

  Pieter was probably riding away on his bike and had been passing a tram as it slowed at a stop. Pieter’s rough breathing drew her attention back to the phone conversation. “So I’m not involved. Do you understand that? I had nothing to do with anything. As far as you’re concerned, you never talked to me.”

  Zoe opened her mouth to tell him she couldn’t make any promises, but Pieter didn’t pause. “I’m out. Done. Go to the Museumplein, to the stall selling herring. It’s the first one you come to when you walk from the Rijks down to the Van Gogh. Go to the middle table and have a look around.”