by Thomas Swan
“Most of the papers consist of personal correspondence, bank records, and property deeds. But the remaining papers are pure gold. Melzi had made an inventory of the volumes he inherited, an astounding collection of information by itself. Further, he had begun to copy Leonardo’s manuscripts and either stopped in frustration because of the immensity of the project or, as is most likely, he died.”
“He had started to make duplicates of Leonardo’s work?”
Jonas laughed and patted Stiehl’s arm. “No, he didn’t possess your talent. Though remember, Melzi was an artist of fair ability, trained by none other than Leonardo.
“He copied three hundred and six pages, perhaps more, but Giorgio discovered that number. Two hundred and fifty pages are Melzi’s copies of Leonardo’s sheets that are now in various libraries—principally the Ambrosiana and the Institut de France in Paris.”
Jonas leaned forward and whispered, “But hear this, my young friend. Fourteen folios contain what Giorgio is convinced are Melzi’s copies of Leonardo’s drawings and commentaries.” Jonas was whispering, “Can you imagine the value if they were original Leonardos?”
“How valuable?” Stiehl whispered back.
“If they were authentic and each half folio had at least one large drawing to a side, each half folio would go at auction for not a penny under five million dollars. So much depends on the drawing—its size, whether or not it can be recognized as a preliminary study for one of his paintings.
“As there are fourteen folios, or twenty-eight sheets, the value reaches to as much as a hundred and forty million dollars.” His lips curled to form the familiar “O,” his pleasure duly recorded.
“Why haven’t you told me this before?” Stiehl asked.
“You were fresh out of prison, remember? I had no idea how you would react to such numbers. More importantly, I wanted you to prove you were as good as I hoped. You’ve worked hard and your only motivation has been to prove you could draw a picture equal to the great Leonardo da Vinci.” Jonas slipped the cellophane wrapping from a cigar. “Giorgio will be in London on Wednesday and will turn over his research on the Melzi papers.”
“I’ll see them? And meet Giorgio?”
“No.” Jonas put a match to his cigar. “Giorgio is temperamental and I can’t always judge his mood. You’ll get on with him but there’s no rush.”
“But I need his help now,” Stiehl protested. “I’m getting more comfortable with Leonardo’s handwriting but I need help with the language. His notes contain a shorthand I can’t decipher and none of the references are any help.”
“That will all come in time. We’ve just taken the paper and ink samples and Eleanor needs them to continue her work. She’s located paper near Florence but her tests for age and fiber content aren’t complete. In a few days I’ll know when we’ll be able to move the Art Department to Italy and then you’ll have Giorgio at your side more than you might wish.”
“Then what’s my next step?”
“Return to New York. I have you booked on Continental’s evening flight tomorrow. I’m remaining in London for my meeting with Giorgio, then will fly to Italy to spend several days with Eleanor. Tony will deliver Giorgio’s material to you on Friday.”
“You had it all planned before we left New York, didn’t you?”
The big man’s mood shifted suddenly. “Not everything,” he said solemnly. Then he sat silently for nearly a minute. “Until I compared your copy to the original I couldn’t be absolutely certain you were the right man.” He got to his feet and placed a hand on Stiehl’s shoulder. “You are the right man, Curtis.” He leaned down so their heads were almost touching and said, “You will preserve absolute secrecy at any cost. That’s an ironclad condition that cannot be breached.”
Stiehl looked up to see a determined, almost threatening face peering down at him. Without words the two exchanged an understanding that had not existed until that moment. Jonas patted Stiehl’s cheek as a father might show affection for a son. Then he turned and walked from the room.
Stiehl did not move. His eyes were riveted to Jonas until he disappeared. He replayed the conversation in his mind, and when he recalled the number one hundred forty million dollars, he could not control the smile that brightened his face and made thoughts of giving up the drawing of the two skulls seem of no consequence.
He looked again at the Sunday Times, scanned the front page, and spotted a headline over a story that dealt with the death of a Scotland Yard policewoman who had been assigned to the Royal Library at Windsor. She had died in an automobile accident a few miles from the royal castle.
He tore the news article from the page, folded it, and put it in his pocket. He would ask Tony if he knew Detective Constable Sarah L. Evans.
As Jonas passed through the lobby he gathered up a copy of all the newspapers at the concierge’s counter. He knew the press would give the policewoman’s death front-page coverage, speculating on foul play or murder if they could create a plausible motive. He waited until he was in his room before reading the headlines. His face reddened and he began breathing in short, heavy gasps.
He threw the newspapers on the floor, then took the telephone and called Tony Waters.
Chapter 9
Superintendent Walter Deats turned into the express lane and sped toward London to keep his appointment with Elliot Heston, a deputy assistant commissioner in the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police. Heston commanded Branch C13, under which was the Arts and Antiques Squad. The two met while at the Metropolitan Police Training School at Peel Centre, Hendon. They attained Detective Sergeant status several years later and received permanent appointments to the CID. Heston’s first assignment was to C11, Criminal Intelligence. Deats served on the Illegal Immigration Squad. Heston transferred into C13 and began a successful rise through the ranks. Deats transferred out of the Yard, joining the Windsor police. They maintained their friendship over the years and vacationed in Scotland every year, joined in their mutual enthusiasm for salmon fishing.
Deats reviewed the few facts that were known about Sarah Evans’s death. For an instant the sight of her cruelly cut and bloodied face flashed in front of him. He winced and shook the image from his mind.
A compulsory investigation was immediately ordered after Sarah’s identity had been confirmed. Deats had spent hours going over her correspondence and reports, but the effort did not produce information of even the most remote relevance to the accident. He phoned a Dr. Goldring, whose name was on one of many slips of paper, discovering he was a pediatrician caring for Sarah’s daughter. Another number was to a bank branch on Albert Bridge Road where Sarah had applied for a small loan.
And there were two slips of paper containing notations in a gibberish resembling shorthand. But no secretary in the Windsor Police Department could make out the scribbling. Deats had faxed copies to Elliot Heston with a request that the notes be deciphered. He realized that while the accident occurred in the jurisdiction of the Windsor police, Scotland Yard would press its own investigation and issues of jurisdiction would be swept aside. Yet he hoped that his meeting with Heston might minimize the interference and confusion two groups of investigators inevitably created. Besides, Deats preferred working alone, a principal reason for transferring to a smaller force.
The memory of the pretty dead face was further motivation to pursue the case.
As he drove he recorded his thoughts:“Monday, September 12, 10:45 A. M. . . . En route Windsor to Yard for Heston meeting . . . Interviewed library staff from 9:00 to 10:30 . . . Drew blanks . . . Evans popular and diligent worker... No one seemed to have socialized with her. . . or knew much about her... didn’t know her personal ways . . . Only royal librarian knew she had been posted to keep an eye on things... and he’s still miffed it took so long to put someone on duty.”
He switched off the recorder and searched his memory for the occasions when he had been involved in the death of a fellow police officer. He thought of a y
oung detective constable who had been under his command and who attempted to defuse a pipe bomb discovered in the rail station at Slough, a transfer point for tourists traveling from London to Windsor. A needless tragedy. But then he thought that all such misadventures were unnecessary. He remembered Paul Durgin. The promising Durgin had trailed two brothers suspected of armed robbery to their mobile home, where apparently he intended to make a routine arrest. Instead he was shot in the throat and left to bleed to death.
There were others and it was fixed in Walter Deats’s mind that police officers don’t die from natural causes, that not one instance of death had been purely accidental. He applied that logic to the death of Sarah Evans, and unless an intensive investigation proved that indeed it had been an accident, he would assume she had been murdered.
Whether or not it had been an accident, Deats had four pieces of information to work on: it had rained steadily for several hours, the window on the driver’s side was open nearly seven inches, her foot was lodged against the accelerator pedal, there were no skid marks. Each fact might bear directly upon what actually happened, but even the accuracy of some were open to challenge. For example, the extent to which the window was open was determined by the shards of glass remaining in the door, then by estimating the position of the window crank. Deats wondered why in all the rain it would have been open at all.
He repeated these thoughts into his recorder. When he replayed the tape and listened to his own voice intone the fragile clues, he blurted out: “That’s bully, Sherlock, and so much crap in the bargain. What does your brilliant mind say to the question of motive? Think about that now. She was assigned to the library to protect the Queen’s Collection and no one’s walked off with a paper clip.”
Yet he could not shrug off the fact that the accident had been so violent. A report from the garage people indicated the brakes had been in working condition, yet the car had obviously shot straight through the curve. Had she blacked out? Fallen asleep? Had she been medicating? Perhaps the autopsy would shed light on those questions.
Then the rain. There had been a long dry spell before the rains fell Friday afternoon. That usually set up a slippery road condition as the water tended to sit atop the fine buildup of oil on the tarred Datchet road. It’s part of police training to respect road and weather conditions. Had she been careless and the car simply hydroplaned on the slick skin of water and her foot gone from accelerator to brake, then back, as would be the case with a frightened and inexperienced driver? And thus no skid marks?
Not much to go on, he thought. Besides, the poor girl is dead, and I’m not sure I want to learn that she was murdered. He was now in Victoria Street, a short distance from Scotland Yard.
London’s Metropolitan Police initially occupied space at 4 Whitehall Place when the Bow Street Horse Patrol, the Marine Police, and four other law enforcement agencies were consolidated in the police headquarters building in 1829.
Elliot Heston greeted his friend with a firm handshake. He was tall and angular, his hair fell uncombed over a high forehead. and his eyes brightened at greeting his old comrade and fishing partner. He wore a yellow sweater, his tie pulled away from an unbuttoned collar. His goldrimmed glasses perched on a long thin nose
“Well, Wally, we finally get to work on something together. Too bad it’s a sorry mess.”
“My sentiments, too.” They bantered briefly, enjoying the sort of exchange two old friends might have. Then Deats went to the crux. “What’s your book on Sarah? We have no background on her or her family.”
“Here’s her file. Pretty straightforward. Her husband was second officer on a merchant ship. Poor chap had a burst appendix, developed uremic poisoning, and died at sea. Sarah joined the force before her marriage and had a daughter. She lived with her widowed mother. She was a terribly hard worker. We tabbed her for undercover work and this was her first assignment. Her supervisor felt it would be good training. Low exposure and, God knows, no danger.”
Deats fanned through the brief file. “What was her assignment?”
“You know what kind of treasures you’ve got up there in the library, and you certainly know that security at the Castle is imperfect. The royal librarian didn’t want to take chances with all the tearing up and new people prowling around, so he sent a personal request up to the commissioner asking for a surveillance officer from my squad. There wasn’t any good reason he shouldn’t ask you chaps at Windsor but I guess Sir Mackworth-Young would rather do business with Sir Albert Waye.”
Deats nodded. “I’m afraid I knew that. I was hoping for more.” It was a perfect opening to ask Heston why he had not told him previously about assigning Sarah to the library. But he pressed on. “Did she file any reports? Anything to indicate she might be onto something?”
“There were a few reports, but all the routine sort of thing. She indicates that she was compiling a dossier on each employee and, well—here, let me read from a report filed two weeks ago.” Heston fingered through the folder and extracted a page. “‘I am assembling a personal file on each member of the library staff, all that is except Sir Mackworth-Young, whom I assume we can safely exclude. I have also contacted the personnel people at Heldwicke Air-Control Systems for a report on all members of the construction crew assigned to the library. Most of these files are in hand, with several yet to complete. I shall include these papers in a future report, possibly the first or second week in September.’” Heston looked up. “None of the dossiers has been filed.”
Deats stuffed tobacco into his pipe and lit it. “Interesting. Interesting indeed.” He smiled. “Damn it all, it is interesting and just could be something. If you don’t have any of those dossiers and none were found in her briefcase, where the hell are they?”
Heston rubbed the point of his nose. “She hasn’t used her desk here at the Yard. I plan to send a deputy to her home to relay official condolences. We’ll get all of her paperwork at that time.”
“Two of my men visited the mother on Saturday. I don’t think she needs further commiseration. Was Sarah under orders to prepare the dossiers?”
“It was part of her training. Her first responsibility was surveillance.”
The phone rang and Heston answered. He handed the phone to Deats. “I think it’s your autopsy report.”
Deats took the phone and spoke with his assistant. He gave Heston a summary: “Fractured skull and her chest was badly crushed. Never a chance. The only good news is she didn’t suffer. It’s what you’d expect, except for one wrinkle. She had a point-oh-three blood alcohol count. No obvious evidence of drug use, but those tests aren’t complete. Apparently she stopped for a drink before driving home.”
“With a friend, do you suppose?”
“I haven’t learned anything about her personal life. She was a friendly sort, I’m told, but didn’t mix with the others. I’m sure she had friends. She was much too pretty.”
“There was alcohol. That’s something.”
“A low count. Sounds like a single whiskey or a glass of wine. I’m not interested in how much she drank but who she drank it with.”
Heston moved to the window where his view was down Claxton Street toward Westminster Chapel. “What do you want me to do about the investigation?”
“Let me handle this on my own. I promise to yell if I get onto something and need help. God knows you have facilities we only dream about. I’ll send reports directly to you, and if I get any strange hunches, I hope you’ll let me talk to you about them.”
“I know you would, Wally, but I can’t avoid department policy. I have to put someone on the case.”
Deats relit his pipe, then fixed his eyes on his friend. “Put yourself on it.”
“The accident occurred in your jurisdiction, but the victim was one of ours. You have a duty to investigate and I’ll see that you get our full cooperation.” Heston returned to his desk. “I’ve got the perfect man for the assignment, except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
/>
“You hate his guts.”
“I’m a tolerant man, Elliot, but around here that can only be Jack Oxby. I thought you were transferring him out of C13.”
“No one will have him.” Heston laughed. “No, that’s not true. I didn’t want to lose him. In spite of all his character defects, the little son of a bitch gets the job done.”
“Character defects? You make him sound like the bad boy in a church choir. The bastard’s deceitful, immoral, a liar, and you know that someday he’ll go a step too far and you’ll be the one to suffer. He’ll survive. That kind always does.”
Heston’s eyes were closed and his head was nodding ever so slightly. “I’ve thought of that. Oxby also knows more about art and art thieves than all of Scotland Yard and Interpol combined.”
“Are you saying there’s no one else? It’s Oxby or nothing?” Deats tapped his pipe on a heavy glass ashtray with a series of loud bangs. “Put yourself on it. It’ll be like old times with you and me.”
“I can’t do that, Wally. For all practical purposes I am on the case and you’ll report directly to me.”
Slowly a smile began to cross Walter Deats’s face. “If I were in your position, I’d probably put Oxby on the case, too. In some perverse way I admire him.”
“You too, Wally? I didn’t think a conservative old fart like you could find any redeeming qualities in Oxby. Besides, I might find it difficult to dislodge Jack at this time. He’s genuinely interested in the art owned by the Crown, so he has a personal attachment to the whole matter. He’s worked up a backgrounder on Sarah Evans which I’ll send you.”
