by David Bishop
Harkin’s face crowded with confusion. “You’d think so, but not if the copy is good. Over the years the art world has been taken in by some rather audacious forgeries. Would you care to hear a few fascinating stories?”
Jack set a cup of black coffee in front of Harkin. “Sure. Please.”
“Hans van Meegeren, a Dutch painter, was arrested after World War II and charged with treason. The Dutch government claimed he sold a national treasure in the form of a Vermeer painting to Germany’s Field Marshall Hermann Göering. Meegeren defended himself against treason by proving in court he had not stolen the Vermeer, but painted a copy for Göering. The court found Meegeren not guilty of treason, but convicted him of forgery.”
Nora laughed politely; Jack remained stone faced.
“How can that be done?” Jack asked. “I mean, over time aren’t there changes in canvases, paints, even the frames themselves?”
“Definitely. However the true copyists—the French call them maîtres copistes, master copyists—artificially age canvases, and even match paint thicknesses and the resins for the paints. They make brushes as they were made at the time the true artist painted the original. They use old wood for the frames, even boring the frames to create fake worm holes.”
“That’s amazing,” Nora said. “But Field Marshall Göering was not an art expert. Can true experts be similarly fooled?”
“In 1935, the Museum of Modern Art in New York City held a Van Gogh exhibition. A college prankster molded a piece of beef, displayed it in a velvet-lined box, and attached a label that read: ‘The ear that Vincent van Gogh cut off and sent to his mistress, a French prostitute, December 24, 1888.’ The prankster smuggled his supplemental exhibit into the museum, where it became the hit of the show. Not even the museum staff realized it didn’t belong.”
Harkin tittered then settled back in his chair and crossed his legs. “So, what can I do for you two? I’m sure you came to learn more than a couple of history’s great art hoodwinks.”
Jack looked at Nora.
“Curator Harkin,” she began, “we would like your opinion on the feasibility of the following: A master criminal has proof of an illicit relationship between a museum curator and a beautiful young woman, and he uses it to blackmail the curator into committing a crime. Let us say swapping art forgeries for real works of art, or something like that.”
Harkin sat stiffly, his eyes not blinking.
Nora picked up her pencil and opened her note pad.
“What about it, Harkin?” Jack asked with a sharper edge to his voice. “Is it feasible a young, nubile lap dancer, one who knew about art and sculpture, could compromise someone such as you?” Jack held Harkin’s eyes with his gaze while shaping his lips into a knowing half smile.
Nora laid down her pencil and gave Harkin’s fear a softer landing. “Naturally, the curator would not have been involved in the premeditation of the crime. He would have been duped, a victim of sorts, himself.”
She rolled her chair back a little as Jack added, “Seduced. Figuratively. Literally.”
Jack watched Harkin as he drew in his receding chin as if trying to pull his mouth down into his neck. Harkin was cornered and bright enough to know it.
“It would be best if you finished the story,” Jack said.
Nora drove in the last nail. “Jena Moves has already told us her side of it.”
Harkin stared into his coffee, probably wishing it was a dark pool into which he could dive and disappear. Then he told a rerun of the story Jack and Nora had heard from Phoebe Ziegler.
“Why did you stop seeing the lap dancer?” Jack asked.
Harkin stretched his mouth as if yawning, but he wasn’t. “It was like you said, Mr. McCall. The blackmailer had a video of us—Jena and me. It even had sound. I could not believe some of the noises I had made. I come from an old-fashioned Baptist family. This is very hard to talk about.”
“Too late for that.”
Harkin looked down. “He forced me into giving him four original national treasures, portraits of former presidents, and substituting forgeries.”
“How long ago?”
“Mid February.”
Nora looked up from her pad. “Tell us about his voice?”
“It was tinny. He had camouflaged it with one of those voice box enhancers, or whatever they’re called.”
“I fail to see why all this coerced you into criminal behavior,” Nora said. “You’re single, and the young woman is an adult. So what if it came out?”
“In your world, perhaps it would be so. Not in my world, Ms. Burke. I am very active in my church where I have often spoken against libidinous behavior. On a professional level the people who support my position as portrait curator, and on a broader level the National Portrait Gallery itself, are above reproach. Had this come out, I would have been fired and unable to secure meaningful employment with another museum. In short, it would have ended my life.”
“You have referred to master copyists and forgers. Is there a difference?” Jack asked.
“Oh, my, yes.” He nodded vigorously. “A copyist is an artist with masterful skill but perhaps lacking in creativity. He uses his great craft to copy famous works of art, including the signatures of the original artists. The copyist also adds his own signature and the date he made his copy on the back of the canvas. He sells his reproductions to buyers who know they are getting copies. A forger does essentially the same thing as the copyist, except that the forger does not add his signature to the back of the canvas, and he sells it without disclosing it is a copy.”
“Did the backs of the replacement paintings you received include signatures disclosing the names of the copyists?” Jack asked.
“It appears they were once there, Mr. McCall.” He quivered as if surprised by a cool breeze. “But chemicals had been used to obliterate those signatures.”
“Then would it be accurate to refer to them as forgeries?”
“Yes. But by the blackmailer, not by the copyist or so it would seem.”
Nora put down her notepad. “A capable crime lab could probably raise the name.”
Jack looked sideways at his partner. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. If we pursue that effort now, the story will undoubtedly get out, as will Mr. Harkin’s role as an accessory.” He pointed at Harkin. “You’d be arrested and, worse yet, the blackmailer might destroy the originals.”
Harkin put his thumbs inside his fists.
“Curator Harkin,” Nora asked, “are you suggesting the blackmailer paid a legitimate master copyist to reproduce these four presidential portraits? Then obliterated the signatures of the copyist from the backs, converting them into forgeries?”
“That would be my guess, Ms. Burke.” Harkin sat motionlessly with his stare fixed on his thumb-socketed fists.
“Harkin.” Jack said, speaking sharply enough to make the man look up. “Isn’t it also possible that the blemishes on the backs of the canvases could have been from reusing the back side of old canvases from the right historical period? That would mean the obliterated signature on the back could have been the artist of that canvas’s original picture or perhaps some other painter when the canvas had been previously used. If so we could be looking for a forger and not a copyist.”
“That is also possible, but in my view less likely.” He ran his hand over his head mussing the strands of his comb-over.
“Are the forgeries here on display?” Nora asked, again making notes.
Harkin sat forward. “Yes. I keep thinking they will be spotted by the very next person who looks at them.” Then he sagged back into his chair. “The truth is they’re very good.”
“Do you know copyists capable of making such forgeries?”
“There are many fine copyists,” Harkin shrugged, “however, only a few are capable of reproducing portraits that were painted over such a span of years.”
“Why would that be?” Nora asked.
“Few copyists have reason to learn how to reprod
uce paints and brushes as they evolved over a lengthy period of years, not to mention the skill to emulate the subtle changes in style.”
After giving the curator some time, Jack asked, “What happened to the originals?”
“You don’t think he told me, do you?” Then he sighed. “I have no idea.”
“Where did you and the blackmailer swap the originals for the forgeries?” Nora asked.
Harkin ran his fingers across the bottom of his small round chin, looked down and began.
“One night I came home and the forgeries were in my house. In my home! Then a call came telling me to switch them and to leave the originals in the back of my car. Leave national treasures in my car—it was crazy! He had me drive to the Four Seasons Hotel and leave the keys on top of the left rear tire. Then I was told to go into the hotel restaurant and not come out for an hour. That was the longest hour of my life. When I returned, the originals were gone and he had left the videotapes of Miss Jena and me.”
“Since then?” Jack and Nora asked, in near duet, before Jack added, “Do you still have the videotapes he returned?”
“I’ve had no contact since. As for the tapes, I burned them. I’m still afraid every time my phone rings … every time I walk into my home at night. This may sound insane, but when I walk past those pictures I feel the eyes of those presidents are upon me.” He finished with his arms on the table in front of him, his fists still strangling his thumbs.
“How would the copyist know how to make exact duplicates without first having the originals?”
“Excellent transparencies of famous paintings are available. Any copyist could choose from a wide variety of sources.”
“The National Portrait Gallery collects portraits of distinguished Americans, not just presidents,” Nora observed. “Yet the blackmailer demanded only presidential portraits. Is that correct?”
“Yes. Four presidents. McKinley, Lincoln, Garfield, and JFK. Lincoln and Kennedy are among the more popular, but Garfield and McKinley? I mean, why not George Washington and FDR, or Teddy Roosevelt and Ronald Reagan? Those four are all much more popular than Garfield and McKinley.”
“Those four were assassinated during their presidencies.”
“Of course! I should have realized that, Mr. McCall. American history was never my best subject. But why would he choose the dead presidents?”
“I have no idea.” Jack shrugged.
“Mr. Harkin, certainly you knew this would all come out sooner or later.”
Harkin hung his head. “I thought about running, but to where? I don’t know how to be a fugitive from the law. I lack the funds to run to some third-world country and buy protection. I guess it’s time for me to go to jail.”
“If it’s any consolation,” Nora said, “Jena Moves did not know you were being filmed. She didn’t know you were going to be blackmailed.”
“Thank you for that, Ms. Burke. Still, in the final analysis, her interest was the money, not me. I was an old fool acting out a fantasy.”
“You’re not the world’s first fool,” Jack said, “and you won’t be its last.”
Harkin’s body language read surrender. “Is this when you take me to the police?”
“First, we’d like to recover the portraits. That would help the National Gallery, and could make things go easier for you at trial. Will you help us?”
“I’ve told you everything I know.” He wiped his eyes. “How can I be of further assistance?”
“By saying nothing,” Nora answered. “By going on with your job as you have.”
He sat silently. Then nodded.
“Take us on a tour,” Jack said, rolling his chair back. “Show us the gallery. Point out the fakes, but refer to them as if they’re the real deal.”
Harkin led them out of the small conference room and around a corner. “This is our Hall of Presidents. Here you will find the portrait of every American president, with one exception. William Jefferson Clinton wanted his likeness to be a sculpted bust rather than a painted portrait.”
Harkin pointed out the first fake as if it were real, saying, “On your left is the famous Lincoln portrait painted in 1887 by George Healy.”
They walked a little farther before Harkin stopped to point out the Garfield portrait painted by the Norwegian Ole Peter in 1881. Jack could sense the reverence Harkin felt for the art. The gallery had been his life.
A few minutes later, Harkin said, “This is the McKinley portrait. And over here,” he pointed, “President Kennedy, painted by William Draper in 1966.”
They continued looking to avoid a pattern as to which art pieces had been their real interest. Nora asked him to show them the Pettrich sculpture of Andy Jackson.
“That was Jena’s favorite,” Harkin said. “That piece is not part of the Hall of Presidents. There, Jackson is an oil as are all the presidents except, as I described, Clinton.”
A little later they entered Harkin’s office. He shut the door and turned toward them. “If you believe it will help recover the paintings, I’ll continue my charade.” He sighed faintly. “Every time one of my staff speaks to me, I expect they’ve come to tell me the forgeries have been discovered. In a strange way, now that someone else knows, I feel some relief.”
Jack shook the curator’s hand. “If you carry out the role we’ve agreed to, we’ll testify as to the help you gave us and the nation should we recover the portraits.”
“Thank you, Mr. McCall. Ms. Burke.”
“Mr. Harkin,” Nora said, “we need you to spend tonight making an exhaustive list of every portrait painter and every copyist who, in your opinion, has the skill to duplicate those four originals. Do not differentiate between the ones you think might be guilty and those you feel could not be. Just as you were, other honest men can be corrupted.”
“And give us whatever you can on their whereabouts,” Jack added.
“I’ll call you as soon as it’s finished.” He seemed energized by the task.
“If we are to recover the portraits, we need to find the blackmailer. Our best bet to find his trail is through identifying the copyist or forger.” Jack poked his finger against Harkin’s chest with each of his last three words. “That’s your job.”
As Jack and Nora walked out, they heard Harkin’s quivering voice behind them. “If you recover the portraits, can we just exchange them back into the gallery so no one will ever know?”
Chapter 31
Jack and Nora walked into their office to see Mary Lou sitting at her desk. Her clothes were disheveled; she held an ice bag against her face.
“What happened?” Nora asked, rushing to their young receptionist.
“Some guy from a motorcycle gang beat me up.” Then Mary Lou told them about Max being “unbelievably heroic,” as she put it.
“He has such a relaxing way about him. He got me laughing and I forgot the hurt.” Her eyes sparkled from within her darkening cheeks. “I just love him.”
Nora headed for her office.
“What did Max say to get you laughing?” Jack asked.
“He asked me if I knew the difference between a Harley and a Hoover. When I said, I didn’t, he said, ‘The position of the dirt bag.’” Mary Lou winced when her laugh spread her fat lip.
When Nora returned, Jack said, “I’m gonna go see Donny. That biker is one of his gang.”
“Cool your jets.” Nora put her hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I just called Max. He had a nice chat with the biker. Donny had no part in it. The biker has left town and will not be back. His name is Rockton. Max kept his gun and his knife with his prints. So, before you go off half-cocked, talk to Max.”
“I’ll call him right now.”
“I left him on hold. I figured you might want to talk with him.”
Jack went into his office and poked the lit button on his phone.
“How’s she doing?” Max asked.
“She’s more shook up than hurt. Thanks to you.”
“Should I have called it in? Had M
etro come get the guy?”
“Why didn’t you?”
“The cops would learn Rockton came to get Donny’s confession. Suggs would then get in your face about your not telling him you knew it was Donny and his goons who worked you over. There could only be one end of that road: We’d have to put our case aside because Suggs would reopen his investigation into the death of Chris Andujar.”
“You did right, Max. Metro had the case and let go of it. It’s ours now and we’re not about to give it back.”
Jack rejoined Nora and Mary Lou.
“After I talked with Max, I called the chief to tell him what happened and that you were all right. I told him the best the biker could be charged with is simple assault, and that Max ran the guy out of town. You cannot tell your Uncle Harry about the biker demanding Donny’s confession, that’s confidential to our case. Tell him you don’t know anything about why the biker had come here. That all you know is he roughed you up, maybe to deliver a message to me. You understand? I know this won’t be easy for you to do, but we told you when you started with us that you would on occasion be privy to information you must keep confidential. This is important.” Mary Lou nodded. “Now, would you like to go home?”
“I’m fine, Jack. Really. I want you guys to solve this case. Stop worrying about me.”
“We’ll be in the back if you need us.” He motioned for Nora to follow him.
“Troy Engels finally returned my call, right after I hung up with Chief Mandrake.” Jack scooted his backside onto the tabletop, leaving his feet dangling just above the floor. “I asked him why he’d faked being nervous enough to stutter at our open house while asking me to keep Tyson away from him.”
“I’ve been curious about that ever since we learned that Tyson and Engels were poker buddies,” Nora said. “What did he tell you?”
“I quote: ‘Jack, you know I’m just a frustrated old spook who misses field ops; all us guys marooned on a desk are the same way. Every now and then I get in a playful mood and act out a practice scenario. I figured if I could fool a top op like you, I still had it. I apologize if my little playacting caused you any difficulty.’”
