“Now tell me your trouble, sir.” said Holmes, “although I have a good idea what it is already.”
“How could you know? I only just found it missing myself. I could not believe my eyes and then I saw you passing and called you in. Oh, this is a nightmare! My good name! What about my good name?”
“What is he talking about, Holmes? What is missing?”
“Didn’t you see the blank white space in the procession of paintings you admired here only last week, Watson? The Vincent Bergstrom is missing. And from Mr. Sheppard’s actions, I deduce it wasn’t by sale. “Beau Peak with Sheep” has been stolen.”
The art dealer fixed his eyes on Holmes. “It’s true. I opened the doors not ten minutes ago and saw it was gone. It was here last night. I had locked all the doors myself at nine o’clock. Oh, what will Mrs. Muchthaler say? She is due here today at two o’clock to pick it up.”
“Is that the wife of Montgomery Muchthaler, the American cattle baron? I read he was in London as part of a Grand Tour,” said I.
“Yes. I had a small reception for the painting four nights ago, a select showing. She was insistent that her husband buy it. She kept talking about “getting one in the eye on that snooty Mrs. Potter Palmer in Chicago”. It sounded like the two ladies might be in some sort of rivalry about art.”
Holmes was thoughtful. “Who else was at the reception?”
“Really, it was arranged just for Mr. and Mrs. Muchthaler. I invited Oscar Reinhardt, an artist I have managed for years and Arthur Wilson, another artist, not as well known as Oscar, who came with his wife. All my other artists live too far away to come here for an impromptu gathering. Mr. Muchthaler is not interested in art. He is interested in money and beef futures. It is his wife that likes the Impressionist artists.”
“Has there been any other interest shown in “Beau Peak with Sheep”?”
“None. Dozens have toured this gallery in the past week since I hung that painting and no one seemed to like it. That was why I was so delighted when Mrs. Muchthaler showed interest. She even said that if I could find some more of Bergstrom’s work, she would buy it sight unseen.”
“Tell me about Oscar Reinhardt and Arthur Wilson.”
“Well, Oscar is one of my oldest artists. He had sold very well in my gallery in Brighton and naturally I brought down a good supply of his paintings with me when I decided to open a second gallery in London. He is a member of the Royal Academy and lives here in town. Sales of his paintings have fallen off quite a bit during the past few years, but I thought that was because the Brighton market was becoming saturated. It was one reason I determined to expand. I also wanted to open up opportunities for the works of Arthur Wilson.”
“Arthur Wilson is married, you said.”
“Yes, Ida Wilson is her husband’s greatest fan. I think that woman would do anything to advance Arthur’s career. I have carried him in my gallery for two years. He is very intense about his art and his wife supports them both with a small inheritance.”
“His wife supports him? Don’t his paintings sell?”
“Since I started representing him, his name has become better known but sales of his works have not kept pace with his publicity. I am sorry to say that even in London his works have been ignored. It was the drop in revenue here since the opening that decided me about trying my hand on selling Impressionism works. Bergstrom is my first discovery.”
“Would you ask both artists and Mrs. Wilson to come here in two hours? I need to interview them. Meanwhile, that will give me time to examine the scene of the crime. Perhaps it will not be necessary to call in the police after all.”
Mr. Sheppard wrote out two short notes and had them dispatched by messenger.
Sherlock Holmes examined all the door and window locks. None were disturbed. The skylight windows were locked, as was demonstrated by Mr. Sheppard with the use of a long staff tipped with a hook made for the purpose of opening and closing them.
Holmes motioned me to follow him. He entered the room next to the office, which proved to be a combination storeroom and frame shop. One side held wrapped and crated works of art, protected by tarps. Quickly but methodically he searched each item, untying packages and bundles, leaving the repacking to me. After he finished with that side, he switched over to the piles of molding and framing and cleaning supplies that were arranged behind a thin partition. I had just finished resealing the last crate when he returned, a frown on his face.
“One thing this case has already disproved, Watson, is the old adage about hiding a leaf in a forest. It would be the simplest thing in the world to remove “Beau Peak with Sheep” from its place on the wall and tuck it in this storeroom, wrapped in canvas, until it could be carried out unnoticed at a later date. But our opponent is cleverer than that. Would he have the audacity to hide it right under the gallery owner’s nose? Let’s check the office.”
The art dealer and I waited in the gallery while the detective turned out the office, finally admitting that the painting wasn’t there either.
Sherlock Holmes stood in the center of the gallery and ran his eye over the row of paintings. Starting with the painting to the right of the gap made by the missing picture, he carefully took down each one and examined it, including the painting’s back and the plaster wall behind it. He even ran his magnifying glass over the oak panel wainscoting that ran around the room under the pictures. Finally he dropped to his knees and brought his glass to bear on the carpeted surface before each painting.
He saved the bare spot on the wall and the carpet before it for last. He gave no sign of discovery when he examined the wall, but seemed to find something very interesting on the carpet. He spent several minutes measuring invisible points on several places before the gap, and only ceased when Mr. Sheppard unlocked the front door to admit two men and a woman.
Oscar Reinhardt was an elderly man with a grenadier’s bearing, dressed in a grey velvet suit and a flowing red tie. His eyes were dark grey and rather bloodshot, as if he hadn’t been getting enough sleep. His hair was cut short and was suspiciously black. He walked with a cane and his fingers were gnarled and knobby, as if they had developed arthritis.
Arthur Wilson was a man of about thirty years. He was clad in a russet set of tweeds and carried a soft Homburg in his hand. His eyes were brown, as was his hair, which he wore long in a theatrical style. There was a certain softness to his jaw line that hinted at rich food and long naps in the afternoons. His wife was dressed in similar tweeds and on her piled up blonde hair there perched a wide-brimmed black straw hat dressed in pink ostrich feathers. Somehow she made me think of a Leghorn hen.
Mr. Sheppard relocked the door and performed the introductions. When he blurted out the news of his loss, both men began snarling at each other.
“Mr. Holmes, if you’re looking for a man who had reason to steal “Beau Peak and Sheep”, here he is. Oscar Reinhardt hates Impressionism with a passion. He’s so stuck in the past that he still remembers George IV as Beau Brummell’s friend.”
“At least I have memories, Wilson. You don’t know anything. Here is a man, Mr. Holmes, who painted “The Charge of the Light Brigade” with the cavalry not only wearing the wrong uniforms but obeying the Duke of Wellington.”
“I hear you use paints so cheap that they have started to flake right off the canvas after a few months.”
“You wouldn’t make one sale a year if your wife didn’t hold your hand while you painted.”
By this time both men were livid with rage. Wilson took a foot forward and raised his fist. “You don’t have the right to even look at my wife, old man. Mention her again in any context and I’ll knock you down, damn your grey hairs.”
“Grey hairs!”
At this point Sherlock Holmes stepped between the artists. He gripped both men by the arm and drew their attentions to himself.
“I will not allow such disruption, gentlemen! Mr. Reinhardt, sit on this bench. Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, please take a seat on the bench over there. Watson, watch Reinhardt. Mr. Sheppard, keep an eye on Mr. Wilson. I have a few more things to do before I wrap up this case.”
I wanted to ask Holmes what he had discovered about the theft, but of course I could not. He went back to examining the marks on the floor that only he could see. Oscar Reinhardt sat upright on the wooden bench, his gnarled hands gripping his cane and his bloodshot eyes staring at the couple across the room. Mr. and Mrs. Wilson huddled together, whispering to each other, periodically darting murderous glances at Reinhardt.
These two men were behaving like unruly children, I thought. I had heard of the artistic temperament but I had never seen such a manifestation of it like this in my life. Were all artists this jealous of each other? Was the art world of London such a cutthroat place? It was a wonder, I mused silently, that there was only a painting missing in this gallery. In my opinion there could have so easily been spilled blood and a mangled body to greet Mr. Sheppard that morning when he arrived to open up his shop.
Sherlock Holmes finished his examination of the carpet and stood up. He slid his gaze over the skylight and turned to me.
“Watson, I noticed in the storeroom a tall ladder in the far corner. Please bring it here.”
I fetched the old wooden ladder. Holmes opened it up and carefully aligned its legs with certain spots he had marked on the carpet with a bit of chalk he brought out of his pocket. Reinhardt and Wilson had stopped glaring at each other and now watched in fascination as he began to mount it.
Suddenly the ladder wobbled and he almost fell. I grabbed the wooden legs and steadied it. Without acknowledging my rescue he proceeded to climb to within reach of the ceiling.
Suddenly all three of our suspects stood. “This is ridiculous,” said Oscar Reinhardt. “Mr. Sheppard, you can’t keep me here. I demand that you unlock that door.”
The Wilsons edged toward the front. “For once the old man is right,” said Arthur Wilson. “Open the door, Sheppard. If you don’t I’ll take my work elsewhere.”
“As will I,” said Reinhardt.
“Keep them here, Mr. Sheppard, if you do not want to hand this investigation over to Scotland Yard,” said Holmes. At the mention of the police, all three people froze. Their eyes fixed on Sherlock Holmes.
He took a little jackknife out of his coat pocket and poked at the molding around the recessed oak panels within his reach between the plaster wall and the steel and glass skylight. After another examination of the area using his magnifying glass, Holmes suddenly dug a blade into the edge of one of the panels and dragged it along in a straight line toward the wall. He sliced again along the wall edge and a flap of material hung down over his head.
There was a commotion at the front door. I turned my head to see the three suspects nervously grouped together. Oscar Reinhardt fumbled in his pocket. Suddenly he produced a key, which he thrust into the lock. The door opened and instantly he fled into the street, closely followed by Mr. and Mrs. Wilson. The door banged shut behind them.
Stunned, Mr. Noel Sheppard stood alone in the center of the gallery. He turned to look at Holmes, still standing on the ladder and busy with the ceiling. I gripped the ladder securely, knowing that if I let go Holmes would fall.
“What just happened?” Sheppard asked. He staggered to a bench and sat.
“I shall explain everything when I have finished here,” replied Sherlock Holmes. He disengaged the square of material from the surrounding wood and dropped it to the floor. A blur of blue and green was revealed, pressed against the ceiling. Gleams of gold around it showed that the missing painting was still in its frame. Carefully Holmes pried it free and finally stood triumphant, holding “Beau Peak with Sheep” in his hands. He lowered it down to Mr. Sheppard and carefully descended to the floor. I released my grip on the ladder and picked up the piece of material from the carpet.
“Why, it is a painting!” I exclaimed.
I held in my hands a large square of unframed canvas, jagged around the edges where Holmes had cut it free from the glued edge which had held it to the ceiling molding. The inner side was blank, but on the side which had faced the room was painted a finely detailed pattern of oak grain matching those of the surrounding ceiling panels.
“A fine example of trompe l’oeil,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Could this be Arthur Wilson’s hand?”
Mr. Sheppard looked it over with a critical eye. “No,” he replied. “It is too exact to be Wilson’s work. It looks like Oscar Reinhardt’s style. Then they must have been in this theft together! But I do not understand why.”
“I suggest that we sit down with some more of that excellent brandy you keep in your office and I will explain everything.”
In a few minutes we were established in Mr. Sheppard’s office, Holmes seated behind the desk and the art dealer and I opposite him in chairs. The painting “Beau Peak with Sheep” was propped up against the desk under Mr. Sheppard’s eye and the flap of canvas from the ceiling rested on top of a pile of papers in front of Holmes. The detective set down his glass and addressed us both in that familiar didactic way of his.
“When Mr. Sheppard motioned us to enter in such obvious distress, my first thought was he was ill and it was Dr. Watson he needed. But as soon as I noticed the blank spot on the wall, I knew we were faced with a theft. My first question was why didn’t the thieves leave the frame? To break the picture out of its frame would be only the work of a moment and the canvas could be rolled into a smaller bulk that could easily be smuggled out of the building under a man’s coat.
“The absence of the frame indicated that the painting was still on the premises. I decided to leave the question of why for a later time and concentrate on locating the missing item.
“I considered that the painting may have been wrapped in canvas or put into a wooden crate and placed among the other works of art in the storeroom. Hiding a leaf in the forest, Watson, as I told you. The plan could have called for the removal of the artwork before the storeroom could be thoroughly searched.
“After that theory was disproved, I fell back on the idea that the thief may be more bold than I first thought and hidden the painting in Mr. Sheppard’s office, a poke in the eye to the art dealer and a place unsuspected in the normal course of events. It is a cluttered room, sir, and a painting the size of “Beau Peak with Sheep” could have been tucked into a corner and hidden behind other things. However, that theory also fell before reality.
“The gallery itself became the next place to search. The vast swaths of carpeting precluded any trap doors or hidden cavities in the floor. I proceeded to remove each painting in a methodical manner. I examined the back of each, in case the thief had used one as a hiding place for the Bergstrom. I also checked the plaster wall to ensure that there were no niches or holes that might have served to conceal the painting. I found nothing.
“I also examined the carpet before each painting for footmarks or other clues. Perhaps the thief smoked and left traces of tobacco ash. Maybe he had left traces of dirt or mud from his shoes. At the very least there might be outlines of the shoes themselves, particularly in front of the missing Bergstrom. Here I did find something, but not shoe prints. The carpet was too thin to retain them.
“In front of the blank gap I discovered four rectangular marks sunk into the nap of the carpet. They formed a rectangle of their own, four feet long and two feet wide. At this point my two hours to search expired and Oscar Reinhardt and Mr. and Mrs. Wilson arrived.
“As soon as they learned of the theft, the two artists began to snarl at each other. They nearly came to blows. I wondered at such a show of artistic temperament. Such men may be protective of their own styles and theories, but they seldom show such animosity to a fellow artist. There is a freedom of thought and bonhomie among such
people that was not in evidence between these two men. Mr. Sheppard had not mentioned any hard feelings between them before. Indeed, it was only four nights before that they had attended the same party and there had been no mention of bickering then.
“I decided the squabble was an act. That immediately made these two men and possibly Mrs. Wilson suspects in the disappearance of “Beau Peak with Sheep”.
“I asked Watson to bring out the old ladder I had noticed before in the storeroom. I placed it in the marks I had found before the blank gap and noticed the legs fit them perfectly. As I climbed up the rungs, the ladder lurched and might have thrown me off, if not for Watson’s quick response. Obviously, this ladder could not be used unless a second person steadied the legs.
“Since I did not believe the painting had been removed from the gallery, and I had searched everywhere else, the only place left was the ceiling. With my glass I began to examine the oak panels within reach. It was then that all became clear.
“I do not need to explain to you that trompe l’oeil is a painting technique also known as illusionary painting. The artist creates such a detailed painting that the total effect fools the eye of the beholder into believing the items depicted are real. In this case, the painting was of the pattern of the oak grain of the ceiling panel. The painting “Beau Peak with Sheep”, including the frame, just fit into the recess. With the canvas replicating the wood grain of the ceiling glued in place, the painting was hidden from sight.
“When I began to cut away the concealing canvas, Arthur Wilson and Oscar Reinhardt realized their plot was discovered and fled. In their flight they demonstrated the existence of a second front door key. Mr. Sheppard, did you know of this key?”
“I knew the renting agents had a second key. It might have been stolen from their offices. Since this place was rented months ago, its absence now would not be readily noticed.”
“But, Holmes,” I protested, “why would those men hide the Bergstrom? Why not destroy it or at least take it out of the gallery?”
Sherlock Holmes and The Folk Tale Mysteries Page 21
