Women on the Case

by Sara Paretsky

  I had to smile. Phyllida had planned it ail so nicely, and I was the one taking all the risks. Except that, were I to be caught, she would step nobly in and take the blame. It had been that way at school. The plans were hers, the execution mine. We only were caught once, Phyllida immediately took the blame, and I was allowed innocently to withdraw. I trusted Phyllida. All the same I wondered, not for the first time, why I had become a paralegal and a detective, while she had remained a so much more obviously conventional person.

  It all worked out as Phyllida had planned it; I did my little number at the Metropolitan late one afternoon, when I thought it unlikely anyone I knew would be there. Nothing went wrong. I had brought the rolled-up Constable drawing fastened with masking tape to my blouse under my jacket. (I had suggested folding the drawing to make it small, but Phyllida had told me not to be a barbarian; Phyllida does tend to get above herself if not restrained.) After I made my purchases I dropped the drawing into the bag, wholly unobserved, in front of some antique male statues in the basement, lacking noses and penises, and indifferent to me. Then I checked the bag—excuse ready, but they asked for none—did a turn around the Temple of Dendur, and departed.

  The news of the drawing’s recovery broke several weeks later. Apparently it took the Metropolitan some time to figure out what they had on their hands, and even longer to establish that what they had found was, indeed, the real thing. Endless speculation about why, who, above all where was the Vermeer? By this time I had recovered my wits and figured out, as subsequently did the newspapers, that the Vermeer had been stolen on consignment, the drawing picked up as an afterthought, unauthorized and no doubt resented. It had been cleverly dumped, as it turned out, on Phyllida.

  And that should have been the end of the story. The Constable drawing went back into its place at the small, elegant museum where each day it attracted a small group of viewers, and the Vermeer was, for the second time, broadly bemoaned by the media and the art world. But, as it happened, I became once again involved in this strange affair, this time closer to home and, thank God, in a more indirect way. A young art historian who had gone to work for the small, elegant museum that owned the Constable drawing and had owned the Vermeer called me up at the insistence of her lawyer husband who knew the lawyers I worked for and had heard of my detective skills. These had become, within a small legal circle, rather celebrated. The young woman, named Lucinda, informed me that there was an intriguing and disturbing problem at the museum; she thought I might be able to advise her. When people think that problems they come across are intriguing, they are usually wrong. But I could hardly refuse to meet with her at least once, and the chance to stand right in front of the Constable drawing and admire it—which I had felt diffident about doing before—tempted me to agree to lunch and a consultation. Phyllida would, I had no doubt, have suggested a courteous refusal, but I did not consult Phyllida. We had, in fact, never again mentioned the matter of the stolen drawing, not in letters, faxes, or the transatlantic telephone conversations in which, both of us now being more than comfortably off, we frequently indulged.

  Lucinda launched into her account the moment our food was served; I do like people who can come to the point. “There used to be a criminal scam going on in the museum,” she said. “They found a way to stop it, and no one was fired.” I lifted an interrogative eyebrow. “Oh, it was simple enough; the members of the staff selling tickets simply pocketed some of the money, not ringing up that admission. The museum blocked this scheme rather cleverly; each morning they weighed all those little buttons that would be given out when admission was paid; at the end of the day, they weighed the remaining buttons, and could therefore figure out how many had been distributed. This number had to agree with the number of recorded admissions.”

  “Neat,” I said. “One problem solved.”

  “Yes.” Lucinda was one of those who eat their food so slowly that I have to fight the temptation to snatch it off their plate. (At school, Phyllida used to tell me that ladies do not demonstrate quite so much enthusiasm for food.) “What has happened now, is that one of the guards who has been in the place forever, and with whom I’ve become friendly since we both arrive in the morning before anyone else, told me how worried he was because he was being harried by the head of security. He wouldn’t say how he was being harried, I couldn’t get that out of him, but he did let on that the scheme to steal the admissions money had been his, that is, Guido’s, the head of security, and that he had taken the greater part of the proceeds, offering protection as his excuse.”

  “Can’t you get rid of him?”

  “Not easily; he’s been here a long time, and is friendly with all the men on the board. They would believe him and fire the staff members. What I wanted to consult you about is that I think he was the inside man on the robbery.”

  “The Vermeer and all?”

  “Exactly. I’d like to prove it. We could get rid of him and get the Vermeer back.”

  “You might get rid of him; I very much doubt you’d get the Vermeer back. I’d guess it’s being held as collateral somewhere, probably in a drug deal. Your man was paid off but not, I’d guess, told who was in back of the whole thing.”

  “The point is, I think he took the Constable drawing when it hadn’t been part of the original plan, expected to be praised, and was shocked to see it returned. If we could prove that, we’d at least get rid of him and get some lead on the robbery. He acted very peculiarly when it turned up here; he kept returning to stare at it, pretending curiosity but it seemed more like astonishment to me.”

  “Did he say anything in particular that made you suspicious?”

  “Yes; he kept asking me if I was absolutely sure it was the same Constable drawing, almost as though he couldn’t believe it was. Why ask that unless he had reason to suppose it couldn’t be? I think those who hired him to help in the robbery simply dumped the drawing, which they didn’t want, at the Metropolitan.”

  “An interesting theory,” I said. “Ingenious. But how on earth can you prove it was him?”

  “I was hoping you’d think of something.”

  “Could I have the other half of your sandwich,” I asked, “if you’re not going to eat it?” She handed it over and we both thought and thought; I always think better while munching.

  “I’ll have to go away and ponder,” I finally said, “but let me ask you one vital question. Please be sure of your answer. Does he suspect at all, in the slightest, that you suspect him? Would the guard, however unconsciously, have tipped him off?”

  “I’m sure not; ‘no’ to both your questions. Guido, who by the way is no more Italian than I am, which is one eighth—has retained his unmistakable look of satisfaction. It’s because he’s named Guido that we got on what he no doubt thinks of as intimate terms in the first place. He introduced himself when I first came and I mentioned that my great-grandfather was named Guido. After that we were ‘chums,’ even though he thinks that I, like all women, am not up to this or any job.”

  “You clearly can’t stand the man, but apparently he’s pretty widely liked. Are you sure this isn’t something personal with you?”

  “I hate art thieves, and people who cheat museums.” And, I thought, she particularly hated this thief.

  When I got back to the office, one of the partners called me in and told me how grateful the firm would be if I could help Lucinda out; something to do with her husband. “Take all the time you need, Anne.”

  So I began by taking the time to view the Constable drawing in place. It was still evoking comment, though it was not, I thought, that easily distinguishable from the other Constable drawings. They were all framed and under glass. When I got home I called Lucinda at her home; we had agreed not to discuss the matter on the museum phone.

  “How do people go about stealing paintings and drawings?” I asked her. “Aren’t they rather bulky to move?”

  “With paintings, they take the canvas from the frame and then roll it up.


  “Cut it out, you mean?”

  “Usually. They did this time. That’s why paintings on boards are rarely stolen. With drawings, they have to deal with the glass. Drawings are always kept flat, in drawers, but when they’re exhibited they’re mounted under glass. Whoever stole the Constable broke the glass and grabbed the drawing; he was probably feeling confident at the time, looking for a final thrill.”

  “You seem to have remarkable insight into art thieves.”

  “Naturally; we all think about it and how it was done. That’s how you prevent its being done again. There’s something else I forgot to mention: The motion detectors have a record of where the thieves went in the museum; they didn’t wander about. They went directly to the Vermeer and, later, to the Constable drawing. They look the tape from the surveillance cameras.”

  “Where were the guards at the time?”

  “Tied up. They weren’t involved, by the way. The whole thing’s been cleared as an inside job, but of course no one ever suspected Guido. No one but me.”

  “Couldn’t the guards give a description?”

  “They did; it seems obvious the robbers were wearing wigs and false mustaches. They got the guards to open the door to them pretending to be police detectives. It’s much simpler than those things are in the movies, more’s the pity.”

  It certainly looked like a thief who knew what he was doing; of course, anyone could have cased the joint, but a visitor to the museum that attentive and that constant would have been noticed. He had led the other man right to the Constable. Had he taken a fancy to it and if so, why? Looking around the other exhibits in the museum, I decided that one of the Constable drawings was the obvious “extra.” To determine why he had picked that particular one was beyond knowing, but probably he had taken the closest to hand.

  Would he, given the chance, steal a Constable drawing again? Perhaps he knew their worth and had expected kudos for adding it to the Vermeer. Slapped on the wrist, he might yet, if the bait was juicy enough, steal another such drawing for his own purposes, and then we would have him. But what would be the bait? I detested the idea of entrapment, of leading someone to commit a theft he might not, on his own, have undertaken.

  And then I recalled Phyllida when we were at school: she was very much the head girl—that was probably why she did so well on important boards—with me following admiringly behind. There had been a series of thefts at school, always of money that each girl kept in an obvious place. At first girls missed part of their stash (never much, gifts and allowances for food and the occasional school trip to the theater) but might have been mistaken. Then the thief got bolder and took more each time. As happens in small communities, everyone began regarding everyone else with suspicion, and as head girl, Phyllida knew she had to find the one guilty person to restore innocence to everyone else. (Now that I thought of it, that was probably the sort of thinking that had made her a baroness.) She also decided that the thief was stealing either out of need, in which case she could be helped, or out of malevolence, in which case she could be expelled. So Phyllida made it easy for someone to steal a fairly large sum of money: a girl in need could hardly resist; a malevolent girl could hardly resist the challenge. I tried to summon up the long-ago details: Everyone learned that a stash of money was in a certain place. Not entrapment, Phyllida assured me (though we did not, of course, use that word) because no one was being invited to steal or induced in any way. Phyllida did not take the school administrators into her confidence, and so was left (with my eager help) to deal with the results. It had a sad end, I did remember that. The girl was stealing the money for her brother, I forget why. We managed to help them out, again under Phyllida’s direction.

  Well, I consoled myself, what could we lose? Phyllida had asked that then, and I asked it now. Lucinda and I again met, this time not in a restaurant but in my apartment; I was not going to make finishing her food a habit. “I think we ought to offer Guido another Constable drawing,” I said. Lucinda stared at me. “How does Guido regard you?” I asked. “Try to be exact, rather than modest or resentful.”

  “He thinks I’m in above my head, as any young woman would be. Curators should be men. He’s offered to help me out, and thinks my reluctance is shame rather than distaste.”

  “Excellent. So if you confided in him, he would accept it as his due.”

  “I think so.” She looked a bit wary.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do, if you are willing. You are going to call Guido to your office in the late afternoon, one day soon to be decided upon. You are going to declare yourself in a panic. An old friend from school has pleaded with you to lend him a Constable drawing; not that you don’t trust him, but it’s so irregular; no artwork ever, ever leaves a museum except under the most controlled circumstances. Your friend’s in a jam—don’t worry, I don’t think we have to explain the jam, but it’s well to have a story ready. Say, your friend has to give a lecture on art theft, and wanted to make a real effect by producing a real Constable. Well, something like that,” I added, as she looked more and more dubious. “Guido may well conclude your friend borrowed something and needs, temporarily, to replace it. Liars suspect everyone of lying, thieves of thieving. Your friend’s coming around for the drawing—which you have already taken from the drawer and rolled up—that very day. Would Guido be willing to hand it to him when he comes by, about a half hour or so after the museum closes?”

  “You think he’ll fall for that?”

  “If he doesn’t, we’ve lost nothing.”

  “Unless he tells people in the museum I was ‘lending’ one of their Constable drawings.”

  “You deny it, and stick to your denial. He’ll have no proof, and he’ll look foolish. He can’t very well produce the drawing if he hasn’t handed it over when he should have. You can always burst into tears at the very idea—it’s what women always do, isn’t it?”

  For the first time since we had met, she smiled. But she was soon frowning again. “You’re suggesting I give him a real Constable drawing, hoping, well, expecting that he’ll steal it? What do I do after he has stolen it?”

  “Nothing. There will be an FBI contingent there, one of whom will pretend to be your desperate friend. If Guido hands over the drawing, fine, we were wrong, you’ve got the drawing back, no one the wiser. If he doesn’t, well—Bob’s your uncle, as we used to say at school.”

  “I think it’s risky. Why should the FBI help?”

  “Stealing artifacts from a museum is a federal offense. The FBI has been on this case from the beginning. Let me handle that end. No one will know your part in this but you, me, and Guido. I won’t talk, and if he does, out of honest outrage, you’ll deny everything. At least you’ll have proved your suspicions wrong, and can turn your worries elsewhere.”

  Lucinda agreed in the end. I was, of course, a lot more nervous than I let on. But it all worked out exactly as I had planned. The FBI agent, posing as Luanda’s frantic friend, turned up to be told by Guido that no drawing had been left for him. The agent withdrew, and he and his colleagues watched as Guido, the Constable in hand, departed the building some hours later; theirs was a highly effective stakeout.

  Guido turned state’s evidence. I don’t think he knew too much about who had hired him, and they haven’t yet got back the Vermeer, but everybody at Lucinda’s museum is resting easier. Hopes are high.

  Lucinda and her husband and the lawyers in my firm were all very happy with the outcome, and Lucinda was appointed to ask if there was anything they might offer me as a reward. I said I would like a reproduction (different size, clearly marked) of the Constable drawing that had been stolen with the Vermeer. Lucinda had one made for me, and I flew with it back to England.

  I met Phyllida once again on the terrace of the House of Lords, and as we watched the Thames and sipped our drinks, I presented her with my trophy. “You can leave it in the lady members’ cloakroom if you like,” I said, “but I was rather hoping you’d hang it on a conspicuous wal
l where it will remind you of me and my talents.”

  “I need no such reminder,” Phyllida primly said, but I knew she liked my gift. What I didn’t tell her was how close I’d come to lifting a real Constable drawing. Lucinda had shown me the drawers where they were kept, and I didn’t really think one would have been missed. But resisting temptation is one of the lessons I had learned at school—with Phyllida’s help, of course.

  PIEKE BIERMANN is a free-lance writer from Berlin whose work includes essays, radio dramas, and television documentaries as well as a series of crime novels and short stories. Her novels include Potsdamer Ableben (1987), Violetta (1990), and Herzrasen (1993). She was awarded a second prize at the annual Klagenfurt literary contest for literature in German in 1992 and has received the best crime novel in German award in 1992 and 1994. She also is a translator of Italian and English works into German.

  7.62

  Pieke Biermann

  Translated from the German by Ines Rieder and Pieke Biermann

  N ew school? What school? Am I supposed to have opened a new school? What’s that cow want from me? At least the doors here aren’t half as loud as they look. Never seen that kind: a metal door with a sound-absorber. At GSTI, the door can put your bowels in a panic if someone doesn’t hold it back. Here—sounds like a walk-in freezer. Vvvmmmpfff. Kllleggg. The keys are terrible though. Now she’s left with them. Thank God. That elephant. Squeaking with friendliness, that’s what she is, definitely. Like her rubber-soles. Upwardly mobile, those shoes. Allow the foot its natural habitat. Claro: We’ve all taken to eating eggs from free-range hens only! Like we all step on other people’s nerves with real health shoes only. Molded heelcups. Nose up like sports cars.

  New school. Me—fffhhh! Me never. Not even with things I’m really good at. Better than them. All of them! That’s why they were pissed in the first place. ’Cause next to me they all look older than they’ll ever get. One day, someone’s gonna blow them away. Sooner or later. Short good-bye. Happens fast. Big sleep. Sleeping bags, every one of them. Tombstone blues in their guts. Ivy already growing up their legs. That’s why I’m here. Claro. That’s as clear as the sweat on your palms on your first mission.