Future Crimes

by Jack Dann

  "Please, Nathaniel," Freya said. "I heard all of that and more. Musgrave stole the concept of Harvey Washburn's first series of paintings, he blackmailed both Butler and our host Heidi to obtain his jobs from them—or so I deduce, from their protestations, and from certain facts concerning their recent questionable merger that I am privy to. And he tried to assault Lucinda, who is engaged to the cook Delaurence—" She let out a long sigh. "Motives are everywhere."

  Bemused, I said, "It seems this Musgrave was a thoroughly despicable sort."

  "Yes. An habitual blackmailer."

  "Nothing suggests itself to you?"

  "No. Not only that, but it seems almost every person at the party had a good alibi for the moment of the murder! Oh, I don't know why I agree to solve these things. Here I am committed to this head-bashing, and my best clue is something that you suggested."

  "I wasn't aware that I had suggested anything!"

  "There is a fresh perspective to ignorance that can be very helpful."

  "So it is important that Musgrave just arrived from Earth?"

  She laughed. "Let's stop in the Plaza Dubrovnik and get something to eat. I'm starving."

  Almost three weeks passed without a word from Freya, and I began to suspect that she was ignoring the case. Freya has no real sense of right and wrong, you see; she regards her cases as games, to be tossed aside if they prove too taxing. More than once she has cheerfully admitted defeat, and blithely forgotten any promises she may have made. She is not a moral person.

  So I dropped by her home near Plaza Dubrovnik one evening, to rouse her from her irresponsible indifference. When she answered the door there were paint smudges on her face and hands.

  "Freya," I scolded her. "How could you take up an entirely new hobby when there is a case to be solved?"

  "Generously I allow you entrance after such a false accusation," she said. "But you will have to eat your words."

  She led me downstairs to her basement laboratory, which extended the entire length and breadth of her villa.

  There on a big white-topped table lay Heidi van Seegeren's Monet, looking like the three-dimensional geologic map of some minerally blessed country.

  "What's this?" I exclaimed. "Why is this here?"

  "I believe it is a fake," she said shortly, returning to a computer console.

  "Wait a moment!" I cried. On the table around the painting were rolls of recording chart paper, lab notebooks, and what looked like black-and-white photos of the painting. "What do you mean?"

  After tapping at the console she turned to me. "I mean I believe it's a fake!"

  "But I thought art forgery was extinct. It is too easy to discover a fake."

  "Ha!" She waved a finger at me angrily. "You pick a bad time to say so. It is a common opinion, of course, but not necessarily true."

  I regarded the canvas more closely. "What makes you think this a fake? I thought it was judged a masterpiece of its period."

  "Something you said first caused me to question it," she said. "You mentioned that the painting seemed to have been created by an artist familiar with the light of Terminator. This seemed true to me, and it caused me to reflect that one of the classic signs of a fake was anachronistic sensibility—that is to say, the forger injects into his vision of the past some element of his time that is so much a part of his sensibility that he cannot perceive it. Thus the Victorians faked Renaissance faces with a sentimentality that only they could not immediately see."

  "I see." I nodded sagely. "It did seem that cathedral had been struck with Solday light, didn't it?"

  "Yes. The trouble is, I have been able to find no sign of forgery in the physical properties of the painting." She shook her head. "And after three weeks of uninterrupted chemical analysis, that is beginning to worry me."

  "But Freya," I said, as something occurred to me. "Does all this have a bearing on the Musgrave murder?"

  "I think so," she replied. "And if not, it is certainly more interesting. But I believe it does."

  I nodded. "So what, exactly, have you found?"

  She smiled ironically. "You truly want to know? Well. The best test for anachronisms is the polonium 210, radium 226 equilibrium—"

  "Please, Freya. No jargon."

  "Jargon!" She raised an eyebrow to scorn me. "There is no such thing. Intelligence is like mold in a petri dish—as it eats ever deeper into the agar of reality, language has to expand with it to describe what has been digested. Each specialty provides the new vocabulary for its area of feeding, and gets accused of fabricating jargon by those who know no better. I'm surprised to hear such nonsense from you. Or perhaps not."

  "Very well," I said, hands up. "Still, you must communicate your meaning to me."

  "I shall. First I analyzed the canvas. The material and its weave match the characteristics of the canvas made by the factory outside Paris that provided Monet throughout the painting of the Rouen cathedral series. Both the fabric and the glue appear very old, though there is no precise dating technique for them. And there was no trace of solvents that might have been used to strip paint off a genuine canvas of the period.

  "I then turned to the paint. Follow so far?" she asked sharply. "Paint?"

  "You may proceed without further sarcasm, unless unable to control yourself."

  "The palette of an artist as famous as Monet has been studied in detail, so that we know he preferred cadmium yellow to chromium yellow or Naples yellow, that he tended to use Prussian blue rather than cobalt blue, and so on." She tapped the flecks of blue at the base of the cathedral. "Prussian blue."

  "You've taken paint off the canvas?"

  "How else test it? But I took very small samples, I assure you. Whatever the truth concerning the work, it remains a masterpiece, and I would not mar it. Besides, most of my tests were on the white paint, of which there is a great quantity, as you can see."

  I leaned over to stare more closely at the canvas. "Why the white paint?"

  "Because lead white is one of the best dating tools we have. The manufacturing methods used to make it changed frequently around Monet's time, and each change in method altered the chemical composition of the paint. After 1870, for instance, the cheaper zinc white was used to adulterate lead white, so there should be over one percent zinc in Monet's lead white."

  "And is that what you found?"

  "Yes. The atomic absorption spectrum showed—" She dug around in the pile of chart paper on the table. "Well, take my word for it—"

  "I will."

  "Nearly twelve percent. And the silver content for late-nineteenth-century lead white should be around four parts per million, the copper content about sixty parts per million. So it is with this paint. There is no insoluble antimony component, as there would be if the paint had been manufactured after 1940. The X-ray diffraction pattern"—she unrolled a length of chart paper and showed me where three sharp peaks in a row had been penned by the machine—"is exactly right, and there is the proper balance of polonium 210 and radium 226. That's very important, by the way, because when lead white is manufactured the radioactive balance of some of its elements is upset, and it takes a good three hundred years for them to decay back to equilibrium. And this paint is indeed back to that equilibrium."

  "So the paints are Monet's," I concluded. "Doesn't that prove the work authentic?"

  "Perhaps," Freya admitted. "But as I was doing all this analysis, it occurred to me that a modern forger has just as much information concerning Monet's palette as I do. With a modern laboratory it would be possible to use such information as a recipe, so to speak, and then to synthesize paints that would match the recipe exactly. Even the radioactively decayed lead white could be arranged, by avoiding the procedures that disrupt the radioactive balance in the first place!"

  "Wouldn't that be terrifically complicated?"

  Freya stared at me. "Obviously, Nathaniel, we are dealing with a very, very meticulous faker here. But how else could it be done, in this day and age? Why else do it at al
l? The complete faker must take care to anticipate every test available, and then in a modern laboratory create the appropriate results for every one of them. It's admirable!"

  "Assuming there ever was such a forger," I said dubiously. "It seems to me that what you have actually done here is prove the painting genuine."

  "I don't think so."

  "But even with these paints made by recipe, as you call them, the faker would still have to paint the painting!"

  "Exactly. Conceive the painting, and execute it. It becomes very impressive, I confess." She walked around the table to look at the work from the correct angle. "I do believe this is one of the best of the Rouen cathedral series—astonishing, that a forger would be capable of it."

  "That brings up another matter," I said. "Doesn't this work have a five-hundred-year-old pedigree? How could a whole history have been provided for it?"

  "Good question. But I believe I have discovered the way. Let's go upstairs—you interrupted my preparations for lunch, and I'm hungry."

  I followed her to her extensive kitchen, and sat in the window nook that overlooked the tile rooftops of the lower city while she finished chopping up the vegetables for a large salad.

  "Do you know the painting's history?" Freya asked, looking up from a dissected head of lettuce.

  I shook my head. "Up until now the thing has not been of overwhelming interest to me."

  "A confession of faulty esthetics. The work was photographed at the original exhibit in 1895, Durand-Ruel photo 5828 L8451. All of the information appended to the photo fits our painting—same name, size, signature location. Then for a century it disappeared. Odd. But it turned out to have been in the estate of an Evans family, in Aylesbury, England. When the family had some conservation work done on one corner it returned to public knowledge, and was photographed for a dozen books of the twenty-first and twenty-second centuries. After that it slipped back into obscurity, but it is as well documented as any of the series belonging to private estates."

  "Exactly my point," I said. "How could such a history be forged?"

  As Freya mixed the salad she smiled. "I sat and thought about that for quite some time myself. But consider it freshly, Nathaniel. How do we know what we know of the past?"

  "Well," I said, somewhat at a loss. "From data banks, I suppose. And books—documents—historians—"

  "From historians!" She laughed. She provided us both with bowls, and sat across from me. As I filled mine she said, "So we want to know something of the past. We go to our library and sit at its terminal. We call up general reference works, or a bibliographical index, and we choose, if we want, books that we would like to have in our hands. We type in the appropriate code, our printer prints up the appropriate book, and the volume slides out of the computer into our waiting grasp." She paused to fork down several mouthfuls of salad. "So we learn about the past using computer programs. And a clever programmer, you see, can change a program. It would be possible to insert extra pages into these old books on Monet, and thus add the forged painting to the record of the past."

  I paused, a cherry tomato hovering before my mouth. "But—"

  "I searched for an original of any of these books containing photos of our painting," Freya said. "I called all over Mercury, and to several incunabulists in libraries on Earth—you wouldn't believe the phone bill I've run up. But the original printings of these art volumes were very small, and although first editions probably remain somewhere, they are not to be found. Certainly there are no first editions of these books on Mercury, and none immediately locatable on Earth. It began to seem a very unlikely coincidence, as if these volumes contained pictures of our painting precisely because they existed only in the data banks, and thus could be altered without discovery."

  She attended to her salad, and we finished eating in silence. All the while my mind was spinning furiously, and when we were done I said, "What about the original exhibit photo?"

  She nodded, pleased with me. "That, apparently, is genuine. But the Durand-Ruel photos include four or five of paintings that have never been seen since. In that sense the Rouen cathedral series is a good one for a faker; from the first it has never been clear how many cathedrals Monet painted. The usual number given is thirty-two, but there are more in the Durand-Ruel list, and a faker could examine the list and use one of the lost items as a prescription for his fake. Providing a later history with the aid of these obscure art books would result in a fairly complete pedigree."

  "But could such an addition to the data banks be made?"

  "It would be easiest done on Earth," Freya said. "But there is no close security guarding the banks containing old art books. No one expects them to be tampered with."

  "It's astonishing," I said with a wave of my fork, "it is baroque, it is byzantine in its ingenuity!"

  "Yes," she said. "Beautiful, in a way."

  "However," I pointed out to her, "you have no proof—only this perhaps overly complex theory. You have found no first edition of a book to confirm that the computer-generated volumes add Heidi's painting, and you have found no physical anachronism in the painting itself."

  Gloomily she clicked her fork against her empty salad bowl, then rose to refill it. "It is a problem," she admitted. "Also, I have been working on the assumption that Sandor Musgrave discovered evidence of the forgery. But I can't find it."

  Never let it be said that Nathaniel Sebastian has not performed a vital role in Freya Grindavik's great feats of detection. I was the first to notice the anachronism of sensibility in Heidi's painting; and now I had a truly inspired idea. "He was pointing to the patio!" I exclaimed. "Musgrave, in his last moment, struggled to point to the patio!"

  "I had observed that," Freya said, unimpressed.

  "But Heidi's patio—you know—it is formed out of blocks of the Dover cliffs! And thus Musgrave indicated England! Is it not possible? The Monet was owned by Englishmen until Heidi purchased it—perhaps Musgrave meant to convey that the original owners were the forgers!"

  Freya's mouth hung open in surprise, and her left eye was squinted shut. I leaped from the window nook in triumph. "I've solved it! I've solved a mystery at last."

  Freya looked up at me and laughed.

  "Come now, Freya, you must admit I have given you the vital clue."

  She stood up, suddenly all business. "Yes, yes, indeed you have. Now out with you, Nathaniel; I have work to do."

  "So I did give you the vital clue?" I asked. "Musgrave was indicating the English owners?"

  As she ushered me to her door Freya laughed. "As a detective your intuition is matched only by your confidence. Now leave me to work, and I will be in contact with you soon, I assure you." And with that she urged me into the street, and I was left to consider the case alone.

  Freya was true to her word, and only two days after our crucial luncheon she knocked on the door of my town villa. "Come along," she said. "I've asked Arnold Ohman for an appointment; I want to ask him some questions about the Evans family. The city is passing the Monet museum, however, and he asked us to meet him out there."

  I readied myself quickly, and we proceeded to North Station. We arrived just in time to step across the gap between the two platforms, and then we were on the motionless deck of one of the outlying stations that Terminator is always passing. There we rented a car and sped west, paralleling the dozen massive cylindrical rails over which the city slides. Soon we had left Terminator behind, and when we were seventy or eighty kilometers onto the nightside of Mercury we turned to the north, to Monet Crater.

  Terminator's tracks lie very close to the thirtieth degree of latitude, in the northern hemisphere, and Monet Crater is not far from them. We crossed Endeavor Rupes rapidly, and passed between craters named after the great artists, writers, and composers of Earth's glorious past: traversing a low pass between Holbein and Gluck, looking down at Melville and the double crater of Rodin. "I think I understand why a modern artist on Mercury might turn to forgery," Freya said. "We are dwarfe
d by the past as we are by this landscape."

  "But it is still a crime," I insisted. "If it were done often, we would not be able to distinguish the authentic from the fake."

  Freya did not reply.

  I drove our car up a short rise, and we entered the sub-mercurial garage of the Monet museum, which is set deep in the southern rim of the immense crater named after the artist. One long wall of the museum is a window facing out over the crater floor, so that the central knot of peaks is visible, and the curving inner wall of the crater defines the horizon in the murky distance. Shutters slid down to protect these windows from the heat of Mercury's long day, but now they were open and the black wasteland of the planet formed a strange backdrop to the colorful paintings that filled the long rooms of the museum.

  There were many Monet originals there, but the canvases of the Rouen cathedral series were almost all reproductions, set in one long gallery. As Freya and I searched for Arnold we also viewed them.

  "You see, they're not just various moments of a single day," Freya said.

  "Not unless it was a very strange day for weather." The three reproductions before us all depicted foggy days: two bluish and underwater-looking, the third a bright burning-off of yellow noontime fog. Obviously these were from a different day than the ones across the room, where a cool clear morning gave way to a midday that looked as if the sun were just a few feet above the cathedral. The museum had classified the series in color groups: "Blue Group," "White Group," "Yellow Group," and so on. To my mind that system was stupid—it told you nothing you couldn't immediately see. I myself classified them according to weather. There was a clear day that got very hot; a clear winter day, the air chill and pure; a foggy day; and a day when a rainstorm had grown and then broken.

  When I told Freya of my system she applauded it. "So Heidi's painting goes from the king of the White Group to the hottest moment of the hot day."

  "Exactly. It's the most extreme in terms of sunlight blasting the stone into motes of color."

  "And thus the forger extends Monet's own thinking, you see," she said, a bit absently. "But I don't see Arnold, and I think we have visited every room."