The Play of Light and Shadow & Writing

by Barry Ergang

  “My God, Alan,” Gaines whispered. “What have I gotten us into? That painting is a curse.”

  Warner and Cochran questioned Gaines and me, taking each of us aside to do so, presumably to confirm what Darnell had told them and to compare our versions of events. Toward me Warner was polite, Cochran surly and suspicious. Interviewing Gaines, Cochran suddenly became deferential. When the interrogations were finished, Warner asked Gaines if he could use the telephone.

  Moving as unsteadily as a man who has just gotten casts removed from both legs, Gaines led him into the office. Warner picked up the phone on the desk, and Gaines vanished from view.

  Darnell lit a cigarette and asked: “Did you happen to check the camera before you bagged it?”

  Cochran looked at him narrowly. “For what?”

  “Was there a disk in it?”

  “That don’t concern you now.”

  “Was there a disk in it?”

  He stepped in close to Darnell. “S’matter, you don’t hear so good?”

  Smoke drifted lazily from Darnell’s nostrils. “We’re on the same side, Cochran, so here’s a tip for you. That disk could contain vital evidence. If you don’t have it, you’d better find it.”

  “Here’s a tip for you.” He poked Darnell in the chest. “You’re out of it now. You’re done. No more gouging the rich folks for big fees. It’s police business. I don’t need a P.I. telling me how it works.”

  “He used to be a cop,” I said.

  Cochran flashed his sneer at me. “Used to be.”

  “Ex-Philly homicide,” Warner said, stepping onto the deck and sliding the doors closed. “Before we left the station, I had someone run a check on you. I just called to get the results. You had a good record. Why’d you quit?”

  “Lots of reasons,” Darnell said. “Some of them were cretins like your partner.”

  “He’s got no more business here,” Cochran said. “It’s our case now.” His fists clenched at his sides. “Don’t you realize who lives here?”

  “Cochran’s a gloryhound, Professor,” Darnell said as if the detectives weren’t there. “He figures cozying up to prominent citizens like the Gaineses will float his career.”

  “Darnell’s involved,” Warner said flatly. “He stays.”

  “He’s not a cop any more, Mitch; he’s a damn P.I.”

  “He has more experience handling homicides than both of us put together. And he’s willing to cooperate.” It was a statement, but he looked at Darnell significantly.

  “You couldn’t get me out of here with a catapult,” Darnell said.

  Seething, Cochran kept silent.

  Darnell ground out his cigarette on the railing and dropped the butt into his coat pocket. He nodded toward the house. “Get any useful information?“

  Warner shook his head. “Nobody heard an argument, nobody saw anything. Most of them didn‘t even know Trevor.”

  “Julian Lakehurst did,” Cochran said. “His card was in Trevor’s pocket.”

  Darnell’s jaw tightened. “Nice of you to get around to telling us.”

  The stocky detective’s freckles gained prominence against a reddening complexion. “I don’t have to tell you squat.”

  “Knock it off,“ Warner said. He gave his partner an annoyed look before asking Darnell: “The killing and theft connected?”

  ”No doubt.”

  “Anything to the Marchand angle?”

  “I‘m not sure, but I‘d guess not.” He jerked a thumb toward the house. “You have a number of possible motives in there.”

  “I‘m listening.”

  “For openers, my client could be working an insurance scam.”

  “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Are you saying Bart stole the painting to collect the insurance?”

  “It’s a possibility, Professor. He might’ve set me up.

  I’d be watching the gallery and could corroborate his story about the great Paul Marchand miraculously swiping the painting. Then he’d collect the insurance money and have his painting.”

  “It doesn‘t make sense,” I said. “Marjorie owns a company worth billions and Bart’s not exactly destitute. There’s no reason for him to commit fraud.”

  “How do you know he don’t have gambling debts?” Cochran challenged. “Maybe he’s got a girlfriend who’s draining his bank account. You think his wife would like payin’ off loan sharks or footin’ the bill for his honey?”

  For a man who had earlier shown courtesy bordering on obsequiousness toward Gaines, Cochran had certainly warmed to the idea of his guilt. But it might explain Gaines’s uneasiness, even on Thursday night, if he’d been planning something all along. The thought angered me because, if true, it would mean I’d been duped as well. “So you think Bart acted in collusion with Derek and then killed him?” I asked.

  “I’m just thinking out loud,” Darnell said. “There’s no evidence to accuse anyone yet.”

  “Let’s hear the other motives,” Warner said.

  “Possible motives. Mrs. Gaines didn’t want me or any other detective here today. She also doesn’t want to play second fiddle to the artwork. She got flirty with Derek and posed for the photo session, maybe to make Gaines jealous. If she stole the painting, it could be she plans to later pretend the thief’s contacted her to sell it back. Supposedly spending her own money for it would give her a hold over her husband.

  “Maybe Gaines has something extracurricular going on with Carol Prentice, the live-in assistant. Like Cochran said, she might be an expensive date and another reason for Mrs. Gaines to resent her husband. Alexis Crowell’s just plain bitter; she’d steal it for some sort of revenge. She was also pretty insecure about Derek‘s attentions, and demanding of them. Julian Lakehurst told Gaines he has a buyer, and he seems to be motivated strictly by profit. He suggested the party in the first place, maybe to grab the painting and put the blame Marchand.”

  Darnell’s conjectures slid through my head, inspiring one of my own: “Suppose Marchand were in league with Lakehurst, to gain entry to the house. Perhaps Derek discovered something incriminating and was killed because of it.“

  “It’s as possible as anything else at this point.”

  “But how the devil did the painting vanish from the gallery?”

  Darnell scowled, gray-blue eyes darkening. “When I can answer that one, Professor, you’ll be among the first to know.”

  “Could someone have rigged the easel?” Warner asked.

  “To take a painting off its stretcher at a distance and make it disappear? Tell me how,” Darnell said. He looked at Cochran pointedly. “The picture Derek shot from the doorway could be very important. When you examined the camera, was there a disk in it?”

  Cochran stood motionless in sullen defiance. Finally, after a noisy exhalation of disgust: “No, it was empty.”

  “You think there’s something on the disk that points to the killer?” Warner asked.

  “It needs checking.”

  “The camera’s digital. The killer could’ve deleted the picture on the spot.”

  “No.” Cochran shook his head. “This kill don’t look premeditated. They were servin’ lunch on the deck. The perp took a hell of a chance wasting Trevor right around the corner from a bunch of possible witnesses. The perp flipped out and strangled him, grabbed the disk out of the camera, dropped the camera on Trevor’s chest, and took off. He’d be crazy to sit there goin’ through every picture on the disk till he found the one to erase.”

  Darnell considered it, then said: “You’re right.”

  “Well, thank you all to hell.”

  “Hey, a guy like you‘s right once a year; I’m privileged to witness it.”

  Warner reprimanded both of them with a glance, then said: “We’ll have to look for the disk.”

  “May I make a suggestion?” I asked. They all looked my way expectantly. “There were disks all over the deck when we found Derek. If he removed the one you’re looking for, maybe it’s among them.”


  “Good thought,” Warner said. “Get the camera and disks, Jim.”

  “Great,” Cochran growled. “Now the schoolteacher’s running the investigation.”

  But he grudgingly got the evidence bags and gave them to Warner, who pulled on a pair of gloves. One after the other, he inserted the disks and looked into the camera’s LCD screen. The disks were blank.

  “We’ll have to search the place,” he said unhappily. “Take some of the men and get on it, Jim. I’ll talk to Lakehurst.”

  Cochran scowled and shook his head, patently displeased with his assignment. “We’ll start on the grounds, in case the perp dumped it outside.” He motioned to the uniform men to follow him.

  Warner, Darnell and I entered the house via Gaines’s office. Warner led us to the gallery where technicians took photographs and dusted for fingerprints. One of them was inspecting the interior of the closet.

  “Any ideas about the blue stuff?” Darnell asked him.

  “Nah. Can’t say till it’s analyzed.”

  “How about prints?”

  “Only old ones. Your thief probably wore gloves.”

  “That’s no surprise. The prints on the outer doorknob are Dr. Driscoll’s and mine.”

  Warner sent a uniformed man to summon Lakehurst, then spoke quietly to a technician who knelt alongside the easel examining the stretcher. He rose with a painful grunt, muttered, “Damn arthritis,” and dusted the knees of his trousers. A few minutes later, the uniformed man escorted Lakehurst into the gallery. Warner introduced himself, directed the art dealer to sit on one of the benches, and sat beside him. Darnell and I stood a few feet away. Darnell seemed suddenly remote and pensive.

  “I need to ask you some questions, Mr. Lakehurst,” Warner said.

  “I‘m happy to provide what help I can.”

  “Thanks. How long have you known Derek Trevor?”

  “I met him today when Alexis introduced us.”

  “You’d never seen him before today?”

  “No.”

  “He had your business card on him.”

  “He inquired about my gallery and whether I ever display photographic art.”

  “Then he approached you about a business proposition?”

  “Indirectly, I suppose. He said he had a portfolio of photographs he hoped to exhibit someday. I said I’d be happy to look it over.”

  Warner nodded. “Did he discuss Dr. Gaines’s painting with you?”

  “Not as I recall, no.”

  “I’m told you’re the one who proposed having this party.”

  “That’s right. Barton was worried that Marchand might make an attempt to steal Nomad. I thought having a crowd here might discourage him.”

  “So you know quite a lot about Charles Riveau and Paul Marchand.”

  Lakehurst bent his balding head in a brief nod. “Not nearly as much as Barton does, but I am acquainted with some of the history, yes. I’ve learned a lot from Barton’s researches, and from Riveau‘s journal.”

  “Does Marchand have a history of violence?”

  Lakehurst pursed his lips, his gaze wandering toward a

  Cezanne. “I don’t recall hearing anything of the sort.”

  “So over the years, he’s been able to pull off all his thefts without anyone getting hurt.”

  Shrewd eyes came back to Warner’s face. “I said I don’t recall hearing that he ever committed any acts of violence, Detective. It’s not a fact I can verify.” His smile broadened, striving for amiability. “If you’re asking whether he might resort to brutality to acquire the Riveau paintings he swore to destroy, then I’d have to say yes. Riveau’s journal suggests a passionate desire for revenge on Marchand’s part.”

  “Then if someone tried to get in his way, he wouldn’t think twice about killing him?”

  “I’ve never met Marchand,” Lakehurst answered, his gaze unwavering. “I can’t address his thought processes.”

  “You think he exists?” Darnell asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Do you think Marchand is a real person?”

  “What a question!” Derision curled his mouth. “In his journal, Riveau recounts their years together as partners in crime, how Marchand stole paintings from museums and private collectors, and how Riveau painted over the genuine works to conceal them until they found buyers.”

  “Some were masterpieces, weren’t they?”

  “All of them were. Several have never been recovered.”

  “How could he paint over them without ruining them?” Warner asked.

  “By applying a gesso—a plaster and glue mixture—to the canvas, which he could paint on. Later, if necessary, one could safely remove the surface painting. The work beneath would be intact.”

  “Theft is pretty common in the art world, isn’t it?” Darnell asked.

  Lakehurst nodded sadly. “I’m afraid so. Many of the thieves are ingeniously clever, right down to providing falsified provenances to deceive dealers and collectors into paying millions for worthless paintings. Something on the order of forty percent of major artworks bought and sold today are forgeries.”[*]

  “Then how does a collector know what he’s buying?”

  “Unfortunately, he doesn’t always.” He cleared his throat. “Nor do we who sell art. I hate to admit it, but I and many of my colleagues have been fooled by clever forgeries and apparently legitimate provenances. The worst part is the disservice it does to the art world in its broadest sense.”

  “What about the collectors who buy the real paintings?”

  “They’re hoarders,” he said contemptuously. “They have no intention of sharing their acquisitions with the world and, in any case, don’t dare admit they own them. How they obtain the paintings doesn’t matter to them.”

  “So Marchand and Riveau sold them to less than reputable collectors,” Warner said.

  “I can only assume that to be the case.”

  “Ever bought or sold any of Riveau’s work?” Darnell asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “You had nothing to do with Gaines’s buying Nomad?”

  “How could I? He won it in an auction.”

  “You seemed pretty interested in displaying it—or selling it.”

  “If Barton ever wishes to put it on public display, I’d be honored to have him do so in my gallery. Should he ever wish to sell it…Well, sir, I’m a businessman, and it happens I have a client who is willing to pay a considerable amount for Nomad and assure Bart a profit.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Darnell scratched his chin with a thumbnail. “You have any clients who fall into what you call the…uh…‘disreputable’ category?”

  Lakehurst swung his gaze toward Warner. “Detective, my understanding is that this man has no official status, so I decline to respond to his innuendoes.”

  “Then pretend I asked it,” Warner said quietly.

  Outrage flared in Lakehurst’s eyes, but his voice was even. “Very well. I’ve had many clients over the years, some of whom were one-time buyers or sellers, some of whom are frequent customers. I can’t attest to the character of all of them, certainly, nor can I tell you anything about their dealings with other galleries, but I assure you that their transactions with me have always been aboveboard. I have a reputation for honesty I’ve never compromised. Nor will I ever do so.” He paused for breath. “Now, have you any additional questions, or may I go?”

  “We’re finished,” Warner said. “But I’d like to ask you to stay on the premises a while longer.”

  “Unless you’re charging me with a crime, I don’t see why I should be compelled to remain.”

  “There’s no charge and no compulsion. Just a request.”

  Lakehurst rose and looked at his watch. “I can stay a little longer, but I have an engagement in town this evening I don’t intend to miss.”

  Inconvenienced and indignant, he wheeled and started toward the door briskly, but the masterpieces on the walls caught his gaze and his exit was slower
than planned.

  Warner stood up and rubbed a hand over his face. “Not much help there, and I can’t detain the rest of them indefinitely.”

  “You going to search them?” Darnell asked.

  “Like it or not, the Gaineses are influential people. There could be big-time repercussions if I frisked their friends. And even if we find the damn disk, it‘s possible there‘s nothing incriminating on it.”

  “Derek took a picture of an empty gallery. Why? The Professor thinks he might’ve just wanted a panoramic shot, but he could’ve gotten that on his way in, before his models went inside. Why do it on the way out? I think it’s because he saw something that didn’t belong.”

  “‘The Purloined Letter,’” I said.

  Warner and Darnell looked at me quizzically.

  “Poe’s story about a stolen document. It was hidden in plain sight, which is why the police couldn’t find it.”

  “What’re you getting at, Dr. Driscoll?” Warner asked.

  “Derek was killed right outside Bart’s office, and the disk was taken from his camera. Bart has a computer in his office, so it’s reasonable to assume he has other disks in there, too. What I’m getting at is what Detective Cochran pointed out: the killer took an awful risk strangling Derek on the deck with people just around the corner. Well, did he take the disk, drop it in a pocket, and casually walk into their midst? He’d be risking a search later. Or did he duck into the office, hide the disk, and then stroll back through the house, nobody the wiser?”

  Darnell grinned. “Maybe he should be running the investigation,” he told Warner.

  “Yeah, it’s another good thought. Let’s have a look at the office.”