May 1976 Paris
'Bring me up to date.'
The two men were enjoying lunch on the Champ de Mars at the cultural icon; La Tour Eiffel. Named after the man who designed and built the tower, Gustave Eiffel.
'Quite simple, Monsieur Engelond. The project progresses on schedule.'
They were seated fifty-seven meters above the ground.
'And how do we know this, precisely?' Engelond is large, impatient and overbearing.
An additional meter for the height of the kitchen stove and hence the name of the restaurant; 58 Tour Eiffel.
'Our people have been inside. Jones has set up a retail store. The second floor is a studio. Elaborate security including a 38 cubic foot commercial quality fireproof jewelry safe.'
It was late spring. Bright, clear sky with temperatures in the high sixties.
'How far along is the painting?'
Engelond was uneasy about this project. Under normal conditions he would have arranged, at the minimum, three levels of insulation between himself and those involved. There, was however, an emotional element here. He had wanted to own this painting for years. Now it was within his reach. Nothing would interfere. Engelond would be on top of this operation every step of the way. The only acceptable outcome was success.
'Honnetement, it is impossible to tell. To my eye, perhaps three-quarters. The Italian's work is genius, maybe bordering on the supernatural. I can come up with no explanation for how well he duplicates the original.'
'How does Jones plan to transport the painting?”
'Monsieur Jones has bought property in the Geneva business district. It is to be an art gallery. The interior is being completed as we speak. Dozens of painting have been ordered from all over Europe. A toutes fins pratiques, the operation will appear to be legitimate. When the time comes, your painting will be shipped to the gallery with six or more other works of art. Quite ingenieux, really.'
'How do you suppose that he will switch the copy for the original?'
'Aucune idee! I can only say with certitude that no one will suspect. As far as anyone can tell, no crime will have been committed. This is Monsieur Jones' reputation. I have seen it with my own eyes.'
'You're confident that he can pull this off?'
'Oui.'
'Good. Very good. You have done well. One last small detail. When this over, I believe that we will no longer need the Italian or Mr. Jones.'
'Si vous souhaitez, pourquoi if I may ask?'
'Let's say loose ends. Besides, as for Jones, I don't care for his kind.'
'Peux j'assiste toute autre chose?'
'That's it for now.'
'Dans ce cas, we shall speak soon, Monsieur Engelond.'
'Good day, Monsieur LaVache.'
There’s always a body
Joey Amato's apartment was on Snyder between 9th and 10th. It was a third floor walkup. Kelly and I stood outside the apartment door. Kato waited in the car.
I knocked once. The door opened a quarter of an inch.
'This can't be good.' I pushed the door open with my foot and turned the light on with my elbow. The apartment had a smell that just should not have been there.
Kelly followed me in. 'Don't touch anything,' I told her. Our eyes scanned the room. She whispered, 'Over there.'
Sitting in a reclining chair placed in front of the television was the late Joey Amato with a bullet hole directly behind his right ear.
Call the police. Don't call the police. I walk over to the window and pull the drapes back. This is South Philly, home of the original town watch. Perhaps as many as twenty sets of eyes saw us enter the apartment, saw the car, already copied down the license tag.
Doesn't matter. No one will call the cops. Why? Because they also saw who murdered Joey. Time to skedaddle.
Pulling away from the curb Kelly suggests that I drop her off at home. She has an apartment on the Delaware down at Penn's Landing. Although I'm not thrilled with the idea, that's exactly what I do.
Before she gets out of the car, she leans over and kisses me right behind my left ear. 'I'm sorry Pick. Call you tomorrow.'
And she was gone.
'What's ya goin' to do, lad?' I'm heading back to my place on the East River Drive. Moe suddenly appears in the passenger seat.
'Don't know, Uncle.' I assume that he's referring to me and Kelly. 'I really don't.'
'Far be it for me to tell you what to do, boyo.'
'Why would you start now?' I long since learned that sarcasm is completely lost on an apparition.
Back at the house I sat down at the computer. There was a post on the anonymous site from Connor. 'Mission accomplished'. The post also included a link to an article in today's London's Times.
The article began as follows:
London, April 6, 2012 Hint of Previously Unknown Vermeer, Respected art historian, James Thomas Middleton has just published a paper at Oxford University indicating the existence of a previously unknown Vermeer. Middleton, a tenured professor and published author, unearthed documents hundreds of years old that point to an undocumented painting done at the hands of the famous 17th century Dutch artist, Johannes Vermeer.
Middleton is quoted as saying, 'The evidence for an undiscovered Vermeer work is rock solid. I shall devote my time and energy in an effort to follow this trail and attempt to locate this missing work of art'.
The article goes on to provide some background information on the great artist and speculates about what a newly turned-up masterpiece would fetch on the open market.
Personally, I am not familiar with all of the particulars on how Connor managed to accomplish this piece of legerdemain. I have managed to piece together the following from conversations with my brother. To the best of my knowledge this is what occurred:
Connor managed to be visiting me in the States about the same time that Doo Wop and I were planning his newly conceived retirement program. When the details of this enterprise were confided to my brother, he eagerly offered to supply any assistance that he could provide.
Initially, on his return to Europe, Connor made several visits to Holland. It was there that he frequented antique shops, junk stores, flea markets and auctions. His initial efforts were directed to finding canvases, paint brushes, frames and such that were roughly three hundred years old.
As time passed, he became intrigued with the idea of creating a rock solid provenance for this newly created work of art. We began to have a conversation across the Atlantic for several months until he mapped out a convincing history for the painting. Once accomplished, he contrived a series of events for the painting's documentation to unfold.
Step one of the plan was to enlist the aid of a noted art researcher and historian. After deep background checks on several notable prospects, he settled on James Middleton. Connor arranged a meeting at Middleton's University office, ostensibly to hire him for research for a wealthy art collector.
On the appointed afternoon, my brother shows up at the professor's office. Before presenting the particulars of our offer, Connor, being the con man that he is, starts out dangling a very attractive carrot.
'Professor Middleton, am I to understand that your youngest daughter suffers from a debilitating condition.'
