Painted Ladies

Dutch Jew who died in one of the Nazi death camps during the Second World War. Lady with a Finch was confiscated by the Nazis.”

“Where did you get it?” I said.

“It was donated to the museum, in his will, by a long-time patron of the museum named Wendell Forbes,” Richards said.

“Where did he get it?” I said.

“He told us that it was purchased from a dealer in Brussels,” Richards said.

“Is there a way to trace it back?” I said.

“You mean past ownership?”

“Yeah.”

“You’d have to talk with the Forbes estate about that,” Richards said.

“That’s an exciting prospect,” I said. “Is any of the family around?”

“All of this is before my time,” Richards said. “I don’t really know. Apparently, Wendell Forbes was the only one interested in art.”

“Okay,” I said. “Tell me a little about Morton Lloyd.”

“Morton Lloyd?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m interested in everything.”

“He’s our attorney,” Richards said. “I believe you met him earlier.”

“I did,” I said. “How did he come to represent you?”

“He’s a member of our board,” Richards said.

“So he works pro bono?” I said.

Richards smiled faintly.

“We pay him a retainer for general consultation,” Richards said. “And if there’s billable work to be done, he does it at cost.”

“He says.”

Richards smiled but didn’t comment.

“And it was he who suggested you use Ashton Prince in regard to the stolen painting,” I said.

“Yes,” Richards said.

“Did he say how he knew Prince?”

“I don’t recall that he did,” Richards said.

“And no one has consulted you about the painting in any way since Prince’s death?”

Richards looked genuinely startled.

“I am under the impression that the painting no longer exists,” he said.

“And you have no reason to doubt that?” I said.

“I wish I did,” Richards said. “Do you think it is not destroyed?”

“Don’t know,” I said. “But I’d bet it wasn’t.”

“That would be wonderful news,” Richards said. “Art is always one of a kind. If it’s gone, it cannot be replaced.”

“So no one has contacted you in any way about the painting?”

“No.”

“I find out something,” I said, “I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you,” Richards said. “Have I been of any help?”

“Not much,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” Richards said.

“Don’t feel bad,” I said. “Nobody else has been much help, either.”

48

Morton Lloyd did business out of an old gray stone building on Batterymarch. His office itself was aggressively colonial, right down to the receptionist, who looked a bit like Molly Pitcher. There were prints of American militia companies on the paneled walls. And a big painting of Cornwallis’s surrender. The painting looked amateurish to me.

“My name is Spenser,” I said to the receptionist. “I need to consult with Mr. Lloyd.”

“Mr. Lloyd is with a client,” she said. “Do you have an appointment.”

“I can wait,” I said.