Joanna cautiously lifted up a torn edge of the Cézanne and peered behind it at its backing. “So I take it he knows his four Cs quite well.”
“Oh, he is well aware of the four—color, clarity, cut, and carat—but his true talent resides in grading the cut, for that determines the gem’s brilliance.”
“Does he himself do the cuts?”
“Oh no, madam, but I suspect he could if he wished.”
Joanna used her magnifying glass to inspect the frame and back of the painting and, apparently satisfied, turned away from it. “Tell me about Bikram, your brother’s manservant.”
“He is an exceptionally tall, well-built Sikh, with dark skin and a pleasing manner,” Dubose described. “Bikram has been at my brother’s side for over thirty years and is loyal beyond words. I am certain he would give his life for my brother without the slightest hesitation.”
“One last question about the Cézanne painting,” Joanna requested. “Did the painting ever leave the sight of Bikram or your brother?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Dubose replied. “But it might be best for you to ask Albert.”
“And so we shall,” said Joanna, and strolled over to a nearby painting that depicted ballerinas. It was eye-catchingly beautiful and had not been vandalized. “This, too, appears to be the work of a French impressionist.”
“The artist is Edgar Degas who is known and celebrated for his lovely ballerinas.” Dubose moved in closer to straighten the slightly tilted painting, then blew at a speck of dust on its frame. “Fortunately, the vandal either overlooked or showed no interest in Degas’s work.”
“He did not overlook the painting, but chose not to slash it, for the ballerinas are turned away with their heads down and do not show faces that the vandal is so intent on defacing.”
“I do pray this criminal can be apprehended before he does even more damage.”
“As does the entire West End of London.”
“Is there any hope?”
“Only a glimmer,” said Joanna, and gave the defaced woman holding the rosary a final look before thanking Felix Dubose for his time and assistance.
We departed the home via the tradesman’s entrance which Joanna correctly predicted had been used by the vandal. The Bramah lock was old and rusted, but on its surface were scratches and markings recently made by the lockpick. Any footprints that may have been left by the vandal and his accomplice were long gone, however.
“The number of small dints and scrapes suggest the guilty lockpick is Joseph Blevins who is losing his sight,” Joanna noted. “He would need to depend on feel alone in the darkness even if a torch was available.”
“And he would be the least expensive,” I added.
“That, too.”
Following Joanna’s instructions, we stayed off the footpath on the side of the home and took measured steps across a well-manicured garden. She reasoned the intruders would not use the paved footpath upon which their heels might click and thus alert the household of their presence. The soft grass of the lawn would mute any sounds made by their approach.
“Here!” Joanna stopped abruptly and pointed down to a large bed of flowers. Those in the middle were flattened and crushed, those on the sides still standing. “They came and left this way.”
“Would not two men hurrying along trample a wider area of the flower bed?” I asked.
“Not if they were in single file,” Joanna said. “Remember, Blevins is nearly blind. He would have to be led in the darkness, most likely from behind the vandal.”
“Your observations are very keen, Joanna,” my father praised. “But I fear they do not bring us any closer to this despicable vandal.”
“Perhaps,” Joanna responded. “But I make it a habit never to discard findings, no matter how trivial they may appear. In the future, you see, they might turn out to be quite useful, so I shall docket this information for now and store it along with the other data we have uncovered thus far.”
We strolled on and passed a window that looked into a large, brightly lighted kitchen where servants were scurrying to and fro. On a long wooden table lay a splendid goose that was being dressed for the oven by a hatted chef. A hidden vent allowed appetizing aromas to escape into the early evening air.
“It is obvious that Mr. Dubose is a man of considerable wealth,” said I.
“All of which he would happily give up in return for his dear brother’s paralysis to disappear,” my father noted.
“Which brings us to your upcoming visit with Albert Dubose at St. Bartholomew’s,” Joanna interjected. “This visit could be most important, Watson, for it may lead to resolution of the case before us.”
“How so?” my father asked, clearly puzzled. “How in the world would the time we spent in Afghanistan relate to this spree of vandalism?”
“It is not your soldiering days that I am interested in, but the Cézanne painting Albert Dubose gave to his brother,” Joanna went on. “You see, it is the odd, missing piece here. All of the defaced paintings had been in or passed through the galleries in the West End of London. Thus, the vandal had to know these galleries or the works of art they possessed. That is the common denominator that should point to the culprit. But this notion falls apart with the slashing of the Cézanne painting at the home of Felix Dubose. That painting was purchased in Paris and to his knowledge was never seen or in any way connected to the West End galleries.”
My father nodded ever so slowly. “Which presents quite a dilemma.”
“A stubborn dilemma unless we can prove that the Cézanne painting somehow passed through a London gallery prior to being purchased.”
“Should I ask him directly?”
“That would not be wise, particularly if there is some reason he wishes all to believe the painting was truly purchased in Paris rather than London.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Perhaps to impress his brother, for a Cézanne painting bought in Paris, where the artist once lived, would make the gift even more treasured. Mind you, I am not saying
