“You are most perceptive, but I must admit I am always interested in hearing and sharing stories from that war of long ago.”
“As am I,” Dubose said, and gently shifted his position. “Now tell me how I can be of help.”
“We are tracking all of the vandalized paintings, from the moment they were purchased to the day of the defacing,” said my father. “We are in hopes this will provide clues that will lead to the apprehension of the villain.”
“Mine was a straightforward transaction,” Dubose reported. “I stopped at an art gallery in the Marais section of Paris to browse about when I spotted the Cézanne. It was exceedingly lovely and even more expensive, but I simply had to have it.”
“Do you recall the name of the gallery?”
“It carries the name Galerie Galbert and it is somewhat of an artistic powerhouse, with galleries in Italy, Switzerland, and Greece.”
“Do they have a branch in London?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Pray continue.”
“After purchasing the Cézanne, we returned to our hotel on the Champs-Élysées, from which we departed the following day.”
“I take it you returned by ferry?”
“We did, and a rough journey it was, for the weather over the weekend had become storm-like, with high waves that pounded us relentlessly. I have a brake on my wheelchair which I applied, but it still required Bikram’s strong arms to keep me from bouncing about.”
“Was the painting placed in storage aboard the ferry?”
“Heavens, no!” Dubose replied at once. “We anticipated some turbulence, and one can readily imagine the damage it might do to a fragile painting. For that reason, the Cézanne was always in Bikram’s hands or on my lap. We were met at the dock by a motor car and driven home.”
“Do you reside at your brother’s home?”
“He wishes me to do so, but it would be most inconvenient, for a man in a wheelchair requires somewhat special accommodations. The doors must be widened, cabinets and shelves lowered so they can be within reach, and of course there must be no stairs or steps. My home in Notting Hill is so outfitted and, with the assistance of Bikram, I get along quite nicely.”
“Since it was to be a surprise gift, I suspect you kept it well hidden in the event your brother paid you an unexpected visit.”
“Exactly so, Watson. The Cézanne was covered and placed on the top shelf of a locked closet, where it remained until the day it was given to my brother.”
A dead-end, I thought dispiritedly. Despite my father’s careful questioning, we had discovered no clues that would connect the Cézanne to the other vandalized paintings. My father and I exchanged subtle glances, indicating it was time to depart. But it was at that moment that a final question came to my father’s mind. “Was the Cézanne wrapped as a gift?”
“Of course, for removing the wrapping adds immeasurably to the delight of receiving a gift,” Dubose answered, and looked to his aide. “Who did the wrapping for us, Bikram?”
“The art gallery that repaired the frame, sir,” Bikram replied.
“Yes, yes,” Dubose recalled immediately. “Several of the screws on the frame had become disjointed, so we thought it best that it be fixed by an expert.”
“Was the expert at an art gallery?” my father asked at once.
“Naturally,” Dubose said. “Who else would you trust with a Cézanne?”
“And the name of this art gallery?”
Dubose looked once more to Bikram who answered, “The very fine gallery of Hawke and Evans, where it remained for an entire day so the necessary repairs and reconditioning of the frame could be done in a most excellent manner.”
With that information in hand, we bade Albert Dubose good-bye, with wishes for a speedy recovery, and with the very same thought in both our minds.
Joanna now had her common denominator.
6The Art Historian
On our arrival home we found Joanna and her son waiting for us in the parlor, chatting over cups of tea. Johnny appeared to be well, but his face was a bit drawn and fatigued, no doubt from the long day that had begun at dawn.
“Ah, Johnny,” my father greeted the boy warmly. “How nice to see you again.”
The lad hurried over to shake my father’s and my hand, saying, “It is always a pleasure being in your company.” He moved in closer to us and sniffed at our clothes once, then twice, and asked, “Have you two been in contact with a carcass?”
The grandson of Sherlock Holmes, I thought to myself. He not only carries the great detective’s looks, but his brain and nose as well. “Would you care to guess what we encountered?” I asked. “Was it animal or human?”
“The odor is the same for both,” Johnny replied. “But since my dear mother told me you were visiting a hospital this morning, I would place a wager on the source being a very ill or dead human.”
“It emanates from a patient who is quite alive,” my father replied. “But before we delve into those details, I must inquire on the status of the cholera outbreak at Eton.”
“I am afraid it continues to spread,” Joanna answered. “There have been five more cases reported, two of whom are Johnny’s classmates. I am surprised London’s newspapers have not reported more on the particulars of this dreaded outbreak.”
“I suspect their articles have been somewhat sketchy on numbers, so as not to unduly alarm the public,” my father surmised. “Even the editorials play down the extent of the outbreak and assure it will shortly be brought under control.”
“Surely this is the case,” said I. “The safe water supply and modern sanitation facilities should limit the number of those afflicted.”
“It will, but not before considerable harm is done,” my father went on. “As one editorial so wisely pointed out, cholera is not a disease of the
