“But highly unlikely in England,” I ventured.
“And highly unlikely in Italy and Spain, yet in the past year alone outbreaks have occurred in Naples and in a fishing village south of Barcelona.” My father gave further thought to the dreadful infection before grazing over to Joanna and asking, “Are they certain the disease was brought to England by a Spanish ship?”
Joanna nodded. “Which is believed to have become contaminated during a brief stopover in Morocco.”
“Well, let us hope that Eton is both the beginning and the end of this outbreak, so we can devote our full energies to the art vandal,” said my father.
“That reminds me,” Joanna interjected. “The art historian Edwin Alan Rowe called, having returned from his tour earlier than expected. He of course has heard of the art vandal and is quite eager to lend his assistance in solving this case. I took the liberty of setting a meeting with him this afternoon at the National Gallery.”
Johnny’s lidded eyes opened noticeably. “May I inquire as to the details of this case, Mother?”
Joanna sighed to herself, knowing there was no way to get around the lad’s inquisitive mind. She studied his face briefly, no doubt having the same thought I had earlier. He looked so much like a young Sherlock Holmes, with his long, narrow face, heavily lidded eyes, and jutted chin. “I shall give you a brief summary, but you should hold your questions until I am done.”
“Of course, Mother.”
Joanna outlined the case of the art vandal, describing the defacing of the paintings and the various places where the vandalism occurred. She emphasized the point that most of the destructive acts happened in art galleries, and only a few in private homes. In conclusion, she added, “Scotland Yard believes this is the work of a crazed individual. Are you of the same opinion?”
Johnny gave the matter his fullest attention before asking, “Do the private homes invaded belong to the owners of the art galleries?”
“They do not,” Joanna replied. “They are separate and distinct.”
“Then how could this vandal possibly know that the paintings were in these homes?”
“That is the key question.”
A thin smile came to Johnny’s face. “Mother, I am afraid you are not dealing with a crazed person, but rather a clever one who has a purpose.”
“Which is?”
“To learn that, you will have to catch the villain.”
“We may well be a step nearer to this vandal,” my father chimed in. “For my son and I have now connected the Cézanne to a local art gallery.”
“How so?” Joanna asked at once.
“Albert Dubose informed us,” my father continued on. “He did indeed purchase the Cézanne from a Parisian gallery and brought it back to London under the careful eye of both he and his manservant, Bikram. The only time the painting left their possession was when Bikram took it to a prominent London gallery to have its frame repaired and reconditioned. Would you care to guess the name of the gallery?”
“Hawke and Evans,” Joanna breathed.
“Hawke and Evans indeed.”
“And that is where we can place our villain,” Joanna said in a rush. “Think of the various occurrences which lead to that conclusion. The Hawke and Evans gallery was broken into twice, not once, and this is more than any other gallery. Furthermore, both of the paintings in the private homes had also been retouched by hands at a single London gallery, namely Hawke and Evans.”
“We also know that, according to Delvecchio, the slashed paintings in the other galleries were previously retouched by the restorers at Hawke and Evans,” my father added.
“That, too,” Joanna agreed.
“But who at Hawke and Evans might be responsible?” I asked.
“Any of them, past or present, for none should be placed above suspicion,” Joanna replied.
“But our main suspect—the individual with the obvious dermatitis involving the scalp and neck—does not work at Hawke and Evans,” I countered. “Lestrade told us by phone that he carefully questioned Simon Hawke in this regard and the owner emphatically stated that no one in his employ matches that description.”
“Which complicates matters,” Joanna conceded. “Yet the man with the noticeable dermatitis is most certainly our vandal. But how he fits in at the gallery remains beyond our grasp.”
“Could he be a hired hand?” I wondered.
“Unlikely, but possible,” Joanna said before glancing at her watch. “Oh goodness! We must hurry or we shall be late for our meeting with Edwin Alan Rowe.”
“May I come along, Mother?” Johnny requested.
“I think it best that you rest, for you have had a very long day already. I believe a nap would be quite in order.”
“But you must promise to tell me of any important knowledge the art historian imparts to you.”
“You have my word,” Joanna assured and hurried to the coatrack. “Now we must be off, but on our way out I shall ask Miss Hudson to prepare one of her most sumptuous lunches for you.”
“Please do not, Mother, for at the moment I have little appetite,” Johnny begged off. “Perhaps it is the fatigue that accompanies a tiresome journey and the excitement of the day which dampens my desire for lunch. After a brief respite, however, my appetite should return and I will ring for Miss Hudson whose lunches are unsurpassed and to which I always look forward.”
We grabbed our hats and coats and hurried down the stairs, all believing that the fatigue and excitement of the day had indeed dampened Johnny’s usual keen interest in Miss Hudson’s wonderfully prepared lunches. But in retrospect, we should have known better, for his symptoms were the prodrome of something far more serious to come.
On entering the National Gallery, we spotted Edwin Alan Rowe at the place we were appointed to meet. Tall and slender, with long gray hair and hawklike features, he was studying van Gogh’s famous painting Sunflowers and seemed most interested in the lowest section of the canvas. Out of the corner of his eye he must have
