Joanna gave the contradictory information thought before asking, “That may well hold true for thefts from museums and institutes, but what if the stolen painting is from a private collection whose owner wishes to avoid unwanted publicity?”
“According to Rowe, even in those circumstances word leaks out to the inner crowd who keep a sharp eye out, for such masterpieces are few and far between,” said my father. “Yet Rowe remains convinced it is a stolen painting by one of the great masters, and I believe we should value his informed opinion.”
“Indeed,” Joanna agreed. “And the fact that the rumor is being circulated indicates there is no prearranged buyer for the work of art, in that such arrangements demand and require absolute confidentiality.”
“Plus there would be no need to advertise the availability of the masterpiece by rumor, since a sale would already be assured,” I added.
“That, too,” Joanna concurred. “More than likely the seller is testing the waters to ascertain the price he could demand.”
“But he would surely have to mention the name of the artist, for it is that and not the title of the painting which would drive the asking price to the heavens,” I opined.
“Perhaps,” Joanna said. “On the other hand, the thief may be playing it quite cleverly and only wishes to see who will nibble at the rumored bait. In this fashion, he can assemble a list of potential buyers who are connected to the enormously wealthy, who in turn would be willing to pay a huge sum for the masterpiece. Then he would release the name of the great master which would drive the price even higher.”
“Are you saying there would be an auction?” I asked.
“Probably not, for that would draw too much attention,” Joanna responded. “If I were the thief, I would insist on a onetime, make-your-best-offer arrangement. That simplifies matters and avoids unwanted complications that could unravel everything and land our thief in prison.”
“What unwanted complications?”
“A false buyer slipped into the black market by Scotland Yard.”
“You make him sound most clever.”
“He is when it comes to the black market which tells us that he has experience in that dark world.”
“Could he be using a middleman?” my father pondered.
“I think not,” Joanna replied. “Why employ an intermediary when there is no need? Our thief knows full well there is no one in the black market who he can truly trust, so why take the chance? In addition, the buyer will have questions about the masterpiece that a middleman could not possibly answer. Again, why complicate matters when there is no need?”
My father reached for his cherrywood pipe and slowly packed it with Arcadia Mixture, as he arranged his thoughts before speaking. “So we have a very clever fellow who knows his way around the black market. All well and good, but is it a wise idea to let a rumor float about in that dark, sinister world where one misstep can cost you everything, including your life? Would it not be wise to move ahead without delay?”
“I find myself in agreement with my father,” said I. “It would seem best to do an immediate cash-and-carry sale, with our thief collecting a large bundle of cash before disappearing into the shadows.”
“All excellent assessments,” Joanna chimed in. “But I fear your conclusions are neglecting an obvious obstacle the thief is facing.”
“Which is?”
“He does not yet possess the masterpiece and that is why he delays,” Joanna answered. “Recall Rowe’s exact words that the masterpiece will shortly be on the market. This statement would indicate that the thief does not yet have the painting, but expects to have it in hand and available for sale soon.”
“So the delay works to our advantage,” said I.
“Only to the smallest extent.”
“Why so?”
“For two reasons,” Joanna replied, glancing over at the boiling water in the Erlenmeyer flask and rising from her seat. “First, he knows what he is searching for, and we do not.”
“And the second reason?”
“He knows where the masterpiece is hidden, and every slashed portrait brings him closer to it.”
11The Lockpicks
The next morning, with Johnny on the mend under my father’s careful eye, Joanna and I arrived at Scotland Yard where Inspector Lestrade awaited us. He had at last rounded up two of London’s very best lockpicks and brought them in for questioning. Both Joseph Blevins and Archie Griffin adamantly proclaimed their innocence and each had a solid alibi to back up his whereabouts on the night of the Dubose break-in.
“Solid alibis, you say?” Joanna asked skeptically.
“Quite so, madam,” Lestrade answered. “Archie Griffin was participating in a darts match at the Rose and Lamb, and four other members of his team vouched for his presence there until just before midnight, whereupon his son accompanied him home to the arms of a loving wife. The other lockpick, Joseph Blevins, the near blind one, was home all evening with his wife who swears to his presence, for he never goes out at night because of his inability to see, which is made worse by the darkness.”
“I take it you challenged the wives.”
“I did, but they stuck firmly to their stories,” Lestrade replied. “I am
