“Your observations and conclusions are very astute, Joanna, but I do not see how it brings us any closer to the vandal,” said my father.
“It is the lockpick which should draw your attention, Watson.” With a final look at the door lock, Joanna led the way down the footpath to the front of the art gallery. Only then did I notice the nearby lamppost that would have illuminated the gallery to such an extent that a break-in could have been witnessed from half a block away. And across the street were dwellings above the stores and shops, the occupants of which would have surely heard any disturbance in the late night. Thus, all of Joanna’s conclusions seemed spot-on, but I still wondered how a lockpick might lead us to the vandal. Lockpicks were commonplace in London and could disappear into the shadows before an eye could blink.
Our attention was abruptly drawn to the crisp sound of a ringing bell. Just down the footpath a jolly Father Christmas, with a flowing white beard and dressed in bright red attire, was attempting to attract shoppers into nearby stores, most of whose entrances were adorned with strings of glittering lights. By contrast, the expansive frontage of Hawke and Evans was far more reserved, with only boughs of holly trimming its wide window, behind which stood a striking painting of Jesus ascending into heaven. As we entered, we had to lower our heads to avoid the hanging mistletoe in the doorway.
The interior of the gallery was richly appointed and clearly spoke of refined wealth. Its floor was constructed of burnished wood and its walls paneled in mahogany that provided an ideal backdrop for the splendid hanging paintings. Above, a pearly white ceiling was lined with exquisitely carved crown molding. Despite the opulence and captivating display, not a single customer was to be seen.
At the rear of the spacious gallery, Inspector Lestrade was waiting for us near a row of hanging paintings that were replete with dazzling colors and religious icons. None were defaced, but then none featured the portraits of women. At Lestrade’s side was a tall, well-built man, in his middle years, with silver gray hair and sharp, aristocratic features. His perfectly fitted suit was dark, with pinstripes, and highlighted by a bright red tie and an equally bright boutonniere. His gray attire could not hide the worry on the face of Simon Hawke, the owner of the gallery.
Joanna nodded ever so briefly at the introductions, and instead focused her attention on a large painting that showed the interior of a massive cathedral, with a stained-glass image of Jesus Christ looming over the altar. “From the Italian Renaissance period, I would guess.”
“You are correct, madam,” Hawke agreed. “This particular work is by Francesco Albani, a quite good artist of that period.”
“But certainly not a Michelangelo or Leonardo da Vinci.”
“Nor a Raphael for that matter, but then again, who is? Nevertheless, Albani’s paintings are still highly sought after.”
Joanna glanced about at other, nearby works of art before commenting, “They all seem so similar with their religious connotations, with some being signed and others not.”
“They are all from the same period, madam,” Hawke informed, and began to point. “This one is by Carlo Cignani, and that by Pietro da Cortona who is much better known for his depictions in The Rape of the Sabine Women. All are signed in one way or another, for that was how the artist could prove the work was truly his.”
“May I inquire as to their price?”
“The lesser ones would begin at a thousand pounds, madam.”
Joanna smiled thinly to my father and I as we grasped the reason behind her line of questioning. The intruder was interested in vandalizing and nothing more, for it would have been a simple matter to snatch and roll up a number of valuable paintings and quickly sell them on the London black market, where such merchandise could be purchased for a quarter of its worth and then never seen again. So here was a vandal of limited means, who once enjoyed a comfortable income, yet he ignores the golden opportunity to return to his previous status. It all appeared to be the work of a crazed vandal, but I kept remembering Joanna’s statement that there was a method and meaning to these destructive acts.
Simon Hawke broke the silence by asking, “Do you believe these valuable paintings are in any way connected to the break-ins?”
“Were any of the gallery’s paintings missing?” Joanna inquired.
“None,” Hawke replied at once. “We immediately performed a thorough inventory and every piece was accounted for.”
“Then your other paintings have no connection to the break-ins,” said Joanna. “Which leads us to the question of how the vandal gained entrance to your gallery. I take it there are only two doors. Correct?”
Hawke nodded. “One is to the front, the other to a side alleyway, neither of which has been tampered with.”
“Oh, the lock on the side door has been tampered with, for that is where our vandal entered.”
“Impossible!” Hawke raised his voice at the notion. “That door is secured by a Chubb detector lock which is unopenable unless one has the key.”
“How many keys to the door exist?”
“Two,” Hawke replied and reached for a gold chain on his waistcoat that held a large key on its end. “I have one; the other belonged to my former partner, Andrew Evans, who died from consumption several years ago.”
“Did you retrieve his key?”
“I—I saw no need,” Hawke stammered. “Shall I inquire to his widow about the key?”
“As you have stated, there is no need,” Joanna answered.
