“I fear you are on the wrong track here,” Hawke disagreed. “As I just mentioned, that door, like the one on the front, is secured by an impenetrable Chubb detector lock. Any attempt to pick it causes the lock to immediately seize up.”
“What one man has invented, another can circumvent.” Joanna carefully laid out the evidence showing that the lock had indeed been picked, with particular emphasis on the tiny nicks and pinpoint markings around the keyhole. “It was not quickly picked and may have required hours to undo this formidable lock. Allow me to give you a brief history on the best of Chubb locks, which applies in this instance.”
All present gathered in to hear this most interesting story, for it no doubt could account for the entire series of break-ins by the vandal.
“You are correct, Mr. Hawke, in your statement that the Chubb detector lock will seize up if incorrectly picked,” Joanna began. “It was not just unbreakable, but designed to alert the owner if someone attempted to open it. So impenetrable was their lock that the Chubb company held a contest to determine if the lock could be picked, with a reward of a hundred pounds to the individual who was successful. According to my father’s unpublished monograph on the subject, no one succeeded until a young American came along and performed this task. But it required multiple attempts and nearly an hour to open it. The Chubb people then improved the lock further. But the lesson here was learned. A highly skilled lockpick can open any lock.”
“Did Sherlock Holmes mention how this American was able to perform such a difficult task?” asked Lestrade.
“Not in detail,” Joanna replied. “He only stated that the man who was successful intentionally tripped the detector mechanism, which caused the lock to seize up. He then picked the lock in the opposite direction to reset the detector. He repeated this maneuver over and over until he learned the lock’s inner mechanisms so well he could devise a method to overcome it.”
“Ingenious,” Lestrade remarked.
“Quite,” Joanna agreed. “And now that we have established his mode of entrance, let us examine the vandal’s work.”
“To the restoration area, then,” said Hawke.
We followed him down a long staircase that led to the expansive basement of the gallery. Several dozen paintings were strewn about, many in frames, others on their stretchers and leaning against the wall like folding chairs. Standing alone were two obviously vandalized works of art. Both were torn apart, with half of a woman’s face still recognizable on one. Off to the side and under a bright light, a young man was diligently at work on a large painting that showed a teenaged lad peeling fresh fruit. The restorer was quite short—no more than five feet two—with a kind, yet serious face and the physique of a well-trained athlete. As we quietly moved in closer, the strong odor of turpentine reached our nostrils.
“What is the purpose of the solvent?” asked Joanna.
“It is used to remove old varnish that diminishes the colors,” Hawke explained, then went into detail. “Artists often apply varnish to their paintings to protect them from dust, light, and weather. Unfortunately, with time, the varnish takes on a yellowish hue which dulls the colors and can significantly lessen the value of the work. The best of restorers have their own formula for solvents to remove the varnish, but even they must use it carefully to avoid damaging the original coloration.”
Joanna studied the restoration at length before saying, “The fruit in the painting is so lifelike one can almost feel it.”
Hawke nodded at Joanna’s assessment. “Which exemplifies the magnificent skill of Caravaggio, madam. The painting before us is entitled Boy Peeling Fruit and is considered by some to be his very best work. It has been said that the fruit painted by Caravaggio was so real one could taste it and smell it as well as see it.”
“Does it have a price?” asked Joanna.
“Caravaggios are so valued and rare they never come to auction,” Hawke answered. “But if one did, its asking price would be beyond extraordinary.”
Joanna gave my father and me a knowing glance, for once again the vandal showed no interest in precious art, not even one as priceless as a Caravaggio. She came back to Hawke and said, “I take it your restorer is one of the highest quality.”
Hawke nodded once more, his eyes never leaving the restorer’s hand as he used a damp cotton swab to gently rub away the dark yellow discoloration caused by aged varnish. Now we had a clear view of the fruit the boy was peeling. It appeared to be a delicious pear which was beautifully shaded in brown. Hawke was correct. One could almost taste it.
Joanna watched the restorer reach for and wet another cotton swab, then quietly commented, “From his Mediterranean complexion, I would think your restorer is Italian.”
“He is.”
“Southern Italy, then.”
“He was born in Naples, but spent his formative years in Florence.”
“Where he no doubt learned his trade.”
Hawke nodded a third time. “His name is Giuseppe Delvecchio and he comes to us via the Uffizi where he studied under the master Zinetti.”
Joanna and I exchanged warm smiles, for on our honeymoon in Italy we visited the renowned Uffizi Gallery which housed some of the world’s greatest art. In our estimation, it clearly surpassed the Louvre. One could easily spend a week there and never tire of viewing the works of Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Botticelli, and Raphael, just to name a few.
“Are all the restorers so young?” I asked.
“Some of the very best are,” Hawke replied, before tiptoeing up to Delvecchio and introducing us.
The restorer discarded a wet, discolored swab in a slow, easy motion, giving
