“I do not share that opinion, Watson, for resolution is now in sight.”
“How so?”
“Because now I only require two additional pieces of evidence and I, too, will know where the masterpiece is hidden.”
“May I ask where this information will come from?”
Joanna glanced out into the back garden to make certain the sergeant and Charlotte Edmunds were well out of hearing distance before saying, “From a very unseemly source, which Scotland Yard would not approve of.”
“Does this source have a name?”
“In the underworld, they are known as the Morrison syndicate.”
“Why call on this particular syndicate?”
“Because they specialize in stolen masterpieces.”
23An Unseemly Source
I had never worn a disguise and had no idea how truly effective one might be. But now, looking in our bedroom mirror, I did not recognize the person staring back at me. My silver gray wig and pasted-on, matching moustache, together with my gold-rimmed spectacles, added a good twenty years to my age. At my side, Joanna was likewise unrecognizable, with a wig whose brown-gray hair was drawn back severely into a bun that was held in place by a diamond-studded barrette. She had also applied lipstick in a fashion that gave her a pinched, stern expression. To add age, she had reading glasses on the end of her nose.
“These disguises are quite good,” I said.
“Speak like an Afrikaner,” Joanna reminded. “When you say good, pronounce it goodt.”
“And raise my tongue to my palate when uttering words such as great or greeting, to give the gr a harsher sound.”
“Precisely so, dear John, for the tone of our voices will be a most important part of our disguises,” said Joanna. “They must have no doubts we are from South Africa.”
Indeed, I thought to myself, with a bit of concentration, we should have no difficulty passing ourselves off as Malcolm and Olivia Vanderhorst, a very wealthy couple from Johannesburg, who had come to bid on the masterpiece. At least that was who the criminal syndicate was expecting on this cold, dreary London evening. The Vanderhorst name was well known throughout the Empire, for they had a substantial interest in the South African diamond industry. Their wealth could be counted in the millions.
My father came up behind me, saying, “I do wish you two would be careful, for this Morrison syndicate can be most dangerous.”
“Not to worry, Watson,” Joanna spoke the word worry in a distinct South African accent. “When it comes down to selling and making a huge profit, these people can be in every way businesslike and straightforward. Nevertheless, if one attempts to cross them, they will turn quite vicious and make that individual pay a terrible price.”
“Like that poor blighter they hung from a lamppost for stupidly moving into their territory,” my father remembered. “Allowed him to remain there all night.”
“They know how to make a point,” Joanna noted.
“So be double cautious,” my father beseeched.
“We shall.”
After checking our appearance in the mirror a final time, we put on our heavy coats and bade farewell to my father who continued to have a worried expression on his face. I believe he would have gladly accompanied us and waited outside our meeting place, with his service revolver at the ready. But Joanna would have never permitted it, for if he were discovered our very important plan would have gone dangerously awry.
As we departed through the front entrance, we encountered Miss Hudson hurrying in from the cold. She inspected us with a most careful eye, paying particular attention to Joanna’s diamond-studded barrette.
“Here to see the Watsons, I would think,” she inquired.
“Indeed, madam,” I replied, enjoying the deception of our disguises. “Watson and I were classmates at Cambridge too many years ago.”
“I am certain he took great pleasure in seeing you again.”
“Quite so,” I said and glanced at my timepiece. “But we must ask you to excuse us as we are already late for a previous engagement.”
“Well then, I shall wish you a very pleasant good evening.”
We climbed into a hired limousine and began our journey across London, all the while practicing our South African accents. Joanna spoke it with the ease of a true Afrikaner, so we decided she should do most of the talking to the syndicate. The stern appearance her disguise gave her suited Joanna well for that role. I still had questions about the London underworld and how Joanna expected our plan to play out. In detail she described the makeup of the syndicates which consisted of neighborhood crime families that had charismatic leaders with fearsome reputations. They were not petty thieves or smash-and-grab robbers, but were interested in far more profitable ventures, including extortion, drugs, prostitution, and contract killing. When highly priced and ill-gotten items, such as masterpieces, needed to be placed on the black market, the syndicates were more than willing to act as intermediaries for 20 percent of the selling price. Although this commission might seem extreme, it was well worth it, for it guaranteed the item would attract a select audience who were willing to pay extraordinary sums in cash and in total privacy. According to Edwin Alan Rowe, who had set up our meeting with the Morrison syndicate, a Raphael was recently sold by them to an Italian industrialist for twenty-five thousand pounds.
“I am surprised that a prominent and responsible art historian, like Rowe, would be involved with these people,” I said.
“Only on the periphery,” Joanna explained. “And I can assure you he is never involved with the actual theft or selling of the item.”
“Then how was he able to set up our meeting with the Morrison crime family?”
“Through an underworld source.”
“But why would this source be willing to serve as a conduit?”
“Because everybody benefits, on both sides of the fence,” Joanna said and left it at that.
“Nonetheless, I would think that a distinguished historian would never want his name mentioned in such sordid
