“Hold on,” Joanna interrupted. “I need to know the details on this masterpiece I am about to buy.”
“Such as?” Morrison asked tersely.
“I must know the name of the masterpiece.”
“I cannot give you its name, for it has no official title.”
“Then I cannot give you a bid of one hundred thousand pounds.”
Freddie Morrison was taken aback by the unexpected, most extraordinary offer. It required a moment for him to regain his composure. “A hundred thousand, you say?”
“A hundred thousand,” Joanna repeated.
Morrison dwelled on the spectacular bid, no doubt in large measure swayed by his greed. The syndicate’s commission on a sale of a hundred thousand pounds would amount to twenty thousand pounds, or even more if additional services were required. He finally said, “Again, I cannot speak of an official title, for it has none according to the seller.”
“Then this meeting is ended.”
“But I can provide you with the name of the artist.”
“Which is?”
“Leonardo da Vinci.”
Joanna’s eyes widened noticeably. “You have a da Vinci?”
“I have a da Vinci,” said Morrison, enjoying Joanna’s stunned expression. “A genuine Leonardo da Vinci.”
“Please describe it,” Joanna requested in a soft voice.
“I cannot, for I, too, have not seen it,” said Morrison. “But I can assure you it has been authenticated. And most importantly, you will be able to openly display your da Vinci without fear of anyone ever claiming its ownership.”
“How can that be?” Joanna asked at once. “It is stolen, is it not?”
“Of course it is stolen, madam,” Morrison answered. “Why else would it be on the black market?”
“Could you please give me a clearer explanation?” Joanna queried. “To my way of thinking, if an item is stolen, its owner would surely demand its return.”
“But what if the true owner never knew he possessed it?”
Joanna’s brow went up. “Are you saying it was hidden from his sight, so he had no knowledge of its existence?”
“That is one way of putting it.”
“And thus the owner will never know it was stolen from him.”
“Exactly.”
“So why then must it be sold on the black market?”
“Because at a proper art auction, people would demand to know how the seller gained possession of the masterpiece,” Morrison explained. “This of course would reveal the true owner.”
“And on the black market, no such revelation would be required,” Joanna concluded.
“And we have a very happy ending for both the seller and buyer.”
Joanna nodded, as if pleased with the cover-up. “When will the bidding come to a close?”
“In early January.”
“Can you give me a specific date?”
“Not as yet.”
“Perhaps the seller will consider bringing the bidding to an end when he learns of my offer.”
“I shall inquire, madam.”
“Perhaps it, too, would be to your advantage for the bidding to end,” Joanna offered a subtle bribe.
“I shall inquire to that as well, madam.”
Joanna pushed her chair back and rose. “We can find our way out.”
We remained silent on our ride back to 221b Baker Street, but the name Leonardo da Vinci kept echoing through my mind. Da Vinci! Da Vinci! The famous da Vinci! The most gifted artist ever to walk on the face of this good earth. A man of such unimaginable talent that his name remains known and celebrated four hundred years after his death. Finally, I involuntarily uttered the words, “Leonardo da Vinci.”
“Yes, da Vinci,” Joanna said calmly.
“Oh, come now, Joanna. You must admit you, too, were stunned by the revelation.”
“It was not the name that stunned me, but how well a most important piece of the puzzle suddenly fell into place.”
“Shall we talk more of it?”
“Not until the final piece falls, then all will become clear.”
“Do you still believe Harry Edmunds will spend his Christmas inside Wormwood Scrubs?”
“I am certain of it,” said Joanna, closing her eyes and leaning back on the headrest as snow sprinkled down on our limousine.
As we approached 221b Baker Street, Joanna abruptly leaned forward and directed the driver not to stop at our residence, but rather to slowly circle the next block via Rossmore Road.
“I wish you to take at least five minutes before returning to our address,” she instructed.
“Why the delay?” I asked quietly.
“To determine if we are being watched.”
“By motor car?”
“By man.”
I looked at my wife oddly. “With the heavy snow now falling?”
Joanna nodded. “That is what brought him to my attention.”
We rode at a measured pace around the Marylebone area in which the roads and side streets were for the most part deserted. The moonless night was dark and the snowfall made it even darker, thus severely reducing one’s visual acuity. I could barely discern the occasional figure on the footpath as we turned back for Baker Street.
“How can you be certain we are being surveilled?” I asked.
“Your question will be answered when we return to our address,” Joanna replied. “If the man remains in place, we shall know.”
“Where was the man standing?”
“Across the way in the shadow of a storefront,” Joanna answered as our limousine gradually slowed to a halt. “Our headlights will briefly shine upon him, but do not gaze in that direction. We should simply keep our heads down and hurry inside.”
After giving the driver a generous gratuity, we raced for the door and up the stairs to our rooms where we found my father enjoying the warmth of a three-log fire.
“Was your meeting a success?” he asked.
“Quite so, but more about that later,” Joanna said hurriedly and switched off the lights in our drawing room. “Now I would like the two of you to stand in front of the fireplace and dampen the glow it gives off.”
“For what purpose?”
“To darken the room, which will allow me to crack the drapes and not be noticed by the individual standing across the street watching our window.”
My father and I positioned ourselves before the brightly burning logs, and the room darkened to the extent we could not see our shadows being cast upon the floor. Joanna crept over to our large window and parted the
