The Art of Deception

of Napoleon brandy the night before. I had no worthwhile idea, while Joanna and my father decided it was most likely a self-portrait of da Vinci as a young man which he had hidden to conceal his overwhelming hubris. It would also explain why he gave it no title, for self-portraits name themselves. But this possibility was discarded when Joanna referred to our volume of Italian Renaissance artists and discovered that Leonardo da Vinci had indeed painted a self-portrait in red chalk that was now held by a museum in Turin. Through the thick walls of the National Gallery we could hear the strains of “Silent Night” being played on the massive organ in nearby St. Martin-in-the-Field. It was the oddest of background music to accompany a trap for a murderous villain, I thought, for there was nothing holy in what was about to transpire.

Big Ben began to strike the midnight hour and our hopes faded further. Could it be that Edmunds had resisted the irresistible bait which Joanna had laid out? With the assistance of the Countess of Wessex, Joanna had articles placed in London’s widely read newspapers that described the display at the National Gallery in detail, with emphasis on The Baptism of Christ by Andrea del Verrocchio, the mentor of Leonardo da Vinci. The articles urged readers to see the one and only display, for it would shortly be returned to the safekeeping of the Crown. Certainly, if Edmunds and his wife were made aware that the paintings were about to be removed from the gallery, they would be enticed to act quickly. Yet there were too many ifs, I thought to myself. If this and if that. And one did not catch a master criminal depending on ifs.

Big Ben struck the last number of the hour and the stone-cold silence returned to the gallery. Then we heard it. From a distance within the museum came a muffled sound. We pressed our ears against a large door and held our breaths, so as not to make any interfering noises. The sound reached us again, this time a little louder and then a little louder. It was approaching footsteps! As planned, we moved quickly back from the door on tiptoes, then waited in silence. The footsteps passed by us, heading in the direction of the display some thirty feet away. Quietly, my father and Lestrade checked their service revolvers.

“If you must return fire, please aim low,” Joanna whispered to them. “We do not wish to ruin the del Verrocchio.”

Lestrade noiselessly turned the doorknob and cracked open the door. The display area was every bit as dark as our observation room, yet we could still see a shadow moving in the dimness. The inspector had instructed us beforehand that no action should be undertaken until Edmunds was stationary, at which time he could be stunned and captured with greater ease. Lestrade held up his weaponless hand, signaling us to wait and remain silent. The footsteps had ceased now, and were replaced by a sound that resembled scratches which indicated Edmunds was in the process of dislodging del Verrocchio’s The Baptism of Christ from the wall.

Lestrade flung the door open and directed his lightened torch at the intruder, temporarily blinding him.

“You are advised not to move, Mr. Harry Edmunds, for if you do, you will be shot!”

A shocked Edmunds dropped the painting that was in his outstretched hands and suddenly turned to bolt, but before he could take a step three Scotland Yard officers were upon him, pinning him to the floor and covering his mouth so he could not cry out.

We hurried over to the subdued Harry Edmunds who had been so very elusive. He was now being brought to his feet while handcuffs were tightly applied. As expected, he was quite thin from lack of adequate nourishment and still wore the beard he had grown to disguise himself as Derrick Wilson. By all appearances, he seemed to be rather timid, with a narrow, ferret-like face and darting, dark eyes that seemed to be searching for a way out. But his most remarkable feature was the intense aroma of coal tar that virtually engulfed him.

“How?” he asked in a monosyllabic tone.

“Toes,” Joanna responded.

“What do you mean, toes?”

“You are missing one, the charred body had all ten, and thus the corpse could not be you.”

“Toes,” Edmunds groaned unhappily.

“And of course Derrick Wilson had a disfigured cheekbone which the corpse displayed, but you are lacking,” Joanna went on. “You should have thought of these features before you murdered him.”

“He died in an explosion due to his own carelessness,” Edmunds said defensively.

“A court will decide otherwise, and you will soon have a date with the hangman.” Joanna leaned down and picked up The Baptism of Christ by del Verrocchio. She held it close to Lestrade’s torch and commented, “Look at how beautiful it is! Look at the perfect angel painted by Leonardo da Vinci.”

“Magnificent indeed,” Lestrade agreed, and reached for the painting. “Now let us return it to its proper place.”

“Not quite yet, Inspector, for the del Verrocchio has one last service to perform,” said Joanna. “Follow me, if you will, but remain a good ten feet behind.”

“Shall I have the lights in the gallery turned on?” Lestrade offered.

“No, for now we need them off,” Joanna replied. “Please direct your torch to the floor as we proceed.”

In the dimness, we followed Joanna and walked past some of the world’s greatest art including paintings by Raphael, Titian, and Tintoretto, and just beyond them the magnificent works of Rembrandt, Rubens, and Caravaggio. Finally, we turned sharply and hurried down a long corridor which led to the back entrance of the gallery.

“What lies ahead?” Lestrade asked.

“The mastermind,” Joanna replied.

She opened the rear door and, after motioning us to stay behind, walked out into the cold night air and over to a waiting carriage.

In the darkness, she opened the carriage door and handed the painting to a shadowed individual.

“Ah, you have it!” said he.

“Yes, Mr. Simon