“Yes, yes,” he nodded. “Wood’s old, yes — h’m, — canvas seems genuine — can’t tell. Hard to, you know, without a microscope. Don’t need one. Let’s see, now.” He turned the picture to examine the paint.
Even without the glass, Jupiter could see the tiny rectangular cracks in the paint.
“See that cracking?” said Chalmers. “Paint cracks that way with time. All paint does it, but you can get the same thing using a varnish. Special antique varnish — buy it in a store — used it myself hundreds of times. Proves nothing. Make a test now — only thing I can do. I’m not a chemist — know nothing about pigments, really. Doesn’t matter. Most forgers use the same pigments that were common at the time of the original.”
He straightened up, walked to a cabinet that was filled with paint tubes and brushes stiff with dried pigment, and returned with a bottle and a piece of waste.
He held up the bottle. “Alcohol. Pity to waste it on this, eh, Jones? Won’t use much. See if the paint is old. Simple test, but effective. Chap in London discovered it, I think — an expert, you know.”
“Yes,” said Jupiter, “I’ve heard of it.”
Chalmers soaked the waste in alcohol and began rubbing it gently over a small corner of the picture. Then he held up the rag. It was tinted a light brown; the color of the paint where he had rubbed was a dark blue. He frowned.
“Just the varnish. It would come off anyway.” Betty said, “If, by any chance, you’re wrong about this, Jupiter, you’re going to have fun explaining to the authorities.”
Oh, no. You took all the responsibility. Don’t you remember telling Abner?”
Chalmers interrupted. “That doesn’t necessarily prove that the paint is old, my friends. A thin coat of size between the paint and the varnish would protect the paint from the alcohol. A chemist could tell us whether or not such a coat has been applied in this case. However . . .” He spread his hands hopelessly. “I am not a chemist.” Jupiter said, “H’m — you don’t know of any other way you could tell if the painting was a fake?”
“Surely, there are many ways. But you see we have only this one painting to go on. We have nothing to compare it with. Laboratory tests could tell us, but I have no laboratory.”
“That would take a hell of a lot of time,” mused Jupiter.
“When they find you’ve stolen one of their better paintings there’s going to be trouble,” added Betty. “You’re a great help,” said Jupiter.
“There is a way,” said Chalmers, “but unfortunately it would damage the painting slightly.”
“What’s that?”
“I could scrape down a small portion of the paint and then apply the alcohol. That would prove conclusively if the paint was old, but it would leave rather an unsightly spot on the canvas, I’m afraid.”
Jupiter licked his lips. “How large a spot?”
“About two inches square would do it, I think. A chemist could accomplish the same thing without leaving a trace.”
“Try it,” said Jupiter shortly.
“I’m afraid I couldn’t take the responsibility, Jones. It would be almost impossible to restore the damage adequately.”
“I’ll take the responsibility. Go ahead.”
Betty said, “Sure — hell, yes, go ahead. The painting’s only worth between sixty and seventy thousand dollars. They tell me jail conditions are improving every day.”
“You’ll be with me, my girl. Proceed, Mr. Chalmers.”
The artist shrugged and picked a scraping knife from the floor. He placed a block of wood under the canvas and with rapid yet careful strokes removed the top layer of paint from a corner of the picture. It left a faintly greenish spot on the canvas.
“It comes off easily,” he said. “Now for the test.”
“This is the longest-shot gamble I’ve ever made,” said Jupiter quietly.
Chalmers took a fresh piece of waste and dipped it in the alcohol. Betty sucked in her breath. Jupiter held an unlighted cigarette in his hand. The artist flourished the waste over the painting. If anyone had dropped a handful of pins it would have sounded like a thunderstorm.
Chalmers rubbed the cleared spot quickly and then removed the waste. The spot where he had worked was clear of paint. The base on the canvas showed through clearly.
“The painting,” said Chalmers unnecessarily, “is not genuine.”
Betty tittered foolishly.
Jupiter dried the sweat from the palms of his hands on his coat.
Chalmers went on, “I should hazard that this picture was painted not more than five years ago.” Jupiter lit a match and said, “I knew it all along.”
“Like hell you did,” said Betty. “Give me a cigarette.”
He tossed her one. Chalmers was examining the cloth, covered now with greenish blue paint.
He said, “There’s not the slightest doubt — I’m quite convinced of that. Lotto worked about four hundred years ago; naturally his pigments would not be soluble in alcohol to-day.”
Betty said, “Now I think it would be nice if Mr. Jones told us how he happened to know about all this, don’t you, Mr. Chalmers?”
“Yes, Jones, now that you know the painting is a fake, what are you going to do?”
Jupiter looked at his watch. “As it’s nearing two, I think I’ll go home to bed.”
Betty exploded. “Oh, no, you don’t! No, indeed! Here I’ve risked my job and my reputation helping you steal a painting. The least you can do is tell us about it.”
Jupiter was putting on his coat. “Mr. Chalmers, you’ve been invaluable, but I’m going to ask you to wait until to-morrow morning before I tell you anything. Do you suppose you could be at the Museum at nine-thirty?”
Chalmers nodded. “I suppose you have your reasons, but I’ll admit I’m engulfed with curiosity. You can count on my being
