by D.B. Anderson
Copyright © 2006 D.B. Anderson All rights reserved
Sixty-three-year-old Flurrie was somewhat
blurry-eyed, having arraigned a
Flurrie gazed out his picture window as a
full moon beamed over the southeastern indigo sky, lighting
A few minutes to 1:A.M., a light tapping
sounded at the front door and Flurrie smiled, swinging open the large,
hand-carved mahogany varnished door.
Gus Jordan, a thin, six foot tall,
forty-year-old, forever scowling, bakery store merchant further wrinkled his
brow as he entered. He was carrying an
approximate ten inch by twelve inch somewhat flat package wrapped in brown
store paper under his right arm. “Cold May night out there, Flurrie, and my
rheumatism is raising havoc with my knees and ankles. It’s caused by all the standing I have to do
for baking; moving from oven to oven, mixing dough, and so forth. Always on one’s feet. It is not as easy a profession as most think
it to be.”
“Come, and sit down. Care for a brandy?”
“No thanks, we start baking bread and
rolls at 3:AM.” He then tore the paper
from his package to reveal a small-dimensioned oil painting mounted on a
stretcher. “What do you think of
this? I snatched it from the Woodmann
mansion.”
Flurrie held the painting up to the light
and smiled, noticing the signature on the painting was Gerard Steiner. “Excellent artist. I’ll have to consult with my associates. I’ll telephone you at your bakery later this
morning.”
“Excellent,” Gus responded, his stern face
managing to crack a bit of a smile.
“When I made my bakery delivery to the mansion the night before last I
undid the latch on the back hallway window as the night maid moved to the
kitchen to get my pay for the bakery.
The next night I climbed in the window and quickly grabbed the painting
from the front hallway wall and hurriedly climbed back outside. It is amazing how lax the rich are about
checking to see if their windows and doors are locked at night.”
Flurrie chuckled. “One sometimes wonders if they do indeed wish
some of their valuables stolen so as to collect the insurance money. It is often easier to collect the insurance
money than to place the art on the open market for sale, and as we well know
there are times when their art holdings were not purchased legally.”
Gus smiled. “It is all a game, is it not?”
Flurrie nodded in agreement. “But always be very careful, Gus, for if the
police become involved – you will be the one going to jail.”
Gus nodded his head in confirmation. He then reached into his side coat pocket and
removed a gray men’s dress glove. “Found
this on the front brick walk to your house.
You must have dropped it.” He
then hurriedly opened the front door and paused to glance back at Flurrie. “Tell your associates I’ll take no less than
one million dollars for the painting.”
Flurrie chortled. “I’ll take care of it,” he agreed. He then closed the door and curiously gazed
at the gray glove in his right hand.
“Now what is this all about?” he pondered. “A gentleman was obviously on my front brick
walkway during this evening, but for some reason he did not knock at my
door. Perhaps he had some art treasure
to sell, and then changed his mind.” He further investigated the gray, very
high quality soft leather left-handed glove.
“Appears to be of English craftsmanship.” He then placed the glove on the vestibule
hallway side table near the front door and moved to his office/living room to
scrutinize the purloined painting. He
sat behind his desk and removed a magnifying glass from his right hand top desk
drawer and carefully investigated the canvas for age marks on the front and
back of the French countryside landscape.
“Gerard Steiner,” he mumbled.
“I’m reasonable certain it is seventeenth century French… Well, I’ll phone it in later this morning to
the committee and find out what they have to say about it.”
Flurrie was instructed by the committee
in
Flurrie now sat behind his desk wearing a
broad grin, counting out the $2,000 cash commission he had made on the
sale. He then placed the money into his
wall safe, and moved into the hallway to gather up his straw fedora and walking
cane with the iron fox head handle.
Hunger pangs were quickly overtaking him,
and he decided to stroll to the Britannia Inn about three blocks west and enjoy
one of their wonderful cabbage and beef lunches, replete with a huge apple
turnover a pot of pekoe tea, and just maybe a tankard of ale in celebration of
the sale.
He then noticed the errant gray leather
glove on the end table near the front door and gathered it up, smiling in
curiosity at the finally crafted hand covering.
Just then a knock sounded at the door and Flurrie opened it to gaze at a
portly, medium-build, gentleman of about fifty.
He wore an anxious expression. “I
assume you are Mr. Flurrie Peoples, the art dealer?”
Flurrie nodded in agreement. “Yes, sir.”
“I am Jeremy Arlington. I fear a ten-inch high golden vase was stolen
yesterday from my mansion. I am
delirious with anxiety to have it recovered.
My wife gave it to me as a wedding present thirty years ago, and she has
recently passed. The golden vase means
the world to me. I am offering a reward
of $5,000.” Mr. Arlington then sadly
lowered his head in distress. “My
attorney, Bruce Vartmen said you might be of some help, that you are a
confidential dealer in objects de art.”
Since the gentleman’s anxiety appeared
true, Flurrie could not turn him down even though his stomach began gurgling
from lack of nourishment. Flurrie
stepped aside and motioned for Mr. Arlington to enter. “I don’t know how I might aid you, but let’s
do talk.” Mr. Arlington sat on the
antique wooden chair in front of Flurrie’s desk. Flurrie sat on the corner of the desktop near
Mr. Arlington, staring down at him.
“Please describe the vase in detail.”
“It is ten inches tall, and is
approximately one thousand years old.”
“Is the vase gem encrusted, or perhaps
engraved?”
Mr. Arlington gazed up into Flurrie’s
eyes, now with a glitter of hope. “No,
nothing like that, however, it has no bottom.”
“Bottomless!” Flurrie exclaimed. “It obviously wasn’t intended to be a
drinking vessel, but…”
Mr. Arlington nodded his head in agreement. “It probably secretly covered something. My wife and I tried having it’s history traced, but were only able to obtain the approximation of its age at 1,000 years, and it is thought to be Germanic. My wife reasoned it might have been used by a gambler as a fake drinking cup to cover another gambler’s betting money on a table top and thusly steal the money at the appropriate moment.”
Flurrie nodded his head and chuckled. “That sounds very logical.” He then paused in thought. “It also might have belonged to a magician as
a device to make items disappear.”
Mr. Arlington nodded in agreement. “Hadn’t thought of that.”
“I’ll ask around for you to see if the cup has been placed for sale in the local art market, but I am afraid that is the best I can do for you.”
Mr. Arlington arose, shaking Flurrie’s
hand. “I sincerely appreciate your
efforts and will pay you for your time involved.” Mr.
Flurrie attempted to remain aloof. “Why not this evening? I have some buyer’s on the east Coast in
search of art at the present time.”
“Excellent,” Mr. Arlington responded. “Stop around at eight tonight.”
Flurrie was admittedly giddy with delight
at meeting Mr. Arlington in so fortuitous a manner and having the opportunity
to view and hopefully sell the gentleman’s collection of six ‘sequestered’
paintings, but by now he was also so famished from hunger that he rushed double
time to the Britannia Inn and gorged himself on a double portion of beef,
cabbage, and a tankard of ale.
Promptly at 8:PM Flurrie slowly walked up
the driveway of the three story, red brick, Georgian
A very aged houseman wearing a gray apron
over a white shirt and black trousers, appraised Flurrie’s very fashionable tan
brown tweed suit, dark brown bowler, brown leather ankle boots, and the
metallic fox head walking cane with a look of tolerability. His voice slightly crackled as he inquired,
“Mr. Flurrie Peoples, I assume?”
Flurrie merely nodded, and was led down a
mahogany paneled hallway to an opened door.
The houseman stood in the doorway.
“Mr. Flurrie Peoples.”
“Excellent. Show Mr. Peoples in.”
The aged houseman waived for Flurrie to
enter the room, but Flurrie could not properly enter the room since the
houseman was blocking the entrance.
Flurrie poked his head into the room. “Good evening, Mr. Arlington.”
Mr. Arlington then shouted. “Mortimer, get the hell out of the way so
that Mr. Peoples might enter!”
The elderly houseman quickly moved into
the hallway and could be heard shuffling away.
Mr. Arlington greeted Flurrie at the
doorway. “I must apologize for
Mortimer. He is about eighty now and a
family servant for sixty years. My wife
was very fond of him. I decided to keep
him on after her passing out of respect to her.” Flurrie followed Mr. Arlington
to his desk in the library. “Please do
be seated. May I offer you a
brandy?"
“No, thank you,” Flurrie calmly responded
glancing about the sea of volumes engulfing the walls. “What a magnificent room. I am starting up a library room in my Queen
Anne. I am a true book lover.”
“Books are my salvation, and especially
since my dear wife’s demise,” Mr. Arlington responded moving to a closet door
almost hidden amongst the bookshelves on the far wall. He reached into his right suit coat pocket
and removed a single key, and unlocked the door. Flurrie watched in rapt anticipation as Mr.
Arlington then removed six paintings on stretchers of various sizes, propping
the paintings up on four chairs and a large reading table. “What do you think of my little private
collection, Mr. Peoples?”
Flurrie arose, now somewhat losing his
feigned composure. He removed a pencil
and notepad from his suit coat breast pocket.
He then meticulously wrote down the artist’s name on each painting, the
image shown, and the condition of each painting. He licked his dry lips, knowing he was
viewing a veritable treasure trove, but then spun around and gazed blandly at
Mr. Arlington now seated behind his desk, whose face was now somewhat flushed
with anticipation.
“My wife and I collected the paintings
over about a thirty year period.”
Flurrie calmly sat on the stuffed chair in
front of Mr. Arlington’s desk, and deliberately made eye-to-eye contact with
his new client, wearing as stern an expression as he could manufacture. “Sir, I will not mince words with you. All of the paintings have been stolen in
Mr. Arlington sat rigid, his eyes frozen
in fear. “That is impossible! My wife and I purchased the paintings in
Flurrie quickly responded. “I’m sure you purchased the paintings in good
faith, Mr. Arlington,” Flurrie then reassured his potential customer. “Placing that aside, how much are you asking
for the lot? They are quite good, very
collectible.”
“One million two hundred thousand
dollars,” Mr. Arlington forcefully responded; now regaining his business
acumen. “I would, of course, prefer to
sell them as a lot, but if need be, selling them one at a time will be
acceptable.”
Flurrie calmly placed the notepad and
pencil in the breast pocket of his suit coat.
“Since they are stolen, selling them will be that much more
difficult. Seasoned collectors who
comprise the main cadre of my clientele will know their histories and offer less
than your asking price.”
“What do you think they are worth?”
Flurrie stared blandly into Mr.
Arlington’s confused eyes. “Allow me to make some telephone calls and send a
few telegraph wires. I should have an
answer for you by this time tomorrow evening.
Would that be acceptable?”
“Please do, Mr. Peoples.”
Flurrie arose from his chair, and slowly
walked to the library door. He then
turned about. “Thank you for your time,
sir.”
Mr. Arlington, somewhat grudgingly, began
to gather up his paintings and did not respond to Flurrie.
Sixty-year-old Flurrie almost ran the mile
back to his Queen Anne, and immediately telephone his ‘committee’ contact in
The next night at eight o’clock Flurrie,
feigning a boredom over the entire matter at hand, tapped the iron fox head on
his walking cane against the knocker on the Georgian mansion front door. The aged houseman smiled when he saw it was
Flurrie and stepped aside to allow Flurrie to enter.
“Mr. Arlington is waiting for you in the
library.”
Flurrie removed his bowler and set it and
his cane on the vestibule table. He then
slowly moved to the open library door.
Mr. Arlington appeared somewhat frazzled, his seventy-year-old face
appearing twenty years older in anxiety.
“Mr. Peoples, please do enter. Be seated.”
Flurrie sat before his desk, and sternly
gazed into Mr. Arlington’s obviously overtired eyes. “I have an out of town buyer interested in
your collection. $500,000 in cash, and
upon your verbal acceptance the cash will be available in 24 hours.”
Mr. Arlington shook his head no. “That’s ridiculous!”
“The paintings are stolen, Mr.
Arlington. They obviously can not be
sold on the open market.”
“Mr. Peoples, one would think, after a ten
year period since their purchase, that the fact they are stolen hold little
weight by now, perhaps it is even forgotten.”
“Art dealers, auction houses, and
insurance companies especially, do not forget such things, Mr. Arlington. I will have $500,000 cash sitting on your
desktop at this time tomorrow night at eight o’clock. That is the offer.”
Mr. Arlington paused in thought. “How much is your commission?”
The buyer will pay my commission
separately from your $500,000. My
services will cost you nothing.”
Mr. Arlington paused in deep thought. He then wet his dry lips. “Agreed.”
All went well the next night at eight o’clock. Mr. Arlington received his $500,000 in cash, still feeling he was being robbed, and Flurrie received the largest commission he had ever earned $50,000. He returned to his Queen Anne, flushed with the ease of it all. He often wondered how people could slave for endless hours, often at boring trades, for miniscule monetary rewards, when all they had to do was use their imagination in gathering money.
As he placed his bowler and iron fox head
walking cane on the vestibule side table, he somewhat unconsciously retrieved
the errant gray men’s left-handed fashionable leather glove patiently waiting
for him. He joyously moved to his
office/front room and again almost unconsciously tossed the glove on his
desktop, then pouring himself a brandy in celebration over his clever handling
of the very successful art sale.
As he snickered over his success he found
himself again investigating the left-handed well-tailored gray man’s
glove. He then yawned, ready for a good
lie down to rest his wearies, and mend the raveled sleeve of care. As he wearily climbed the hallway stairs to
his bedroom on the second floor – he paused in caution. Being an ex-cracksman he recognized the sound
of the door latch on one of the three windows in his living room/office being
illegally maneuvered. He crept back down
the stairs, gathering up his iron fox head walking cane, and peeked around the
doorjamb. A tall, somewhat thin, very
sophisticated elderly gentleman appeared from the shadows and removed the gray
leather glove from Flurrie’s desktop.
“I’ve been looking for this.”
Flurrie burst into laughter. “Adonis, old chap! Just as theatrical as ever!”
The tall, handsome, very well attired
elderly gentleman smiled, then speaking softly.
“You mentioned I might stop by to view your new quarters.” He then approvingly glanced about Flurrie’s
office-living room. “Quite pleasant
indeed.” He then hesitated, staring
hypnotically into Flurrie’s eyes. “But
to business. I have a painting I’d like
you to place with your foreign buyers. A
Montesque.”
“A Montesque!” Flurrie gulped. “I know of only one person in
“Actually she asked me to handle the
sale. Would you have an educated guess
as to the worth of the painting?”
“Literally, a million dollars...”
Adonis nodded approvingly. “And your commission is…”
“My commission is issued by the ‘committee.’”
Flurrie continued, somewhat excitedly.
“Your commission would have to be obtained separately from the seller.”
Adonis now broadly smiled, exposing a
perfect set of glistening white teeth, which irritated Flurrie to no end since
his ex-boss and cracksman partner was now pass sixty years of age.
“Why not stop by tomorrow and retrieve the
Monty from my office?” Adonis asked.
Flurrie shrugged his shoulders. “Certainly.
May I ask why you didn’t bring the Montesque right off?”
Adonis waived his errant gray leather glove in the air. “Thanks for this.” He then departed as mysteriously as he arrived, but this time via the front door.