20)THE
PROMISCUOUS PAINTING – c.1890 –
by D.B. Anderson
A “Tethered Tales” Series ‘Light Mystery’ Tale
Copyright © 2006 D.B. Anderson All rights reserved
I was extremely pleased, nay - immensely
relieved, to arrange the last piece of furniture I had to purchase for the last
empty room of my newly acquired two-story, twelve-room, Queen Anne domicile on
View Bay Drive overlooking Lake Michigan in Chicago, Illinois. The eclectic design of the structure bedazzled
my artistic sensibilities: fish scale shingles and siding, cross gabled roofs,
a tower with a conical roof and a fish silhouette weather vane spinning at its
pinnacle, a wrap around porch on the first story and the entire menagerie
painted in several hues and adorned with gingerbread scroll work trim.
I released a deep sigh as I sat at my desk
in the front room/office of my home, gazing out the large picture window with
its side decorations of red, yellow and blue cut glass.
Recently aged sixty years, I partially
purchased the gorgeous edifice as a reward for my longevity after a somewhat iffy
and chancy life as a safecracker of some repute.
I became mesmerized with the warm morning
sun illuminating my view in my first, and probably last, house to call my
own. It was an incredibly peaceful
feeling. I then glanced around the new
office of my Continental Art Brokerage, making sure all was properly in place;
especially the oil paintings I held on consignment for my ‘general’
clientele. All appeared tranquil…
Actually…
I now plied the business craft of confidentially selling masterpiece
quality art belonging to the elite of Midwestern America, and often originally
purchased illegally by them, to a European crime syndicate for immediate
cash. The crime syndicate known as the
‘committee’ in turn sent stolen European paintings to me to sell in the
Midwestern Sector of the
My background knowledge for my art
brokerage profession stemmed from my having lived in Paris for five years as a
budding artist, apprenticing under a prominent local Impressionist, and in my
spare time spending hours at the incredible Parisian art galleries, attending
seminars, and studying volumes upon volumes of colored art folios and books at
the local libraries and bookstores.
As the years passed I, although very
gifted with the brush and palette, began to realize my shortcomings to achieve
real fame and fortune with my talents, and decided to turn my love of art to
becoming an Art Broker. I told my
Parisian instructor of my desire to return to
Two days before I was ready to sail for
At
I made a telephone call to my American
contact for the ‘committee’ in New York City and explained I would be viewing
the Armandotti ‘Field of Wild Flowers’;
and was instructed to offer seventy thousand dollars for it, no more no less,
and Mr. Martin would have his cash in hand by nine o’clock the next
morning. And my 20% profit from the deal
would also, of course, be enclosed in the shipment of cash.
It was now seven-thirty in the evening and
I decided to stroll the mile and a half to Mr. Ferdinand Martin’s mansion. It was early spring, and although the air was
still chilly to the skin, the harshness of winter had definitely
disappeared.
Mr. Ferdinand Martin was a middle-aged,
tall, athletically built man, and towered over my thin, five foot eight inch
frame as a full-blossomed elm over a sapling.
His demeanor, however, was very quiet and his complexion was somewhat
flushed as his eyes quizzically danced about, as someone wishing to confess
something, but not quite knowing how to word and phrase his dilemma. It was an expression I had repeatedly
experienced from most of my clients; the gentleman obviously possessed a once
stolen masterpiece he had purchased in the past and now wished to resell it –
confidentially.
I sat across from Mr. Martin’s desk in his
fantastically appointed mansion library, and although amused at my new clients
demeanor, spoke in a business-like tone.
“May I view the ‘Field Of Wild Flowers’ by
Armandotti?”
Mr. Martin quickly reached down next to
his legs behind his desk, and placed the approximately 10x14 inch oil painting,
mounted on a stretcher, but frameless, before me. I removed a magnifying glass from my suit
coat vest pocket and scanned the oil, having no idea what in the hell I was
looking for since I had never even heard of Armandotti. Yet, the painting appeared genuinely old and
the back of the canvas was truly aged.
“Seventy thousand dollars take it or leave
it, no bargaining. I will have your cash
for you at nine-tomorrow morning.”
Mr. Martins’ eyes widened in surprise, but
then he quickly regained his composure.
“I’m sure it is worth much more than that.”
“Where would you sell it, Mr. Martin? To be perfectly blunt with you I am aware
that the painting has a checkered past.
You certainly can not place an ad in the newspaper.”
“I could try another gallery in Chicago,”
Mr. Martin smugly retorted.
“I do not run a gallery, Mr. Martin. I am a Broker, a specialist, and I will have
seventy thousand dollars in cash for you at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. If that does not suit your needs,” I then
boldly stated, arising and moving to Mr. Martins’ library doorway, “I’ll be on
my way.”
“All right!” Mr. Martin exclaimed. “Al right, but I will give you the painting
when I receive the cash, here at my home, at nine tomorrow morning.”
I spun around trying to hide the smirk on
my lips. “Agreed.”
At eight the following morning, always an
hour before an appointment to complete a deal for the ‘committee’, I knew I
could expect a knock at my front door and a burly deliveryman would hand me a
large envelope stuffed with cash, and then disappear into the early morning
streets. After I completed a deal, and
having the newly acquired painting in hand, I would telephone the information
to my New York contact, and an hour later the burly deliveryman would again
appear at my door and take delivery of the purchased painting. I never made an effort to count the payoff money
I originally received from the deliveryman, and the deliveryman made no effort
to view the painting, since details as this were just not done in polite
society, i.e., the ‘committee’.
The sale went smoothly and swiftly, and I
returned to my lovely Queen Anne now $14,000 richer from my ‘hard earned’ 20%
commission for setting up and completing the transaction.
This was my usual basic modus operende,
occurring hopefully at least once a month, and it made for a quite comfortable
middle-class living, thank you very much.
It also gave me time to paint my personal Impressionistic art scenes
of the many modes of Lake Michigan and her surrounds from my home office
window, or from the huge wrap around porch of my Queen Anne, or I’d traverse
out and onto the beach fronting the great lake.
Yet,
as all things in life; every once in a rare while a deal went queer. A fiasco in point was the Farley Prudhomme
purchase. I knew Farley Prudhomme was an
art thief, and had dealt with him in the past on two purchases from him with no
problem whatsoever. Farley Prudhomme
then sold a fake copy of the Andres Tahlmann oil of The Duchess of Armrandaro,
for $50,000 through unsuspecting me to the ‘committee’. The ‘committee’ notified me of the sham,
being careful not to blame me for the mishap, but ordered me to find where Mr.
Prudhomme resided and notify them post haste.
This was the first time I had been
‘stiffed’ by a client, and the dishonesty of it all disgusted me to no end,
plus the ‘committee’s’ overly politeness regarding the incident somewhat
frightened me.
I immediately enlisted the aid of Bruno
Clew, Esq., proprietor of the Society Detective Agency, a private investigator
and retired sergeant of detectives of the Chicago Police Department I had used
in the past. Although Private Detective Clew catered mainly to the Chicago
Bluebook community; he also had an excellent knowledge of Chicago’s underbelly.
I tapped on the frosted glass panel door
of Detective Clew’s office.
“Enter!” Detective Clew’s soft baritone
voice responded.
I opened the door and peeked around its
edge at a portly, sixty-five year old, and very well attired man sitting behind
his desk. “Hope I didn’t catch you napping, Bruno!”
Bruno smiled up from a novel he was
devouring. “Flurrie, old chap! I heard you retired and took up residency in
Palm Beach.”
I sat on the wooden chair in front of
Bruno’s desk. “I’m afraid I’m short a
few million dollars for that.”
“Maybe next year,” Flurrie responded with
a grin. “How is the art brokerage trade?”
“Bruno, I fear I have a problem
there. A client passed off a fake
painting on me, which I sold to a very influential buyer in Europe. He spotted it as a fake and called me on it.”
Bruno placed his novel aside and stared
into my obviously distressed gray eyes.
“Bad news. Please tell me about
it.”
“It is an oil painting from the
seventeenth century; The Duchess of Armrandaro by Tahlmann. It completely fooled me; appearing authentic
to the core. The seller’s name is Farley
Prudhomme. Now the fact of the matter is
he may not have known the painting is a fake and sold it to me in good
faith. I merely wish to discuss the
matter with him”
Bruno shook his head negatively. “Isn’t he an art thief?” he then coldly
asked.
I averted my eyes. “He brings me masterpiece quality art from
around the Midwest and I find a buyer for it.
I’m afraid in my business one does not ask too many questions.”
Bruno nonchalantly responded, “Not to
worry – neither do I.”
My face washed with relief. “I need you to find him, Bruno. The person who purchased the painting wants
his money back.”
Bruno nodded. “Understandable. Do you have any kind of an address on him.”
“None.”
“I’ll get to work on it right off.”
I spent the next six hours in my Queen
Anne, attempting to relax by sketching two huge wooden sailing vessels anchored
on Lake Michigan, yet I felt anything but relaxed. The kindness of the ‘committee’ over the
matter puzzled me more than being duped by the art thief. They were not the type of people noted for
their kindness. Fortunately I had enough
money in my sock drawer to pay for the forged painting if need be. It would just about wipe out my savings, but
at least it would placate the situation.
At six p.m. a knock sounded at my front
door and I sprang to it, yanking it open and gazed up at a grinning Bruno Clew
who was holding his companion silver bear head walking cane in his right hand
in an attention stance.
“I know where he is,” he happily stated. “Gather up your hat and coat and we’ll rush
right over to his hotel. My assistant
said his contacts noticed him sitting in the hotel lobby with a suitcase next
to his chair.”
Bruno had a hansom cab waiting and he and
I almost leaped into the cab. The driver
immediately took off, obviously having been instructed of the destination. The cobblestone and dirt side roads to the
hotel were quite bumpy and at times deeply rutted, but the driver did an
amazing job in covering the approximate two miles in fifteen minutes.
As the cab jostled up and down Bruno
spoke, holding onto his bowler and silver bear head cane. “My assistant, Sammy ‘The Mole’ Plankowski,
sent out the word amongst his cronies that I wanted Mr. Prudhomme and within
three hours Sammy had the information of his whereabouts for me.”
“You say your man said Prudhomme had a
suitcase next to him. I wondering if he
might be taking a train or coach out of town?”
Bruno shook his head in confusion. “Hard to say.
It might also be that with the cash you paid him he is moving to a
better hotel. His type is usually quite
arrogant with the need to show off his riches.”
The hansom cab came to an abrupt halt in
front of the hotel and I hurriedly followed Bruno into the hotel lobby. We anxiously glanced around at the lobby easy
chairs, not seeing Prudhomme.
Bruno moved to the desk. “Excuse me, has Mr. Prudhomme checked out as
of yet?”
The desk clerk blankly stared into Bruno’s
eyes. “What was the name?”
Bruno reached into his right side coat
pocket and removed a five-dollar bill, placing it on the counter. “Prudhomme.”
The desk clerk’s eyes lit with
revelation. “A hansom cab driver picked
him up about ten minutes ago and I heard Mr. Prudhomme state something about
the Chicago & Northward train depot.”
We scrambled into our waiting hansom cab
as Bruno shouted out instructions to the driver to rush to the Chicago &
Northward depot, which was only about a mile distant.
“Bruno, I am at the point now where if I
get my hands on him I will batter him to hell.”
Bruno grinned in surprise. “You had better let me subdue him. He is probably more my size.”
I grumbled, “Size has nothing to do with
it. I am a trained bare-knuckle
boxer. My brother was the bare-knuckle
champion of Ontario, Canada and taught me how to defend myself. Believe me I have flattened several big mouth
bullies in my day.”
Bruno raised his hands in surrender. “He is all yours!”
The hansom cab came to a jolting halt in
front of the Chicago & Northward station, and we rushed into the fairly
large depot. And there he was! Prudhomme was sitting next to an elderly
lady, his lips alive with chatter, and his hands dancing in the air as he
spoke.
“Probably trying to sell her the railroad
depot,” I grumbled.
Prudhomme was so
busy with his speech that he did not notice Bruno and me sit next to him on the
bench. “Mr. Prudhomme,” I angrily
spoke. “I wish to speak with you in
private.”
Prudhomme stared at me agape in surprise,
then jumped up, and dashed to the railroad platform leaving his suitcase
behind.
Bruno and I gave chase, as swiftly as our
old bones could move which was about one quarter speed, and in no time at all
Prudhomme jumped onto a freight car of a moving train. We stood watching hopelessly as the train
chugged away.
“Well,” Bruno bemoaned, attempting to
catch his breath. “Father Time was the
enemy on this chase.”
“Agreed,” I acknowledged, panting for
breath. “Well, the freight train is
heading south. At least I have that much
information.”
“He did leave his suitcase behind in the
station. Let’s hurry back there and grab
it,” Bruno suggested.
My eyes lit with hope. “Maybe there is an address book inside.”
The suitcase was sitting right where he
left it, pushed under the depot wooden bench.
Bruno reached under the bench and slid the suitcase out, grasping its
handles and lifting it to his side.
“It is very light,” he stated.
“Maybe the money is in there!” I almost
said too loudly.
“Let’s get to the cab and get out of
here,” Bruno ordered.
In ten minutes our cab was rolling away
from the Chicago & Northward train depot.
Bruno was attempting to tear a small padlock loose that was holding down
the lid closure on the suitcase.
I grinned, removing a ruby lapel pin
adorning my suit coat. “Allow me.”
Bruno placed the suitcase on my lap,
chuckling. “Don’t tell me you are going
to pick the lock.”
I smiled broadly; inserting the pin into the
keyhole of the lock, made a few twisting motions, and the lock fell open. “A skill I learned in my previous life,” I
chuckled.
“I’ll be dammed!” Bruno exclaimed.
I popped open the lid of the suitcase and
then sat in pure shock; gaping at – of all things - four more fake copies of
Andres Tahlmaan’s “The Duchess of Armrandaro.”
Finally back in my Queen Anne, I nervously
telephoned my ‘committee’ contact person in New York City, anxiously explaining
the dire situation at hand. The contact
man was silent for a few minutes, increasing my anxiety rate to a near heart
attack, and then surprised me by speaking very calmly, stating they would have
their delivery man pick up the four fake Tahlmaan copies from me and that would
make up for the $50,000 lost to the thief.
I then explained how Prudhomme escaped on the southbound freight train
from Chicago. I was then asked to
describe Mr. Prudhomme’s physical appearance.
I was then kindly instructed not to concern myself over the matter
anymore, and was told they were sending me two recently acquired c.1740 Nesmith
Brighton seascapes to sell at $125,000 each, and wished me a good evening.