#37 (A Picker Mystery) Read online

  "One last thing," Simon stated. "A meeting with your man."

  "Out of the question."

  Simon stood up. "I wish that I could say that it has been nice doing business with you, but..." and he turned to leave.

  "Okay, okay. Stop. I'll make the arrangements. It won't be here in the States, somewhere in Europe. I'll get you the details."

  After that was done, it was just a matter of time for everything to come together. Simon took a suite of rooms at the Barclay Hotel in Rittenhouse Square.

  He had always enjoyed antiquing and decided to visit the show. There were close to four dozen dealers with quality pieces from all over the country.

  He stopped at one exhibit that specialized in 19th and early 20th century art. She had her back to him as she arranged the paintings on the rear wall.

  "Excuse me, Miss."

  Emily Picker turned around and smiled. This is what she saw: a relatively tall man in his thirties; maybe six feet, dark, wavy hair and blue eyes. Intelligent, handsome with a nice smile. Not a warm smile, but a charming smile. And, the cultured British accent did not hurt any either. As she looked at him, two conflicting realizations passed through her. With joy she realized that this man was the one, that he alone could make her happier than anyone. The other flash of insight, this one disturbing, was that they were star crossed.

  Emily recovered as quickly as she could. "How may help you, sir?"

  Simon's reaction frightened him. There was a sense of déjà vu, a compelling feeling of familiarity. Simon's world had just shifted on its axis and for the first time in ages was unsure of himself.

  "Hi," he smiled, "Simon Jones," and offered his hand.

  "Emily Picker." She returned his smile, blushed ever so slightly, turned and pointed to the sign hanging at the back of the booth. It read 'E. Picker Antiques' as though that explained everything.

  Simon's awareness was suddenly hypersensitive. Time froze; everything vanished except for this strange young woman. Tall for a girl; perhaps five-nine, twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old; very long light brown hair, braided; slender and wearing a long dress with a flower print. What struck Simon most was the girl's face; long with prominent cheekbones; nice mouth without being too full; brown eyes and front teeth that crossed ever so slightly. The impression was that of a hippie that had grown up.

  Simon quickly scanned the paintings on display. "What can you tell me about this one?"

  "Ah, yes. The 'Portrait de Vincent van Gogh' by Toulouse-Lautrec. It is a copy of course. The original hangs in the Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam. Done by a local artist. Very nice, don't you agree?"

  Henri Marie Raymond de Toulouse-Lautrec-Monfa; short in stature, alcoholic, friend of Oscar Wilde and one of the greatest post-impressionist painters. Perhaps best remembered for his depiction of the can-can dancers from the Moulin Rouge Music Hall.

  "Striking. No question about it. I've seen the original, and quite frankly, I’d be hard pressed to tell them apart. Who is this local artist, if you don't mind me asking?" Simon experienced an eerie chill.

  "Doo Wop DeAngelo. Does copies on order. If there is something special that you like, he'll do it. Are you interested in the Lautrec?"

  Number 37

  "Tis a beautiful morning, is it not?" Mrs. Murphy, bless her soul, was puttering around the kitchen and serving us breakfast. Coffee, fresh juice, freshly cut fruit salad and toasted homemade bread.

  "Yes, ma’am."

  Kelly and I are sitting at the kitchen table in the main house. She takes a sip of her coffee and looks over at me. "There's something that you haven't told me. Come on, what did you leave out?"

  "Okay, here goes. On Tuesday morning I receive a phone call from Doo-Wop. I'm walking the Cowtown flea in Woodstown. He's agitated. Tells me that he'd like to see me asap. I say no problem, let's do it now.

  "Less than an hour later we're having breakfast at the Melrose Diner. This is what he tells me..."

  "Pick, I have a little problem. Probably nothing serious, but just in case, I'd like your help."

  "Sure, Anthony, anything. You name it."

  When I was young and running wild in the streets, Anthony and Millie sort of took me in. Not that I lived there or anything. But their door was always open to me; literally, I could walk in and help myself to the fridge. Or, they would invite me to dinner. By the time I started buying and selling antiques Doo Wop would bank roll me. The long and short of it is that they were always there for me. In return, there isn't anything that I wouldn't do for either of them.

  He's looking slightly nervous. "Yesterday', he said, "I was at the Italian Market. I'm picking out some produce for the wife. Two guys come up behind me. One guy said, 'Hey, aren't you Mr. DeAngelo. You're the famous painter, right. You're him.'"

  Anthony said, "Who's asking?"

  The other guy says, "Hey, Mr. D, we're big fans. We've seen some of your work. Beautiful man, simply beautiful. Just like them famous painting you see in the museums."

  I interrupt him. "What did these men look like?" Guess what, not that I knew it at the time, but the description sounds an awful lot like our new friends, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum." I tell Kelly that's what I named these guys in my head.

  DW: "They start asking me what I'm working on now, what do I have for sale, can they come look at my stuff? Me, I don't want any trouble. I said, 'Sure, sure, give me you number, I'll call ya".

  "Anthony, what can I do. Tell me."

  "Come on over to the house, let me give you something to hold on to. You know, just for the time being."

  And, that's just what we do. Go over to his house. He gives me two painting wrapped up in butcher paper. "This is 'Millie'. I want you to hold onto her for the time being. This other painting is for you. My way of saying thanks."

  "Anthony, you don't have to thank me for anything. If anything, it is me who should be thanking you."

  I finish my orange juice, take a sip of coffee and tell Kelly, "Now you're up to date. You know everything that I know."

  "Not quite mister." She grins. "Besides being his wife's name, what is a 'Millie'?"

  "Okay. I'll tell you, but this is strictly between us. I mean, no kidding, once I tell you it's just between you and me. You cannot share this with anyone. Agreed?"

  Kelly works in the art world. She is what I jokingly refer to as a consulting curator. Quite simply, when an exhibition is being organized, when artwork is coming from several sources for a limited engagement, it is not unusual to retain Ms. Lane's services. As a matter of fact, that's kind of how we met.

  What I was about to share with her might be considered, shall we say, a tad illegal. The information that I was about to share would, more than likely, compromise her professional standing.

  "Okay, big boy, you got my word. Now spill!"

  "Here goes... About ten years ago, possibly a little more, Doo Wop gets it into his head that he wants to set up a retirement fund. Don't get the wrong idea, he makes a pretty decent livelihood from turning out his one good 'copy' per month along with the others that he cranks out for shows.

  "But, he's getting up there in years, he's put some money aside but what he really wants is f-you money. He wants a God damn legacy.

  "He starts talking to me about it. Just me, nobody else. We've been close for ages and because of our bond he trusts me. For weeks we toss about different ideas and schemes. Finally, one day at the season opener for the Phils, we're sitting in box seats on the third base line, we hit on it. The one that we decide will actually work. The plan that will produce the big score.

  "Anthony, God bless his soul, is going to paint a Vermeer."

  Johannes Vermeer was a Dutch artist that lived in the middle of the 17th Century. His specialty was interior scenes of domestic life of the middle class. His work is exquisite.

  Vermeer is known to have worked very slowly and with extreme care. His paintings exhibit bright colors which often were the result of expensive pigments. He demonstrated a particular prefere
nce for cornflower blue and yellow. Vermeer is especially known for his obvious mastery of light.

  Johannes Vermeer acquired some modest recognition during his life only to become obscure after his passing. He is just barely referred to in the 17th Century "Grand Theatre of Dutch Painters and Women Artists”. He seems to be completely omitted from other references for close to two centuries.

  Then, in the 19th century he was once again rediscovered. Vermeer's reputation has continued to grow and is acknowledged to be one of the most renowned artists of the Dutch Golden Age.

  There are thirty-six paintings that are definitely attributed to Vermeer.

  The value of an undisputed Vermeer would likely exceed $100,000,000.

  "Anthony 'Doo-Wop' DeAngelo made up his mind to create a brand new, never before seen Vermeer. Number 37. As for the model in his painting, he used his wife, Millie."

  April 1975 Philadelphia - The Next Day

  The 'Portrait de Vincent van Gogh' was dropped off the next morning at the hotel's front desk. Simon was having breakfast at the hotel restaurant at the time.

  Last evening Emily surprised Simon by inviting him to dinner.

  "Are all American women so forward?"

  "Do all Brits talk funny?" She actually giggled. They made arrangements to meet when she was done working.

  One of the bell hops alerted Simon to the paintings arrival. He directed him to have it delivered to his room, finished the coffee and went up to examine the faux Lautrec.

  He unwrapped the picture and set it on a chair. Stood back, perhaps ten feet, and stared at the painting. Last evening, when Emily quoted a figure of thirty-five hundred dollars, he thought that was a little rich. Of course, he bought it anyway. Now that he had the chance to look at it more closely the conclusion was that it was worth every penny. It struck him odd, once again, that the world is such a small place. What were the odds that he would stumble across a work of art done by the very same artist commissioned to paint his fake?

  After writing a check and making arrangements to have it delivered, Simon and Emily discovered that they both enjoyed Italian food. He arranged to pick her up after work.

  Simon poured Emily some wine while they perused the menu. He was a little surprised to his reaction while sitting across from this woman. Nervous? He seemed to recall being nervous once, when was that, fifteen?

  Emily looked up from the menu. "So, Simon, what do you do for a living?"

  "I'm a high class con man." Simon was more than a little shocked at his candor.

  Being unfamiliar with the city, earlier Simon had asked the hotel concierge for a recommendation. He settled on Dante & Luigi’s, one of the oldest existing Italian restaurants in the United States.

  Emily smiled ever so slightly. "And exactly what does that involve?"

  Simon surprised himself. He spent the next hour and a half telling Emily his life's story. His family moving from Ireland to England while still a boy; being a grifter; moving up the ranks from money laundering for the Russian mob to creating tax shelters for the wealthy and finally changing his name from Aronson to Jones to hide being a Jew. With no hesitation he also told her about Elisabeth and Connor.

  "Is that so?” was her only response. Emily went on eating as though Simon had only commented on the weather.

  Although he didn't understand why, Simon found himself becoming increasingly uneasy. "Your turn," he said.

  Emily, as it turned out, had actually been a hippie. University of California, Berkeley; active participant in multiple anti-war and civil rights protests; living in communes; traveling in VW buses; indulging in marijuana and mushrooms and briefly following the Dead.

  "Mom and Dad were both professionals. Mom a university professor; Dad a doctor. Both of them gone. I don't really have any family."

  Simon could see that talking about this made Emily uncomfortable. "And the artwork, how did you become involved with that?"

  Here she perked up. "I backed into it. Some of the people at the commune made their money by selling at swap meets and flea markets. I used to go along to help. Found out that I have an affinity for art. So, I started buying and selling. I figured out that if I was going to be serious about it that I should go back to school. Got my Masters in art history. Been doing it ever since."

  Simon stood there looking at the painting; his mind was elsewhere. Emily baffled him. The best thing, he decided, was to get back to work. A few packages had arrived from Europe.

  Two weeks earlier he had rented a building on Pine Street between 9th and 10th Streets. He called the front desk, requested a bell hop and had the packages delivered to his rented car in the hotel garage.

  The first floor of the building was set up as a store on Historic Antique Row. Simon went to Freeman's Auction, filled a truck with expensive stock and was immediately in business. To his surprise the shop was a success and would be in the black in record time.

  The purpose of the business was to obfuscate the scam. Simon set the second floor up as a studio for Anthony. For Doo Wop's peace of mind, and his own, there was access to the studio through the alley behind the building. Simon wanted to do everything within reason to eliminate ties between artist and painting. No incriminating materials would be found at Anthony's home studio; he could come and go as he pleased, unseen.

  Simon unwrapped the packages at the second floor studio. Uncle Moe had been in charge of locating and purchasing the vintage materials necessary to duplicate a late 19th century painting. What he had before him were several canvases from the period; brushes; materials to make brushes, if necessary; two frames; some wood and nails.

  The second package contained hundreds of tubes of paint. They were labeled in small black letters. The enclosed inventory listed the following colors:

  silver white

  zinc white

  lemon chrome yellow

  no. two chrome yellow

  vermilion chrome yellow

  no. three chrome yellow

  geranium

  carmine

  prussian blue

  very light cinnabar green

  orange lead

  emerald green

  veronese green

  Jean Pierre had gone to great lengths hiring a German chemist to duplicate Van Gogh's palette. The chemical composition of these oil paints were virtually identical to those used by Vincent himself.

  It occurred to Simon that there was a chance; however slight, that the Bureau still monitored Anthony's life. With that in mind, he walked down to the corner pharmacy. In the rear corner sat a telephone booth. Dialed a number in his little black book.

  "I'm sorry, Anthony's not home. This is his wife. May I take a message?"

  "Please tell Mr. DeAngelo that his order is ready."

  I deal with detectives

  "Mr. Picker, there are some men here inquiring for you." Mrs. Murphy appeared slightly nervous.

  "Who are they?"

  "The police, dear. Shall I show them in?"

  "Yes, ma'am. Don't worry, I'm sure it's nothing serious."

  Three men filed into the kitchen. The first was wearing a dark suit. Early thirties, broad shoulders and a block for a head. The other two were uniformed cops.

  "Mr. Picker, stand up and put your hands behind your back."

  I looked up from my coffee and cracked an unpleasant smile. "I don't think so. What can I do for you Detective?"

  "Sir, you will stand up now and accompany us to the station." Suit slid his suit coat back and placed his hand on his gun. Mistake.

  "Grrrr", was Kato's response. I'm not exactly sure what made that dog so threatening. He was actually lying on the floor and merely growled under his breath.

  Suit took a step back. "Mr. Picker, I strongly suggest that you tell that dog to back off or..."

  "Or what?" I had enough. "Detective, I doubt that you've noticed, but not only is there this German Sheppard peacefully lying here, but there are two one hundred and twenty-five pound Rotties directly behind those
nice officers."

  In unison, all three men turned their heads. Sitting nice and quietly were Zeus and Zena. The Rottweilers belonged to my landlord, Nathan Burke.

  "Detective, Detective what, exactly?"

  "It's Williams. Look, Picker, I suggest..."

  "Detective Williams, I apologize for interrupting you but I feel obligated to tell you that if that gun clears your holster that you'll be dead in less than sixty seconds. You see, I hate guns. The only reason to draw one is to shoot someone. It is precisely for that reason that I trained these fine animals to literally go for the juggler vain whenever someone pulls a gun on me or their owner. And, just for your edification, there is no command to stop."