Quick & Dirty

58

Stone was at his desk in the late afternoon when Arthur Steele arrived, carrying a briefcase.

“Have a seat, Arthur. How did it go?”

Steele placed the briefcase on the desk and opened it. “It went just fine,” he said.

“May I?” Stone asked, reaching for the painting.

“Of course.”

Stone switched on his desk lamp and held the picture up, minus its frame. “Oh, my,” he said. “It’s the first time I’ve seen it.”

“I’d like you to deliver it to Mrs. Tillman,” Steele said.

“I’d be happy to.”

Steele took an envelope from his inside pocket and handed it to Stone. “Your fee,” he said.

Stone removed the check from the envelope, looked at it, and nodded. “Thank you, Arthur.”

“Don’t miss the board meeting tomorrow,” Steele said, rising. “Two PM. I’ll need your support to convince the members that I’ve done the right thing.”

“I don’t think they’ll doubt it for a moment.”

Steele shook his hand and departed.

Stone locked the briefcase in his safe, then phoned Morgan Tillman.

“Well, hello there. I was about to call you and invite you to dinner tonight.”

“Just the two of us?”

“Yes, indeed,” she replied.

“I’ll have a surprise for you.”

“I hope it’s what I think it is,” she said.

“That, and something else.”

“Seven o’clock?”

“See you then.” He hung up and buzzed for Joan.

She came in. “Yes, boss?”

“Deposit this, please,” he said, handing her the check, then asked her to write another.

Stone presented himself at Morgan’s door, only fashionably late, and rang the bell.

She opened the door and gave him a big kiss. “Is that my surprise?” she asked, pointing at the briefcase.

“It’s one of them,” he replied.

“Let me fix you a drink first.” She did so.

Stone opened the briefcase, removed the painting, and handed it to her. “I hope you’ll give it a good home.”

She took it and held it under the lamp. “Oh, my God,” she whispered, and brought it toward her lips.

“Don’t kiss it!” Stone said quickly.

“Why not?”

“Because if you do, you may have to someday explain to some expert how van Gogh managed to get lipstick on it.”

She went to the hall closet and came back with the frame that the thief had discarded, and a small tool kit. “Will you rehang it for me, next to the Utrillo there, while I finish cooking? I’ll be done in fifteen minutes.”

“Of course,” Stone replied. She went into the kitchen, and he put the painting carefully back into its frame and secured it. He went to the wall and held it up to the empty space waiting for it. Then, as he started to reach for a hammer, a corner of the van Gogh struck the Utrillo and knocked it off the wall and onto the floor.

“Clumsy ass,” he said aloud to himself, hoping he hadn’t damaged the painting. He picked it up and found it to be heavier than he had expected, then he turned it over and discovered that the picture wire had come loose from the eye screw on one side. And as he did, he saw something that startled him.

Inside the canvas frame of the Utrillo he saw a second canvas frame that fit neatly inside the first. Another painting was concealed there. He found a screwdriver in the tool kit and gently pried the smaller picture out of the larger frame. He set down the Utrillo and turned over the second canvas.

To his astonishment, he found himself looking at another van Gogh, identical to the one he was about to hang. He picked up the framed one and held them up together, then he walked back to the table he had been sitting next to and put both paintings under the lamp. They matched, brushstroke by brushstroke. One of them had to be a fake, but which one?

He took a big sip of his drink and thought about this for a moment, then he replaced the second picture inside the Utrillo canvas’s frame, re-secured the wire to the eye, and returned it to its place on the wall. It had been secreted there for a year and a half, and it was unlikely to be discovered, unless he wanted it to be.

Morgan stuck her head out of the kitchen. “Five minutes,” she said.

“I’ll be ready.” He finished rehanging the first van Gogh and stepped back to view the wall; the painting seemed at home.

Morgan called him to dinner at a dining nook off the kitchen with a fine view of the city lights. “Will you decant the wine?” she asked.

“Sure.” Stone held the bottle up to a candle and poured the claret into a decanter until the dregs started to creep up the side of the bottle.

Morgan came in with their first course of seared foie gras, and they sat down. “Bon appetit,” she said.

“Bon appetit,” he replied, then he cut a slice of the goose liver and chewed thoughtfully. It practically melted in his mouth.

“You seem very quiet this evening,” Morgan said. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“You wouldn’t get your money’s worth,” Stone replied. “I’m not even sure what I’m thinking.”

After dinner they took a cognac upstairs and undressed.

“You’re still very quiet,” she said.

“I don’t know how to answer you,” he replied.

She fondled him. “Oh, and here’s my other surprise.”

“Whatever I was thinking,” he said, “it just flew out of my mind.”