Painted Ladies

1

My first client of the day (and of the week, truth be known) came into my office on the Tuesday after Thanksgiving and sat in one of my client chairs. He was medium-height and slim, wearing a brown tweed suit, a blue paisley bow tie, and a look of satisfaction.

“You’re Spenser,” he said.

“Yes, I am,” I said.

“I am Dr. Ashton Prince,” he said.

He handed me a card, which I put on my desk.

“How nice,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“What can I do for you, Dr. Prince.”

“I am confronted with a matter of extreme sensitivity,” he said.

I nodded.

“May I count on your discretion?” he said.

“Sure,” I said.

“I’m serious,” he said.

“I can tell,” I said.

He frowned slightly. Less in disapproval than in uncertainty.

“Well,” he said, “may I?”

“Count on my discretion?”

“Yes!”

“At the moment, I don’t have anything to be discreet about,” I said. “But I would be if I did.”

He stared at me for a moment, then smiled.

“I see,” he said. “You’re attempting to be funny.”

“ ‘Attempting’?” I said.

“No matter,” Prince said. “But I need to know you are capable of taking my issues seriously.”

“I’d be in a better position to assess that,” I said, “if you told me what your issues were.”

He nodded slowly to himself.

“I was warned that you were given to self-amusement,” he said. “I guess there’s no help for it. I am a professor of art history at Walford University. And I am a forensic art consultant in matters of theft and forgery.”

And pleased about it.

“Is there such a matter before us?” I said.

He took in some air and let it out audibly.

“There is,” he said.

“And it requires discretion,” I said.

“Very much.”

“You’ll get all I can give you,” I said.

“All you can give me?”

“Anything,” I said, “that your best interest, and my self-regard, will allow.”

“Your ‘self-regard’?”

“I try not to do things that make me think ill of myself.”

“My God,” Prince said. “I mean, that’s a laudable goal, I suppose. But you are a private detective.”

“All the more reason for vigilance,” I said.

He took another deep breath. He nodded slowly.

“There is a painting,” he said, “by a seventeenth-century Dutch artist named Frans Hermenszoon.”

“Lady with a Finch,” I said.

“How on earth did you know that?” Prince said.

“Only Hermenszoon painting I’ve ever heard of.”

“He painted very few,” Prince said. “Hermenszoon died at age twenty-six.”

“Young,” I said.

“Rather,” Prince said. “But Lady with a Finch was a masterpiece. Is a masterpiece. It belongs to the Hammond Museum. And last week it was stolen.”

“Heard from the thieves?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Ransom?” I said.

“Yes.”

“And if you bring any cops in, they’ll destroy the painting,” I said.

“Yes.”

“So what do you want from me?” I said.

“The Hammond wants the whole matter handled entirely, ah, sotto voce. They have asked me to handle the exchange.”

“The money for the painting,” I said.

“Yes, and I am, frankly, uneasy. I want protection.”

“Me,” I said.

“The chief of the Walford campus police asked a friend at the Boston Police Department on my behalf, and you were recommended.”

“I’m very popular there,” I said.

“Will you do it?”

“Okay,” I said.

“Like that?” Prince said.

“Sure,” I said.

“What do you charge?”

I told him. He raised his eyebrows.

“Well,” he said. “I’m sure they will cover it.”

“The museum.”

“Yes,” he said. “And if they won’t cover it all, I’ll make up the difference out of pocket.”

“Generous,” I said.

“You’re being ironic,” he said.

“It is you I’m protecting,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “The painting, too. It is not merely a brilliant piece of art, though that would be enough. It is also the expression of a distant life, cut sadly short.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said.

“Which I’m told,” Prince said, “is considerable.”

I nodded.

“’Tis,” I said.