The Greek Coffin Mystery

Chapter 31. Upshot

And Ellery said: “You’re positive, Mr. Knox, that the painting has been stolen? You placed it in this panel yourself?”

The colour had crept back into the banker’s face; he nodded with a slight effort. “Last time I looked at it was a week ago. It was there, No one else knew. No one. Had the panel built in long ago.”

“What I want to know,” said the Inspector, “is how this thing stacks up. When was the painting stolen? How did the thief get in, and how did he know where the painting was, if what Mr. Knox says is true?”

“The painting wasn’t stolen to-night―that’s a cinch,” said the District Attorney softly. “Why then isn’t the burglar-alarm operating?”

“And it was working yesterday, Krafft said, and probably the day before,” put in Pepper.

Knox shrugged. Ellery said: “Everything will be explained. Please come back with me to Mr. Knox’s den, all of you.”

He seemed very sure of his ground, and they followed him in meek silence.

Back in the patent-leather room, Ellery set to work with cheerful briskness. First he shut the door, asking Pepper to stand by and see that there were no interruptions; then he went without hesitation to a large grille set low in one wall of the den, near the floor. He tinkered with this for a moment, succeeded in removing the grille, laid it on the floor, and thrust his hand into the aperture beyond. They craned; there was a huge-coiled radiator inside. Ellery ran his fingers rapidly over the individual coils, like a harpist strumming his strings. “Please observe,” he said with a smile, although obviously they could observe nothing of the sort, ‘that while seven of the eight coils are burning hot, this one―” his hand came to rest on the last coil―’this one is stone cold.” He bent over again and manipulated some contrivance at the bottom of the cold coil. In a moment he had unscrewed a disguised cap, and he stood up with the tall heavy coil in his hand. “Comes off, you see,” he explained affably. “Clever plumbing, Mr. Knox,” and upended the coil. On the bottom there was a barely visible metal thread. Ellery twisted vigorously, the bottom began to move, and to their astonishment screwed off completely, providing a glimpse of an asbestos-lined interior. Ellery placed the cap on a chair, raised the coil, and shook it with energy. His hand was ready . . . as a roll of old stained canvas slipped out of the tube.

“What is it?” whispered the Inspector.

Ellery with a flirt of his wrist flipped the roll. It unfurled.

It was a painting―a massive, turbulent scene in rich oils, a battle-scene centering on a struggling group of fierce medieval warriors fighting for possession of a standard, a proud rich flag.

“Believe it or not,” said Ellery, draping the canvas over Knox’s desk, “you are now gazing upon a million dollars worth of paint, canvas, and genius. In other words, this is the elusive Leonardo.”

“Nonsense!” said someone sharply, and Ellery swung on his heel to confront James Knox, who was standing rigidly a few feet off, staring at the painting with a mouth-line of marble.

“Indeed? I found this chef-d”uvre, Mr. Knox, while I took the unpardonable liberty of snooping about your house this afternoon. You said this was stolen from you? Then how do you account for the fact that it is hidden in your own den when it is presumably in the possession of a thief?”

“I said “nonsense” and I mean “nonsense”.” Knox laughed shortly. “I see I didn’t credit you with enough intelligence, Queen. But you’re still wrong. What I said was true. The Leonardo has been stolen. I thought I could conceal the fact that I had two of them―”

“Two?” gasped the District Attorney. “Yes.” Knox sighed. “I thought I’d put something over. What you see here is the second one―I’ve had it a long time. It’s the work of either Lorenzo di Credi or a pupil of his, my expert isn’t certain―at any rate, not a Leonardo. Lorenzo imitated Leonardo perfectly, and presumably Lorenzo’s pupils followed their master’s style. The thing must have been copied from the original Leonardo after the ill-fated mural fresco in 1503 in Florence. Hall of the Palazzo Vecchio. The―”

“Don’t want any lecture on art, Mr. Knox,” growled the Inspector. “What we want to know―”

“Your expert thinks, then,” said Ellery smoothly, ‘that after the fresco project was abandoned by Leonardo―the central group was painted, as I remember from my Fine Arts, but when the heat was applied the colours ran and the paint scaled off―that this oils was done by some contemporary who copied Leonardo’s own oils painting of the central group?”

“Yes. Anyway, this second painting is worth a mere fraction of the original Leonardo. Naturally. When I bought the original from Khalkis―yes, I admit I bought the real one and knew it all the time―I already owned this contemporary copy. I didn’t say anything about it, because I figured . . . well, if I was forced eventually to return the painting to the Victoria Museum, I’d give back this valueless copy with the story that that was the one I’d purchased from Khalkis―”

Sampson’s eyes glittered. “We’ve got plenty of witnesses this time, Knox. How about the original?”

Knox said stubbornly: “That’s stolen. I hid it in the depository behind the panel in my gallery. For God’s sake, you don’t think―The thief evidently didn’t know anything about this copy, which I’ve always kept hidden in the dummy radiator-coil. He stole the original, I tell you! How he did it, I don’t know, but he did. I know it was crooked of me to intend to palm off the copy on the Museum and retain the original secretly, but―”

The District Attorney drew Ellery, the Inspector and Pepper aside and they conversed in whispers. Ellery listened gravely, said something reassuring, and they returned to Knox, who was standing in miserable solitude by the colour-splashed canvas on the desk. As for Joan Brett, she was pressed up against one of the patent-leather walls, wide-eyed, motionless, breathing in gusts that stirred her breast.

“Well, sir,” said Ellery, ‘there seems to be a slight difference of opinion here. The District Attorney and Inspector Queen feel that―under the circumstances, you understand―they cannot accept your unsubstantiated word that this is a copy of the Leonardo rather than the Leonardo itself. None of us here qualifies as a connoisseur, and I believe expert opinion is called for. May I―?”

He did not wait for Knox’s slow nod, but stepped to the telephone, called a number, spoke briefly with someone, and then hung up. “I have called upon Toby Johns, perhaps the most celebrated art-critic in the East, Mr. Knox. You know him?”

“Met him,” said Knox shortly.

“He will be here very soon, Mr. Knox. Until then, it will be necessary to compose our souls in patience.”

Toby Johns was a dumpy little old man with brilliant eyes, impeccable attire and a serenely assured air. He was admitted by Krafft, who was sent away at once; and Ellery, who had a speaking acquaintance with him, introduced him to the others. Johns was especially jovial with Knox. Then, as he stood waiting for someone to explain, his eyes focused sharply on the painting on the desk.

Ellery anticipated the instant question. “This is a serious matter, Mr. Johns,” he began quietly, “and please forgive me if I ask that nothing said in this room to-night goes any further.” Johns nodded, as if he had heard such requests before. “Very well, sir.” Ellery tossed his head in the direction of the painting. “Can you fix the authorship of that canvas, Mr. Johns?”

They waited in palpable silence as the expert beamed, adjusted a ribboned glass to one eye, and stepped over to the desk. He spread the canvas carefully on the floor, flat, examined it; then instructed Ellery and Pepper to hold it taut in the air while he turned the soft rays of several lamps on it. Nobody said anything, and Johns worked without comment. Nor did the expression on his fat little face change. He went over every inch of the painting with painful attention, seeming to be particularly interested in the faces of the figures grouped nearest the standard . . . .

After a half hour’s work, he nodded pleasantly and Ellery and Pepper laid the canvas over the desk again. Knox expelled a soft grudging sigh; his eyes were fixed on the expert’s face.

“There is a peculiar story attached to this work,” said Johns at last. “It has a distinct bearing on what I am about to say.” They were hanging on his every precise word. “We have known for many years,” Johns continued, “indeed for several centuries, that there were two paintings of this particular subject, identical in every detail except one . . . .”

Someone muttered something beneath his breath.

“Every detail except one. One is known to have been painted by Leonardo himself. When Piero Soderini persuaded the great master to come to Florence and make a battle-piece to decorate one of the walls in the new council-hall in the Palace of the Signory, Ixonardo chose as his subject an episode in the victory won by the generals of the Florentine republic in 1440 over Niccolo Piccinino near a bridge at Anghiari. The cartoon itself―the technical term applied to the original sketch―on which Leonardo worked preliminarily is often called, in fact, The Battle of Anghiari. This was the great mural competition, incidentally, in which Michelangelo also participated, working on a Pisan subject. Now, as Mr. Knox probably knows, Leonardo did not complete the mural; it was halted after the detail of the battle for the standard had been executed. For the paint ran and scaled after the baking process was applied to the wall, virtually ruining the work.

“Leonardo quit Florence. It is presumed that he was disappointed with the failure of his labour, and painted an oils version of his original cartoon as a sort of artistic self-justification. At any rate, this oils was rumoured, but “lost”, until a very few years ago, when a field-worker for the Victoria Museum of London discovered it somewhere in Italy.”

They kept horribly quiet, but Johns seemed not to notice. “Now,” he said with vocal zest, ‘many contemporary copies of the cartoon were made, notably by the young Raphael, Fra Bartolommeo and others, but the cartoon itself seems to have been cut up after serving as an example for the copyists. The cartoon disappeared; and the original mural in the signory hall was covered by fresh Vasari frescoes in 1560. Consequently, the discovery of―so to speak―Leonardo’s own copy of the original cartoon was a find of cosmic proportions in the world of art. Which brings us to the queer part of the story.

“I said a moment ago that there are two paintings of this subject extant, identical in every respect but one. The first was discovered and exhibited very long ago; its authorship was never definitely established until the Victoria discovery of six years or so ago. Now here’s the rub. The experts had never been able to decide whether the first one found was a Leonardo; in fact, it was commonly believed to have been the work of Lorenzo di Credi, or of one of Lorenzo’s pupils. As in all controversial matters in the art-world, there was much scoffing, sneering, and backbiting; but the discovery of the Victoria’s painting six years ago cleared the matter up.

“There were certain old records. These records said that there were two oils of the same subject: one by Leonardo himself and one a copy―the records were vague on the copy’s authorship. Both, the legend ran, were identical except for one thing: a shade of difference in the flesh-tints of the figures immediately surrounding the standard. The legend had it that the Leonardo possessed the darker flesh-tints―a a subtle distinction enough, since the record insisted that only by placing the two paintings side by side could the Leonardo be determined beyond any doubt. So you see―”

“Interesting,” muttered Ellery. “Mr. Knox, did you know this?”

“Of course. So did Khalkis.” Knox teetered on his heels and toes. “As I said, I had this one, and when Khalkis sold me the other, it was a simple enough matter to put them together and see which one was the Leonardo. And now―” he scowled―’the Leonardo’s gone.”

“Eh?” Johns looked disturbed. Then he smiled again. “Well, I suppose it’s none of my business. At any rate, the two were together long enough for the Museum, to its vast relief, to determine that the one their field investigator had found was the real Leonardo. Then the other one, the copy, disappeared. Rumour had it that it was sold to a rich American collector who had paid a tidy sum for it despite the fact that it was established as the copy.” He shot a quizzical glance at Knox, but no one said anything.

Johns squared his trim little shoulders. “Consequently, if the Leonardo in the Museum should be lost sight of for some time, it would be difficult―I should say impossible―to decide whether either one, examined by itself, was the original. With only one to judge by, you could never be certain . . . .”

“And this one, Mr. Johns?” asked Ellery.

“This,” replied Johns with a shrug, “is certainly one or the other, but without the companion-piece . . . “ He stopped and smote his forehead. “Of course! I’m being stupid. This must be the copy. The original is in the Victoria Museum overseas.”

“Yes, yes. Quite so,” said Ellery hastily. “If the paintings are so much alike, Mr. Johns, why is one valued at a million and the other at only a few thousands?”

“My dear sir!” exclaimed the expert. “Really a―what shall I say?―a very childish question. What is the difference between a genuine Sheraton and a modern replica? Leonardo was the master; the author of the copy, probably a pupil of Lorenzo, merely duplicated the masterpiece from Leonardo’s finished work, as the legend goes. The price-difference is the difference between the chef d”ceuvre of a genius and the perfect copy by a tyro. What if Leonardo’s brush-strokes were exactly imitated? You wouldn’t say that a photographic forgery of your signature, Mr. Queen, has the same authenticity as the signature itself?”

Johns was working his little old body into a gesticulating frenzy, it seemed; and Ellery, thanking him with proper humility, herded him toward the door. It was not until the expert, his equanimity partially restored, had departed that the others came to life.

“Art! Leonardo!” said the Inspector with disgust. “Now it’s more messy than before. The detective racket is going to pot.” He threw up his hands.

“It isn’t really so bad,” said the District Attorney thoughtfully. “At least Johns’ story substantiates Mr. Knox’s explanation, even if no one knows which is which. Now we know at least that there are two paintings in existence, not one as we thought all along. So―we’ll have to look for the thief of the other painting.”

“What I can’t understand,” said Pepper, “is why the Museum didn’t say anything about the second painting. After all―”

“My dear Pepper,” drawled Ellery, ‘they had the original. Why should they bother their heads about the copy? Not interested in the copy . . . . Yes, Sampson, you’re perfectly correct. The man we’re seeking is the man who stole the other painting, who wrote the blackmail letters to Mr. Knox, who used the promissory notes as notepaper and therefore must have been the framer and murderer of Sloane and, as Grimshaw’s partner, the killer of Grimshaw and the framer of Georg Khalkis.”

“An excellent summation,” said Sampson sarcastically. “Now that you’ve added up all we know, suppose you tell us what we don’t know―that is, the identity of this man!”

Ellery sighed. “Sampson, Sampson, you’re always on my trail, trying to discredit me, trying to expose my foibles to the world . . . . Would you really like to know the name of your man?”

Sampson glared, and the Inspector began to look interested. “Would I really like to know, he asks me!” cried the District Attorney. “Now that’s a smart question, isn’t it? . . . Of course I want to know.” His eyes sharpened and he stopped short. “I say, Ellery,” he said quietly, “you don’t really know, do you?”

“Yes,” said Knox. “Who the devil is it, Queen?”

Ellery smiled. “I’m glad you asked me that, Mr. Knox. You must have run across it in your readings, because a number of illustrious gentlemen have repeated it variously―La Fontaine, Terence, Coleridge, Cicero, Juvenal, Diogenes. It’s an inscription on the Temple of Apollo at Delphi and has been attributed to Chilo of Thales, Pythagoras, and Solon. In Latin it is: Ne quis nimis. In English it is: Know thyself. Mr. James J. Knox,” said Ellery in the most genial voice in the world, “you’re under arrest!”