Read Online The Monet Murders by Terry Mort - Free Book Online Page B

I’ve always believed that one key to making yourself agreeable is not saying the obvious.
    She opened her Vuitton purse and rummaged around in it. I noticed she was carrying a small-caliber automatic with a pearl handle. Probably a twenty-two. I would have thought she was too classy for a pearl handle, but then you never know where these wealthy ladies get their guns or whether they think they’re fashion accessories and therefore need some sort of accent.
    She found a snapshot and handed it across the desk. It was a picture of a young man, maybe twenty-five or so, dressed in a kind of yachting costume—white ducks, white bucks, dark blazer, silk scarf. He was strikingly good-looking with a slightly effeminate expression, obviously pleased with himself as though he were the reincarnation of Gatsby, with better taste in clothes. He was standing in front of an elaborate fireplace, above which hung an oil painting in a fancy gilded frame.
    â€œThis is the problem?”
    â€œYes. He has disappeared, and I want him found.”
    â€œCan you tell me why?”
    She hesitated. There usually are these hesitations at this stage of a case.
    â€œEthel said you were trustworthy and could keep a confidence.”
    â€œI wouldn’t be in business very long if I couldn’t.”
    â€œYou seem very young.”
    â€œMeaning that I haven’t been in the business all that long?”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    â€œI’m older than I look. And if it’s any comfort to you, I used to be with the FBI.” This was not strictly true, but true enough.
    â€œWhy did you leave?”
    â€œToo much bureaucracy.”
    That seemed to satisfy her. But she was still hesitant, not about me so much, but about her own story. You can always lie to yourself when you tell yourself your story, but it’s harder when you tell it to a stranger.
    She struggled with herself for another moment or two but then came out with it.
    â€œHis name is Wilbur Hanson, and he stole something from me and disappeared. I want him found and I want my property back.”
    â€œWhat did he steal?”
    â€œA painting. A priceless Monet. In fact, that very Monet in the photograph.”
    I looked at the photograph again. I didn’t know much about Monet, but I did know he brought in big numbers at the art auctions. That sort of thing was in the papers.
    â€œWhy not go to the police?” The answer was obvious, but I still had to make sure.
    She looked at me, wondering if I was being dense or coy.
    â€œSurely you will not be surprised to hear that there was something between us.”
    â€œBeyond an appreciation of Monet?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSo, in plain words, you were lovers.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDoes your husband have any suspicions?”
    She sniffed and tossed her expensive hair. “No. He’s quite oblivious.” The level of contempt was pretty high.
    â€œWhich means involving the police would complicate matters at home.”
    â€œYes. My husband knows next to nothing . . . about art. When Wilbur stole the painting, he replaced it with a copy. I didn’t notice it at first. It was a very good copy. My husband could stare at it until the moon is blue and never know it’s a forgery. But if the police are called in. . . .”
    â€œThe jig will be up. I understand. But couldn’t you just report it as a straight-out theft without mentioning any of the . . . context?”
    â€œWilbur has threatened to reveal everything if I report him to the police. Or if he’s ever caught.”
    â€œYes. Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he.”
    â€œYou don’t believe him?”
    â€œOh, yes, I believe him. There’s not much doubt he’d sing like the Rhythm Boys if the cops ever nabbed him. Was the painting insured for its full value?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œWell, Mrs. Watson, the simplest way out of this problem would be to