The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (26 page)

“You may go,
Violet,” he said, then waited until the lady had left the room. He spent a
moment looking at the both of us. I felt uneasy, but I could tell Holmes was
quite in his element with his outrageous disguise.

“You must be
Vernet, I’m sure, and this is Mr. Watson?”

“That’s correct,
Sir Henry. Mr. Vernet is staying with me at my home.”

“I see. Well,
sit down, won’t you? Look Vernet, you are a friend of Dulac’s, aren’t you?”

“I think I may
claim that honor, monsieur.”

“Then why in
thunder can’t I get in touch with him? He’s staying at the Carlton Hotel, isn’t
he?” said Sir Henry in anger.

“He was, or has
been staying there, oui,” Holmes said.

“I’ve left half
a dozen messages for him asking him to come and see me, and he hasn’t answered one
of them. I can’t understand it. It’s most important that I see him!”

“Monsieur is in
some trouble, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” Sir
Henry said. “Now you fellows are familiar with the painting by Greuze called ‘Young
Lady with the Gazelle’ aren’t you?”

“Yes, Sir Henry,”
I said, “yes, indeed.”

“Ah, you are,
aye? Well then, what do you think of it?” Sir Henry was looking directly to me
for an answer, but never having seen the painting, I did not know what to say.
As I fumbled for the proper words, Holmes spotted my nervousness and, thank
heavens, plunged right in.

“It is one of
the greatest works in my humble opinion,” Holmes said. “Of course, I have only
seen a reproduction, but it seemed to me to have a freshness and vigor in the
flesh tints, and a great firmness and brilliance of line. You are indeed
fortunate to own it, Monsieur.”

“Don’t know
about fortunate,” Sir Henry said in caustic tones, “thing cost me 40,000
pounds!”

“Would you grant
me the honor to examine the original?” Holmes said.

“Well, I don’t
know whether I ought to. I’ve had to guard it very carefully ever since . . .
well, perhaps in your case I can make an exception.”

“Are you
implying you’ve received threats regarding the painting, Sir Henry?”

“Yes I have, Mr.
Watson, and they worry me so much that I’ve even thought of engaging the
services of a private detective. The Duke of Carlyle strongly recommended a
fellow by the name of Sherlock Holmes. I was seriously thinking of going to him.”

“Instead of
which, he has come to you, Sir Henry,” Holmes said, changing his voice from
that of the Frenchman to that of his own. “A fact that will save us all a lot
of time, I’m sure.”

“What kind of
horse play is this, sir? Who the devil are you!” Sir Henry said, puzzled and
suspicious. Holmes pulled off the Vandyke beard he had so carefully put on
earlier.

“My name is
Sherlock Holmes.”

“Why do you come
here masquerading as a French art expert?”

“Because I’ve
heard of your aversion to giving interviews and I wanted to see you urgently. I
felt that in the character of a supposed Greuze expert I was most likely to
gain immediate admission. And this is not Mr. Watson, but Doctor Watson, my
colleague.”

“It’s all turned
out for the best, Sir Henry,” I said. “You wanted to consult Mr. Holmes and he
was most anxious to see you.”

“Yes, yes,” Sir
Henry said rather reluctantly. “Well, I’m glad you fellows are here. You see, I’m
devilish worried about that Greuze of mine.”

“Why, Sir Henry?”
Holmes asked.

“I bought it at
an auction. There was another man bidding against me all the time, and when it
was finally knocked down in my name, he became most insulting. He seemed unable
to bear not owning the picture himself. He told me bluntly that I wouldn’t
enjoy it long. Well, I didn’t think much about it at the time, but lately I’ve
been receiving postcards repeating the threat. And I don’t like it, that’s a
fact.”

“You’ve kept
those postcards I hope, Sir Henry?” I said.

“No. I threw
them in the fire where they belong.”

“That’s a pity,
Sir,” Holmes ventured. “Do you recall the name of this bidder at the auction
who threatened you?”

“No. Didn’t know
his name.”

“Then perhaps
you can describe his appearance?”

“Let me see . .
. he was tall, clean shaven. Oh yes, had a curious habit of moving his head
from side to side.”

“Moriarty again!”
I exclaimed.

“Yes, old chap,”
Holmes said, “my supposition was correct. Tell me, Sir Henry, is the painting
safely guarded?”

“I’d say that it
was impregnable, Holmes. It’s not in my regular galleries. I’ve had a special
strong room build for it when I started to receive these threats. It has a lock
to which only I know the combination, and a special clockwork device that so
controls the room even I can only enter it during certain daytime hours.”

“And yet, Sir
Henry, with such thorough precautions you appear to be frightened. Why?” Holmes
questioned.

“Well, I hardly
dare trust my own shadow, Holmes. As you possibly know, one of Greuze’ pupils,
a certain Madame Ledue, imitated his paintings most successfully. Several of
the experts were fooled. I confess that I’ve been frightened lately, since I
received the threats, that a clever man might try and substitute a fake
painting for the original, if indeed he hasn’t already done so! That’s why I
was so anxious to get in touch with Dulac. He’d know a fraud at once.”

“But Sir Henry,”
I asked, “surely a substitution would be impossible if you’re the only one that
knows the combination to the lock of the strong room.”

“Well, that’s
what my logic tells me, doctor,” Sir Henry replied, “and yet I’m very uneasy, I
must confess.”

“Sir Henry,
would it be possible to examine the painting now?” Holmes asked.

“Certainly. By
the way, Mr. Holmes, what happened to Francois Dulac? Did he leave the Carlton
Hotel?”

“He did, sir,
though the circumstances of his departure made us distinctly uneasy,” Holmes
said.

“In what way?”

“His room was
empty. There were no signs of luggage, and yet there was
a—”

Holmes paused in
his explanation, for Sir Henry’s secretary, Violet Jackson, at that moment
entered the room.

“Yes Violet,
what is it?” Sir Henry asked.

“This note was
just left for you, Sir Henry. I was asked to deliver it at once.”

“Who left it,
Violet?”

“He didn’t give
his name, Sir Henry.”

Sir Henry opened
the note as I looked at Holmes, who acknowledged me with a nod of his head. We
both suspected it was from Moriarty himself.

“Why, it’s the
same fellow again,” he said in disbelief. “Listen to this: ‘I told you you
wouldn’t enjoy the painting for long. You didn’t, did you?’ ”

“Holmes, it
was
Moriarty who delivered the note!” I
exclaimed. Holmes burst into laughter, surprising us all.

“I don’t see
anything funny about this! What makes you laugh? It’s obvious my painting has
been stolen!” Sir Henry said indignantly.

“Forgive me. I
find nothing funny about it either, Sir Henry. But I must admit a certain
pleasure. You see, once again I’m crossing swords with an adversary who is more
than worthy of my steel! And now, shall we look at your famous, but suspect
painting?”

Disgruntled by
the entire affair, Sir Henry led the way as, together with Miss Violet Jackson,
we descended a flight of stairs. Doors opened where I least expected a door to
exist. Finally, after walking down a narrow stone staircase that brought us to
the lowest depths of the mansion, we came up against what appeared to be a blank
wall. It seemed that we could go no further. Sir Henry pressed against a panel
adjacent to the wall, and a small door opened, revealing a time clock. He
adjusted a combination of numbers, and suddenly a hidden door in the wall slid
back. We now stood in the interior of a small room. A room with no windows and
very little light. An oil painting stood on an easel in the center of the room
before us. It was the incomparable Greuze painting ‘Young Girl with the Gazelle.’
It was magnificent even in that dim light. We stood looking at it in
fascination for a moment, and then Sir Henry spoke.

“Thank Heaven
the painting is still safe!” he said with much relief.

“Yes, Sir Henry,”
Holmes said rather bemused, “if it still is the same painting.”

“It looks the
same, Mr. Holmes,” Miss Jackson said.

“The fact
remains that only Francois Dulac could tell us if it is the same, or a
brilliant copy.”

“But he isn’t
here to tell us,” Sir Henry added.

“Of course we
could ask the experts at the British Museum to pass judgment.”

“But how could
it have been stolen? It would be impossible to smuggle it out of here and
replace it with a copy!” Sir Henry stated.

“There is only
one way of being absolutely certain,” Holmes said. “With your permission, Sir
Henry, I should like to make a test.”

“Are you going
to take a sample of the paint, Mr. Holmes?” asked Miss Jackson.

“Yes. That
should give us certain proof.”

“Very well. You
had better do it, Violet. You’re more adept at this sort of thing than I. But
be careful. Remember the painting cost me 40,000 pounds!”

“A minute
fragment of the paint will be sufficient for the test, won’t it, Mr. Holmes?”
Miss Jackson asked.

“Yes indeed. No
need to worry, Sir Henry.”

“With my
fingernail, Sir Henry, I’ll scratch off a tiny sample. There you are, Mr. Holmes.
Is that enough paint for you?”

“Splendid, Miss
Jackson, splendid.” Holmes returned.

Carefully she
placed the tiny sample in the center of Holmes’ handkerchief, which he tied
with a knot and quickly pocketed.

“And now, Sir
Henry, I shall return to Baker Street and analyze this paint. Within an hour I
shall be able to tell you whether the painting is worth 40,000 pounds or a plug
farthing!”

Once again we
caught a cab and found ourselves back in Baker Street where Holmes immediately
set to work. I simply sat back and watched as my illustrious friend tinkered
away with various chemicals and mixtures in the small corner he had set aside
for such work. I had almost dosed off when Holmes was again ready to return to
Sir Henry Davenant’s home. Another cab and we were on our way. I was about to
ask Holmes what he had found, but he had anticipated my words and asked me to
patiently wait until we had arrived so that everyone would know the answer.

When we arrived,
we were again ushered into Sir Henry’s study where he and Miss Jackson were
awaiting us with, what I would assume, was unnerving anticipation.

“Well Holmes,” Sir
Henry said anxiously, “what is the result of your tests?”

“I’m afraid
there is no doubt that your painting is a fraud.”

Sir Henry almost
collapsed into a nearby chair. Stunned by this news, he first seemed terribly
dejected, but that mood quickly changed to bitter anger.

“A fraud. I can’t
believe it!” he said.

“The sample of
paint that I examined,” Holmes went on, “was manufactured not more than 25
years ago, and Greuze died in 1805.”

“Well I still
say that it’s a fine painting whoever did it. I wouldn’t mind having it myself.”

“I agree with
you, Doctor Watson,” Miss Jackson added. “In fact, I’d be glad to buy it. It’s
a
brilliant copy. And more than likely it was done by Madame Ledue.”

“You’re
remarkably quiet, Sir Henry,” Holmes said.

“40,000 pounds.
40,000 pounds!” yelled Sir Henry suddenly rising from his chair. He reached
over and grabbed a knife from his desk.

“Now, now, sir,”
I cautioned, “put that knife down. Holmes, help me grab him!”

Holmes and I
moved forward, but Sir Henry raised the knife in a gesture of defiance.

“Don’t worry,
gentlemen. I’m not about to commit suicide in despair if that’s what you’re
thinking.”

“Then why are
you grasping that knife, sir?” Holmes asked on his guard, ready to leap forward
at the slightest provocation.

“Because I have
work to do in my strong room. I’m going to use this knife to slash that lying
canvas into 40,000 pieces!”

Sir Henry turned
and swiftly walked to his strong room where the painting stood. Miss Jackson
hurried after him, followed by Holmes and myself. All the way down to the room
Miss Jackson pleaded with Sir Henry. Holmes and I did likewise, backing up Miss
Jackson’s statements, trying to dissuade Sir Henry from destroying the
painting, even if it was a fraud.

By the time we
had come to once again stand before the painting, Sir Henry had calmed down. He
was breathing heavily as his anger subsided. I was much relieved to see he had
come to his senses.