Five-minute Mysteries 5. Ken Weber

Better to wait a second or two, she thought, and catch her breath, for the adrenaline was pumping hard. Not because she was frightened or physically stressed but because just for a moment — only a moment — she’d had a twinge of regret. Jacques had been, well ... Jacques had been an okay guy. Mind you, Jacques Ste-Lowe probably wasn’t his real name. Hers wasn’t Moira Catesby either; it was Beth Shlomo, but still ...

      Actually the assignment had gone like clockwork. She’d worked herself into Jacques’ life over the past several months, but not too closely. Not moving in with him full time or anything like that, just tight enough to be important in his life without becoming part of it. That way she didn’t have to meet other people he knew and that was always an open door for the cops. No, the relationship had worked at just the right frequency: the odd dinner date like the one earlier tonight but never more than once every week or two. They went to an occasional show, just the two of them — both of them were big fans of musicals. And from time to time in nice weather they would walk in the park, but that was as far as she’d allowed things to develop.

      Moira sighed and started the car and then looked into the Gucci bag, taking inventory almost subconsciously. The Smith & Wesson .22 with the silencer: that would go into the Don River when she crossed the Bloor viaduct. The makeup kit too. No good to use a dumpster these days the way the homeless crawled around in them. With sudden intensity, she reached into the bag — where were those confounded panty hose? — and then felt relief. They were there, along with the dress she’d worn last week, an extra skirt and sweater, a negligee, and — she counted them twice — the exact number of items of underwear. Everything was there except for — where was it? — ah, there: Jacques’ cell phone. She never called Jacques on his apartment line, only on his cell and only from her cell. These, too, would go into the Don with the gun and the makeup. It was important that she leave no trace of herself at all.

      If Moira wishes to leave no trace of herself, there should be one more item in the tote bag. What is that?

       Solution

      

9. A Great Future in Art Forgery

      “You were not exaggerating. This kid’s a genius!” “What did I tell you? I bet Gainsborough himself would say this is one of his. Of course we’ll have to age it. All the usual. Put it in a distressed frame. Like that.” “But he’s got it down so absolutely!” Blaine Talley shook his head in admiration and disbelief as he raised himself from a stooping position. He winced as he arched his back and drew both arms backward as far he could, elbows bent. The painting he’d been examining so carefully stood on a low easel and Blaine was an exceptionally tall man. “What’s his name?” Blaine wanted to know. “Jean-Luc Benoit.” “So he’s French.” “He’s from Quebec. You’ll have to let him tell you whether that means he’s French.” Blaine muttered a mild “Hmmpf” and bent over the painting once more, a large magnifying glass in his hand. The work was an oil on canvas, a portrait of a young teenage boy dressed in the ultimate fashion of late 18th-century Europe. Except for the white kneelength stockings and the dark hat, all the clothes were blue.

      “What I don’t get,” Blaine was talking to himself as much as to the man who’d invited him into the studio, “what I don’t get is why he’d put this much work into a joke! Not all that good a joke either.”

      The subject of the portrait, whom Blaine and his host were already calling “Blue Boy,” was sitting on the ground, resting against a fallen log in an idealized English countryside. In the background, rough hills rose to a sky that offered an exciting combination of threatening clouds, backlit by sunshine that did not quite break through.

      “It’s not a joke, Blaine! You said yourself the kid has Gainsborough down cold. Look at the blue on that prissy suit. I mean, it actually floats!”

      Blaine had to agree. Jean-Luc Benoit had captured perfectly the velvet sheen on the clothes the boy was wearing. The shading made it look like he’d only just sat down.

      “And look at the — the whaddaya call — accessories? The hat, the glove, the cane.”

      On the ground to the boy’s immediate left, just barely touching his knee, lay an overlarge hat with a fluffy white plume that soared out of the brim and then tumbled over his leg. On the other side of the hat lay a glove of matching white, palm up, the thumb under the brim and the fingers limp.

      Blaine straightened up again, with a grimace all too familiar to anyone with back problems. “He’s got the hat right,” he said, “but Gainsborough’s blue boy doesn’t wear gloves. And he doesn’t have a cane either!”

      On the boy’s left, resting at an angle slightly off perpendicular, lay a cane almost as long as the boy was tall. Its head almost covered the other glove, but delicately and not quite completely so that on one side the thumb could be seen gently brushing the boy’s elbow. On the other, there was just a touch of the glove’s embroidery visible in a soft red pattern.

      “Of course Gainsborough’s boy doesn’t have a cane. Or gloves. And before you say it, Blaine, in The Blue Boy, the kid’s shoes are light beige and they’ve got those little girl ribbons tied in a bow. Jean- Luc’s blue boy here has dark brown shoes with buckles. And as for the position, the whole world knows blue boy is standing. But so what! That’s not the point. I mean, the point is that... ”

      “I’ve got to admit, your man Jean-Luc,” the French pronunciation rolled easily off Blaine’s tongue, “he’s got the atmosphere just dead on here. A teenage boy bored out of his wits. Family’s got more money than God. And he’s got to sit for a portrait.”

      “That’s what I’m saying! That’s how good this kid Benoit is. I mean, look at that sky! I bet he could do Constable and Turner too. See, that’s my point! Look at those light brush strokes. Is that Gainsborough or what? Think of it! Who’s to say that this isn’t a real Gainsborough. A fascinating new discovery! Can’t you see the headlines? Not to mention the check? I mean, we all know Gainsborough did portraits because he had to. It was income. He’d much rather have done landscapes.”

      Blaine was nodding, but it was not possible to tell whether he was agreeing with the biographical truth about Thomas Gainsborough or with the obvious proposal he was about to hear.

      “Who’s to say Gainsborough didn’t do this one as a test run before the one we all know? You can see for yourself. There’s everything in here! It’s definitely the same kid. He’s just sitting instead of standing. Background’s not all that different from Blue Boy. The color’s right. He’s got that all-grown-up look they gave kids in the 18th century. I mean, what’s not to like? Even if we don’t market this one, you can see Benoit’s got a future if we handle him right.

      “What’s he do when he’s not reproducing masters?” Blaine wanted to know.

      “Uh, well, uh, right now he drives a bus.”

      “A bus driver!” For the first time in several minutes, Blaine stopped rubbing the small of his back. “A bus driver.” His guffaws echoed around the room.

      “What’s so funny about that? The guy’s got to eat. At least until we get him set up and start peddling his stuff.”

      “Okay, okay, Sully. It’s just that — well, I don’t know very many bus drivers, and I certainly don’t know any with a sense of humor like this. Look, I agree. He’s got an enormous talent, but we’re going to have to control it. Especially if he’s into pulling off jokes like this one. At least, I hope it’s a joke and not a dumb mistake!”

       Blaine has detected a flaw in the painting that is either a joke or an error. What is the flaw?