Vineyard Enigma (10 page)

By the time I finished my narrative, we were sitting on the balcony, looking out over the yard and gardens toward the barrier beach on the far side of Sengekontacket Pond.

“You seem to have covered a lot of ground in a single day,” said Zee.

“There’s more to cover.”

Mahsimba’s voice was rich and melodious. “You have spoken to three people whose names I’ve heard in my own inquiries: Mauch, Hall, and Jenkins. They seem to be well known to the owners and managers of the galleries I’ve been visiting. Perhaps I should speak with them myself.”

“Perhaps you should. You know a lot more about this matter than I do.” As I spoke I heard the faint running-brook sound of children’s voices and laughter. Joshua and Diana had gotten off their school bus and were coming down the driveway. As I rose, I said to Mahsimba, “If you like, you can use our phone to call them right now. Then, tomorrow, if they’re willing to meet with you, I’ll take you to them.” I looked at Zee. “I’ll go down and meet the kids. You two finish your drinks.”

Without waiting for a reply I went down the stairs.

“Hi, Pa!”

“How was school?”

“It was okay.”

“Did you read?”

“Yes. Pa, we’re hungry.”

We went inside and I set milk and oatmeal cookies on the table. They dropped their backpacks and climbed into chairs.

“Pa?”

“What?”

“Can we have a dog?”

“No. No dogs. We have cats. Oliver Underfoot and Velcro.”

“A puppy almost followed me home today. If he follows me home again, can we keep him?”

“No. If he follows you home, he’ll follow me right to the dog pound.”

“What’s a dog pound, Pa?”

“It’s a jail for dogs.”

“All our friends have dogs.”

“Good. You can play with their dogs.”

Zee and Mahsimba came in.

“Ma?”

“What, sweetie?”

“Can we have a dog?”

“Ah, the old play-the-parents-against-each-other trick, eh? What did your father say?”

“He said the puppy would go to jail.”

“What puppy?” She gave them a skeptical look. “Not one that followed you home, I suppose?”

The children exchanged glances and chewed their cookies.

“One that almost followed them home today and might follow them home later,” I said.

“Oh, that puppy,” said Zee. “Well, you know how your father feels about dogs.”

“In my country,” said Mahsimba, “some people eat dogs. They say it’s very good meat.”

Joshua and Diana stared at him with big eyes. “They eat puppies?”

Mahsimba nodded solemnly. “I do not eat them myself, you understand, but others do. Is that why you want a dog? To eat it?”

“No!”

I rubbed my chin. “Maybe I’ve been wrong, kids. Maybe we should get a dog. I like to cook.”

“No!” Diana shook her little head. “You can’t cook our dog, Pa!”

“Just to be sure, we probably shouldn’t have any dog at all.”

It was an ongoing issue in our house. My position was that people who own dogs are slaves to animals who also want to be slaves. If you have a dog, you have to walk it, feed it, clean up after it, and allow yourself to be slathered by a creature that only wants to know what it can do for you. I prefer cats, who don’t care what you want unless it gets them what they want. When it came to dogs, I considered myself an abolitionist. No slaves for me. No being a slave, either.

“Your father is only joking about eating dogs,” said Zee, giving me a hard look.

“Is that right, Pa?”

“Well, maybe. But Mahsimba wasn’t joking. Were you, Mahsimba?”

“No, indeed,” said Mahsimba.

“So,” I said, “we’re agreed, then. No dogs.”

The children chewed.

“Pa?”

“What?”

“Can we have a ferret?”

“No! No ferrets. They eat ferrets in Africa, you know.”

Diana looked at Mahsimba, but before she could speak, he said, “You mentioned that I might use your telephone, J.W.”

“If you use the one in the bedroom, you’ll have some privacy.”

“Right through that door,” said Zee, pointing.

The children studied me carefully.

“No ferrets,” I said again.

They chewed their cookies and exchanged glances. It’s not easy being the children of a tyrant.

When Mahsimba came from the bedroom, the children were out in the yard, playing in the slanting afternoon light, and I was in Archie Bunker’s chair reading Blake’s poetry and wondering once again whether I was getting it. With Blake it’s hard to tell. Zee came out of the kitchen.

“I have spoken with Charles Mauch, Mrs. Hall, and Gerald Jenkins,” said Mahsimba, “and they have agreed to meet with me tomorrow morning.” He paused, then added with a small smile, “It was not my impression that they were all eager to do so.”

“Mahsimba, you must join us for supper,” said Zee, lifting her chin a bit as she glanced at me.

“Good idea,” I said. “I’ll give Mattie a call and tell her we’ve stolen you for the evening. I’ll drive you over to John and Mattie’s place after we eat and pick you up there in the morning.”

“I’m delighted to accept your invitation.” Mahsimba inclined his head and straightened again. He turned to Zee. “May I assist you in the kitchen, Zeolinda?”

“No, you may not,” I said, putting my book aside and standing up. “Because I’m the cook. The two of you can go back to the balcony and admire the sunset. I’ll call you when the food is ready.”

Zee gave me a curious, dreamy look as they carried their drinks up the stairs. While I cooked I could hear the faint sounds of their voices and laughter.

The next morning when I got to John and Mattie’s place to pick up Mahsimba, Mattie ushered me back out onto the porch while Mahsimba was carrying his coffee cup to the sink. She looked up at me with guarded eyes.

“I think your wife may be slightly smitten with our guest.”

I said nothing.

“He’s handsome and exotic,” said Mattie, glancing back into the house. “I doubt if she’s ever met anyone like him.”

“She’s never met anyone like me, either,” I said, putting on a smile.

“I’m serious, J.W.” She placed a hand on my arm. “I know it’s probably none of my business, but I thought I should tell you. It worries me.”

“Thanks.”

“She was moody even before he came.”

“I know.”

“I—” She broke off as Mahsimba came out the door, then went on. “I…I hope you learn something useful today, so you can both get back to your normal lives.”

Return to Normalcy. Wasn’t that Harding’s promise to America?

“It is a worthy hope,” said Mahsimba, “and one I share.”

We climbed into the Land Cruiser.

“Do you have a schedule,” I asked, “or do we just visit these people as we come to them?”

“Mr. Mauch has agreed to meet me at nine, Mrs. Hall at ten, and Mr. Jenkins said he’d be at home all day.”

As we drove toward Vineyard Haven, I said, “I’ll go in with you if you wish, or I can stay in the car. You might learn more if you’re alone. Mauch was not too pleased with me.”

“Ah, yes. He blamed you for distressing the woman, as I recall. Rose Abrams; was that her name?”

“Yes.”

“Let us hope that Miss Abrams has recovered by now. I’d like to have you come in with me, if you are willing and if Mr. Mauch has no objections, so you can compare what you saw and heard before with what you see and hear today.”

“Fine. I’ll go in and if Mauch objects, I’ll go out again.”

As it turned out, Mauch frowned but didn’t object, and I followed him and Mahsimba down the art-filled corridor to his office. Nothing, including Mauch, looked different than it had the day before.

The other two sat in crested leather chairs, and I took a smaller seat to one side.

Mauch looked at Mahsimba. “I don’t know what I can tell you that I didn’t tell Mr. Jackson yesterday.”

Mahsimba’s eyes had been taking in the room’s adornments but now met Mauch’s. He smiled. “Well, sir, your name interests me. Are you by any chance a descendant of the Carl Mauch who first published descriptions of Great Zimbabwe back in the 1870s?”

Mauch leaned back. “As a matter of fact, he was my great-grandfather. You are one of the few who has made that link. You know your country’s history, obviously.”

“And would I be amiss to presume that your interest in the art of ancient cultures may be a continuance of your family’s interests since Carl Mauch’s time?”

Mauch nodded. “You would not be amiss. I should tell you, however, that my great-grandfather’s theories about the origins of Great Zimbabwe are not shared by me. I do not, for instance, subscribe to the notion that the place was built by the Phoenicians, or that the wood used for the lintels was imported from the Queen of Sheba.” He allowed himself a smile.

Mahsimba returned it. “Your knowledge of the ruins is clearly considerable, so you are, of course, familiar with the Zimbabwe eagles. That gives me hope that you may be of real assistance to me.”

Mauch glanced at me. “I regret to tell you that you’re mistaken. As I told Mr. Jackson yesterday, I am not a specialist in African art, and I’ve neither seen nor heard anything about the eagles. I recommended that he speak with Mr. and Mrs. Butters and Matthew Duarte.” He hesitated. “That was before I knew of Matthew’s death, of course.”

“Of course. You also spoke with Mr. Jackson about the international trade in stolen art. Are you familiar with any such trade existing here on Martha’s Vineyard?”

Mauch tapped a finger against the leather arm of his chair. Then he shook his head. “I know of none.” His brief smile had gone away. “There are rumors, of course, but I don’t believe I’ll pass them along. It’s all idle gossip.”

Mahsimba nodded understandingly. “Such gossip can be both ugly and wrong. Naturally you don’t want to be a part of it. Let me change the subject. As a collector yourself, and an expert in your field, tell me: Would the seller of artwork that might have been illegally obtained from ancient sites have to be very discreet about peddling his wares? Or could he be fairly open about it?”

“That,” said Mauch, “would depend entirely upon the object in question. Only a very few collectors would knowingly purchase art that they knew had been stolen, such as that taken from Jews by the Nazis, for instance. On the other hand, all but the most culturally sensitive of collectors would probably feel free to buy an object that had no pedigree, even though they might suspect that it was loot from some unauthorized dig. Private collections and even great museums are full of such objects.”

“Including yours?” I asked.

Mauch surprised me by not getting angry. Instead he smiled and nodded.

“Even mine,” he agreed. “I have some Mayan pieces that came into my possession from private dealers who could not authenticate their origins. I treasure them, but I assure you that if they are ever proven to have been stolen, I will immediately return them to their proper owners.”

“And what’s the likelihood of that happening?”

His smile grew broader and more ironic. “Very slight. Very, very slight. And until it happens, I consider them my personal property, honestly and honorably purchased.”

“Will you give me the names of those dealers?” asked Mahsimba.

“You will forgive me if I do not,” said Mauch. “I view them as honest men, and I don’t approve of bringing grief to honest men.”

“I understand perfectly,” said Mahsimba. “Perhaps you can tell me less than their names. Are any of them living here on Martha’s Vineyard?”

Mauch took time to answer. Then he shook his head. “No,” he said. “One used to live here, but he’s here no longer.”

“Do you know where he is?”

Mauch shook his head. “He has, ah, departed the island. Where he’s gone I cannot say.”

“He told you more than he told me,” I said to Mahsimba as we drove out of Vineyard Haven and headed up-island along State Road. “When I talked with him he never indicated that he knew much about Great Zimbabwe, only that he was aware of the eagles in the museums. You got him to admit that he knew a lot more than just that.”

“You were once a police officer, J.W. You know that people will sometimes give you information only if you ask the right question.”

True. I wished I’d thought to ask the Carl Mauch question, but I hadn’t. Maybe my brain was wearing out. Maybe I was an early Alzheimer’s victim. Had I grown old? Was it time to wear my trousers rolled?

“You should ask Georgie Hall about illegal art sales,” I said. “Mauch might shun gossip, but I don’t think Georgie Hall will. Unless it applies to her, that is.”

“Do you think Mrs. Hall would buy illegally obtained works of art?”

“Mauch seemed to think a lot of people will if there isn’t a paper trail identifying the objects as stolen. I know that Georgie Hall is not above a deal from the bottom of the deck. She and Matthew Duarte were glad to pull a fast one on Gerald Jenkins.”

“I believe you said that Jenkins has less money than Mauch or Hall, and that his collection is smaller.”

“Yes. African art is his specialty, and he recognized the eagles in the photo I showed him. He said he’d heard nothing about them being on the Vineyard, and I think he would have had them on display if he’d had them. He likes to have his stuff out where he can see it. My impression was that he’d love to have them, but probably wouldn’t have had the money to buy them if and when they passed through Daniel Duarte’s hands.”

“It is possible that his anger at Matthew Duarte and Mrs. Hall might lead him to tell us something we might otherwise not learn.”

“Yes, that’s possible, but he was pretty careful about his comments when I talked with him.”

Mahsimba nodded. “First we will see what Mrs. Hall can tell us.” He looked about him. “Your island is very lovely. These stone walls are similar to some I’ve seen in Britain.”

“Another reason why they call it New England.”

We came into North Tisbury, passed the great oak, and took North Road on toward Menemsha. At Tea Lane I took a left, then another one into Georgie Hall’s driveway. The sight of her huge new house caused Mahsimba’s brow to rise and his lips to curve up fleetingly.

Georgie Hall was all wide smiles when she opened the door. She grasped Mahsimba’s hand warmly, and was delighted to see me again.

“My husband tells me that your friend Mr. Crandel is a man of considerable means and that his family has been on the island for generations! How splendid. Do come in.”

Green is a hue that unites folks of many skin tones. We followed Georgie into her house beautiful until she waved us into the same overstuffed chairs in which she and I had seated ourselves when last we had talked.

“Ah,” said Mahsimba, eyeing the niche in the far wall, “my friend Mr. Jackson did not exaggerate your excellent taste in art, Mrs. Hall. I believe your Bakuba portrait sculpture is as fine as any I’ve seen in the British Museum.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Mahsimba. Coming from an African that is high praise indeed.” She arranged herself in her chair. “Now, gentlemen, how may I be of use to you?”

Mahsimba spread his graceful hands. “If time allowed, Mrs. Hall, it would be my greatest pleasure to ask for a tour of your wonderful house. Alas, Marvell’s winged chariot is at our back, so I must forgo that delight.” He leaned back in his chair. “Instead, I hope you will allow me to take advantage of what Mr. Jackson has characterized as your extensive knowledge of your island’s artistic society.”

Her pink mouth kinked up at its ends and a plump hand fluttered. “Oh, my,” she said, “I wouldn’t think of myself in that way.”

Mahsimba’s smile was elegant. “You are too modest, madame. I have visited many galleries since my arrival here, and your name and intelligence have been remarked upon wherever I have gone.”

She beamed. “How charming of you to inform me, Mr. Mahsimba. I suppose I do have some knowledge of the Vineyard’s artists and collectors.”

“I have been assured,” said Mahsimba, “that you are not only familiar with all public matters, but that many individuals confide their most private hopes and fears to you, sure in the knowledge that such confidences are completely secure. Such a reputation is enviable and rare.”

“You are too, too kind!”

“And too admiring, I assure you, to ask you to reveal any of those confidences. However, I am bold enough to hope that you will speak to me on an issue of public concern. To be precise, I am interested in your views on the possibility of illegal art sales taking place right here on your lovely island.” He raised a graceful hand. “Of course, I know that a woman of your ethical standards would be the first to condemn such activity. But often it cannot be proved, and there are only rumors of such deeds.

“Your reputation for keenness of observation, intelligence, and unbending honesty have brought me to your door in hopes that some breath, some faint wind might have carried such rumors to your ears. If so, I dare hope that you will reveal them to me, and that the ten thousand miles I have traveled to your door will not have been traveled in vain.”

“Ten thousand miles! My!” Georgie Hall’s hand lifted to her throat as she gazed at her exotic visitor. I gazed at him too, wondering how much I might also be bamboozled by his charm.

Our hostess made her decision. She leaned forward, eyes bright. “Now, I am certainly not one to spread gossip,” she said, “but I have heard…things.”

“Things?” Mahsimba’s voice became as secretive as hers.

“Well! I would be the last one to speak ill of thedead, but Matthew Duarte was not above committing, shall we say, questionable business acts. He knew everyone, of course, and certain people who had frequent dealings with him have come into possession of objects that I, for one, rather doubt they came by totally honestly.”

“Ah!” Mahsimba frowned conspiratorially and leaned closer. “Yes, I’ve heard certain names.”

“Gerald Jenkins? Am I right?” Her voice was eager, her eyes were bright.

Mahsimba said nothing, but beamed at her and leaned back in his chair.

“I knew it!” exclaimed his hostess. “And to be frank I’ve had my suspicions of Charles Mauch, too, however respectable he may seem!”

Mahsimba looked at her admiringly. “You are as keen as you are modest, Mrs. Hall. I also have it on good authority that Mr. Mauch may have certain items of questionable origins in his collection.”

Georgie Hall could not have looked more pleased. “I’m not surprised, Mr. Mahsimba. Some people have much more money than character, sad to say.”

“How true; how sad but true. Have you ever heard anything about how these dubious items are transported to or from the island?”

Georgie Hall sighed. “I’m sorry to say that I can’t be of help to you in that area. I don’t know anyone in the transportation field, I’m afraid.” Her brow furrowed. “By sea or air, I would guess.”

And an excellent guess it was, I thought, since those were the only ways to get to the island.

“I’m sure you’re correct,” said Mahsimba. “To continue my poor metaphor, have any other names floated by on the wind?”

“Well, the Butterses have a small collection, of course, but I believe they brought most of their items with them when they returned from Africa.” She examined her perfect nails. “I don’t really know them well, I’m afraid, though I do see them occasionally at openings and parties.”

“Has Samuel Hopewell’s name been mentioned?”

She gave an audible sniff. “Samuel Hopewell? Samuel Hopewell is merely Matthew Duarte’s accountant. To my knowledge, he knows nothing at all about art. Certainly I’ve never heard him mentioned with regard to anything remotely aesthetic.”

So much for Samuel Hopewell. Mahsimba glanced at his watch and flowed to his feet. “You’ve been more than generous with your valuable time, Mrs. Hall, and even if other duties weren’t calling us, we would be amiss to take further advantage of you. I thank you a thousand times for your kind assistance.”

As we left he repeatedly admired her and her house, and by the time she had waved good-bye from her porch, she had invited him, but not me, to a small gathering at her home the following weekend.

As we drove away, Mahsimba allowed himself a sustained smile. “Well, J.W.,” he said. “What did you make of Mrs. Hall’s contribution to our quest?”

“Her dismissal of Sam Hopewell as anyone involved in the illegal sales of art makes him an immediate suspect.”

“She was right about Mauch.”

“True. Of course, she didn’t include herself as the benefactor of shady practices.”

“You speak of the Bakuba head. Yes, there is that. But she probably sees that purchase as a sharp business success rather than as an immoral act. Women such as Mrs. Hall only accept themselves as wicked when their questionable activities are clothed in romance. Simple theft, even of a Bakuba portrait, lacks the glamour necessary to make it acceptably amoral.”

I drove toward Gerald Jenkins’s house. “When you’re through here,” I said, “would you mind having a talk with Sam Hopewell? He should be in Duarte’s office.”

Mahsimba glanced at me. “Because Mrs. Hall’s certainty that he knows nothing about art, stolen or otherwise, makes you sure that he does?”

“Not so much that as the fact that I’d like to get into the barn where Duarte stored his artwork before selling it. I presume there’s an alarm system and that it can be turned off or on from the office. I’d like to know where the switch is. Maybe while you and Hopewell talk, I can spot it. I should have done that when I was there before, but I didn’t.”

“Perhaps I should just ask Mr. Hopewell to show us the room.”

“If he will, it’ll save me some work.”

“Have you always had criminal impulses, J.W.?”

An interesting question. After a while, I said, “Well, I can still remember stealing a piece of candy from the paper store when I was five. My father made me put it back and apologize to Mr. Irving. Since then I’ve broken all of the Commandments at one time or another.”

To my surprise he made no saucy retort, but only nodded and after a pause said, “Yes. Many of us have.”