The Case of the Purloined Painting Read online

  My host is the man I just met named Aaron Gottlieb, my referral from attorney Derrol Madison. His grand uncle Gottlieb is the man who fell—or was pushed—off a bridge. The Tenth Avenue or maybe the Stone Arch Bridge. The authorities were not certain which bridge. My information, from the mysterious lady named Anne or ann, was that the unfortunate Gottlieb was chucked off the Stone Arch Bridge. It happened because he refused to give up some piece of property. His grandnephew, increasingly concerned about this property and the lack of progress in figuring out why his relative had died, had invited me to this address to try to detect what, if anything, might have caused Uncle Manny’s death. Aaron explained to me that even though the deceased was Aaron’s grand- or great-uncle, he, Aaron, always called him “uncle.”

  I had promptly reported my information from the lissome Ms. Anne or Ann to the local cops because that’s not the kind of thing I ever want to keep to myself. The cops have all sorts of resources I don’t have and I never thought we were in some sort of competition to clear cases.

  Anyway, here we were, having already been through the whole house except for the two rooms used by a long-term renter. I’d get to him later.

  “I have to tell you, Mr. Gottlieb—”

  “Aaron, please.”

  “Aaron—that you shouldn’t get your hopes up.”

  “I know, I get that.”

  “We have so little to go on right now, we could miss something significant without realizing it.”

  Aaron nodded again. “I don’t know what else to do. Manny was the only family I had left. I think or I hope you’ll see something, or anyway, get a better picture of Manny.”

  “What about your own parents?”

  “Both deceased. My granddad was in the war, you know. He volunteered early because we had family in Europe.” He stopped talking and stared at the angled wall, actually the underside of the roof. “Manny was one. Of course we had no information, no idea what had happened to my great uncle. Or the others. We still don’t. Not entirely.”

  “Where did your grandfather serve?”

  “Army. European theater. He was wounded in 1945 and came back to the states then. He never made it to the ancestral home in Poland.”

  “Did he ever talk about his experiences? Tell you war stories?” Gottlieb shook his head. He went to a tall dark brown wooden cabinet. The thing looked old. There was a shiny hasp and padlock attached that secured the door to the frame. Aaron flipped the lock with one finger. “Uncle Manny put this lock on after we persuaded him to take in a boarder so there’d be somebody in the home as he got older and needed more help.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at him. He was fishing for a ring of keys and didn’t notice. “How long did he have renters?”

  “About five years, I think. Mostly young women who are grad students at the u. They get a nice room, private bath and kitchen privileges. Cheap. In return, they made him dinners or breakfasts, sometimes both, when they were here. We’ve had meals on wheels for a couple of years and a home health aide once a week. Sometimes, between semesters, when the renters were gone, neighbors helped out.”

  “Nice to have such services available,” I observed, watching him fiddle with the key ring. He finally found a key that fit.

  “Yes. I guess I better put that in the past tense. Difficult to remember. It was hard to convince him he needed help of any kind. About the stories. Uncle Manny, granddad’s nephew, survived Birkenau. He would never talk about those years. He told us what he found when he went home after the liberation. The house was wrecked and abandoned. People in the neighborhood said an SS officer and his family had been living there for a year or so.” Aaron removed the lock and swung the cabinet door open. I noted

  The hinges didn’t squeak. I also noted that the hasp had been installed so it could easily be removed from the outside with only a small screwdriver. The padlock was no real security.

  “Manny said the house was mostly empty of furniture and there was no electricity or water. The authorities didn’t want him to stay there. He packed up some stuff he found in a big trunk and somehow had it shipped to America. The family story is it took most of a year or maybe more before it got here. By then the family knew both dad and granddad were alive and on their way to the U.S. Granddad never showed anybody what he’d packed in the trunk.”

  “So you never saw the contents, ever?” I found that difficult to believe.

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it? I opened this cabinet for the first time last week after we sat Shiva for Uncle Manny.”

  He swung the doors wide so I could see the tightly packed shelves. “I guess you didn’t show this to the cops, am I right?”

  Aaron nodded. “I didn’t see the point. But now, with the chance he might have been murdered, you have to see everything.”

  “The first time you looked in here, did you go through the contents?”

  He shook his head. “No. I guess I felt so sad. And there was so much here. Look at it. Who knows what all this is? I just closed and locked it up again.”

  “All right,” I said. “Let me get some pictures.” I unlimbered my digital Slr and photographed the shelves. Then we began to carefully unpack shelf after shelf, riffling through the piles of mostly clothing. Men’s clothes. Women’s. A bundle that might have been children’s. As Aaron took out piles from each shelf or cubby, I slid my fingers in the folds just in case there was something alien to find. Nothing. I didn’t say so then but it occurred to me some theater company might be the beneficiary of a lot of nineteen-twenties style clothing in the future.

  Aaron said, “Look at this.” He was holding a long cardboard tube, sealed at each end. “It’s heavy.”

  I handed him my pocket knife and he carefully slit the cap at one end. It crackled and bits of glue and paper flaked off. Because the stuff had been stored in an attic instead of a basement, there was no damage from dampness or mold, but the cap was dry and brittle. He slid a tightly rolled stash of papers into my hands. Working together we carefully fingered through the leaves. It was a collection of illustrations.

  Because the paper was so dry, we didn’t unroll the sheets all the way. What we found was a whole series of drawings, some in pencil, some pen and ink. They seemed to be a variety of views, and there were portraits, sketches. Were they valuable? We couldn’t tell and it would take some careful expertise to unroll and examine them fully. Aaron decided to replace them in the tube and set it aside for later. I concurred.

  While he’d been looking at the illustrations, I peered more closely at the cabinet. Each of the doors hung on three concealed hinges. But the hasp and loop had been installed so that the screws on one side were exposed. My examination suggested to me someone had removed the screws and reinstalled the hasp. The screws were not carefully and completely screwed into the wood. I filed that bit of information away for later.

  At the bottom was a drawer half the width of the cabinet. I slid it open. It was filled with stuff, knickknacks, odd tools, coins, pins, nails, small paper envelopes, the kind of detritus that you probably have in a kitchen drawer. An old sewing kit. I lifted out the sewing kit to reveal a small thick cardboard sleeve. It was the kind of hard-board box sleeve sometimes used for limited editions of books. This one was about seven inches by five inches. The brown suede leather box was about two inches thick. Embossed on its surface in gold leaf was a single word. Beschlagnahmen. The word was Germanic-looking.

  “Is this a family name?” I asked. “Do you know what it means?”

  Aaron peered over my shoulder at the box. “I don’t recognize it. I never studied German and my family didn’t use Yiddish much either. What’s in the box?”

  “Nothing,” I said, turning the box over. The empty brown suede offered no additional clues. “Whatever was in here is gone and that’s interesting.”

  “We can take it to a bookstore or to
somebody who deals with old books. Maybe the historical society?”

  We set the sleeve aside and went on with our search.

  Chapter 8

  In the rear corner of the attic room where we had started was a neat stack of four cardboard boxes. They belonged, Aaron told me, to the woman who was renting one of the bedrooms. She was the only renter

  At the time we were there. I glanced over the top row of boxes, just about at chin level. Each was tightly sealed. The boxes were also slightly dusty. When I peered at my feet, I could see that the boxes had recently been disturbed. There was a line in the film of dust on the floor that told me the stack was not in precisely the same place it had been. I decided not to mention it to Aaron. I wasn’t sure why.

  After spending a little more time pawing through Manfred Gottlieb’s cabinet and finding nothing of obvious interest, Aaron and I descended to the first floor where we decided to examine the extensive bookshelves in what had been a formal dining room at some time in the past.

  W hen I relate that we found nothing of interest in the attic, I should perhaps explain I meant nothing of interest that connected directly to his death. I was also debating whether to tell Aaron about my other client, Anne or Ann NLN (means no last name) who may have witnessed the murder of his grand-uncle. By itself that might not be significant but the old guy was dead under suspicious circumstances and there were questions. So, yes, I wanted to look around the rest of the place as long as I was in the house. And no, I wasn’t going to mention my suspicions—at first. I figured Aaron had enough on his plate at the moment and I was certain by now from his attitude and things he’d said that he’d had no hand in the crime. It wouldn’t help his state of mind to know I believed someone had been in the attic.

  Aaron frowned at me when we went into the next room. “Frankly, I don’t get it. What are you looking for now, Sean?”

  “Same answer I gave you when you asked the first time, I’m afraid. I don’t exactly know, but I’m pretty sure I’ll recognize it when I see it.”

  He nodded sagely. Can you do that? How does a sage nod differ from an ordinary nod? “Okay, how do we proceed? Surely you aren’t going to shake out every book in here looking for secret messages?”

  I grinned. “You’ve been reading too many spy novels.”

  “Well, I have read some Enzo McLeod.”

  I walked to the nearest case and ran my fingers over the backs of the row of books at eye level. “Ah, Peter May,” I said over my shoulder. “My friend Catherine is a crime novel buff. She likes his books. She says he gets it right.” The shelf of books under my fingers were all dusted and in good condition. It was an eclectic collection, all hard covers. There were some classics, a leather bound volume of Shakespeare’s plays, some histories and three religious texts. A black bound copy of the Koran, the King James Old and New Testaments, and some Hebrew texts I couldn’t read, even after I figured out I was looking at them backwards.

  “Those are study texts, in both Hebrew and Polish,” Aaron said coming up beside me. “Our family lived in a town that was sometimes Polish and other times German. Politics and border treaties, you know.”

  The books were shelved in some kind of order, I sensed, but it wasn’t clear to me what it was. None of the books were obviously placed incorrectly, upside down, or noticeably out of sequence. Or if they were out of place, which I didn’t know, what, if anything, was the significance? The alternative was to ascribe something significant to the fact that the several shelves of books appeared to be exactly where they should be. That is, unlike the stuff in the attic, it didn’t appear anybody had searched this room.

  As we left the quiet house, I asked, “Aaron, do you know when your roomer will be back?”

  He frowned in thought. “Oh, right, you wanted to talk to her, didn’t you.” He shoved his fingers into a breast pocket and pulled out a piece of note paper. “Here. I called her yesterday to let her know what was going on and that we’d be here today. Her name is Ursula Skranslund. She’s a grad student in linguistics at the u. This is her number. She’ll be home tonight if you want to call her.”

  I took the paper and we parted ways. Gottlieb would return to his hotel, check in with the police about release of the body and a funeral home about his grand uncle’s cremation, and then his—Aaron’s—return to Chicago. He had a regular job and he needed to get back to it.

  “You’ve got all my contact numbers,” he said, “And I’ve got yours. I won’t waste your time bugging you with frequent calls, but please let me know how the case goes.”

  * * * *

  It being February, darkness was already descending a few hours later as I drove the snowy streets back toward the late Manfred Gottlieb’s home and my appointment with Ursula Skranslund. She was home, her slightly accented voice had assured me on the telephone, and would be happy to receive me.

  There was a small light over the front door and the sidewalks had been shoveled again. There were lights on in the back of the house that cast a dim glow on the smooth white snow cover at the side of the place. A light shown in a second floor room which I assumed was the woman’s. She answered the door after my first ring.

  Quite tall, large and well-proportioned was Ms. Skranslund. Her handshake was firm and friendly. She had a thick mane of bright blond hair that cascaded down her back over the gray U of M sweatshirt she wore. Her substantial hips were tightly encased in worn blue jeans. She was barefoot. Ursula led me to the kitchen at the back of the house and into a breakfast nook with two cups already on the table. A pot of coffee was brewing on the stove.

  “I have some really fine Arabica coffee, Mr. Sean. I hope you’ll join me?”

  I nodded yes. Her accent, Finnish, she said, was delightful. I considered asking her to read me something. I didn’t, that wouldn’t be professional. I pulled out my identification.

  “I don’t want to alarm you unnecessarily,” I said, “But it would be safer for you here alone, to ask for ID before you let a stranger into your house.” I smiled.

  She smiled back. “You are not exactly a stranger.” She brought the pot and poured coffee for both of us. The aroma was heavenly. “I called the number you gave me and then I looked you up on the computer. Then I also called and talked to a very nice woman. Your… um… friend? She described you, exactly, including the stocking cap you had on.”

  So, I thought, sipping very tasty coffee. You found me on the internet, did you? I’d have to do something about that. But not now.

  “I guess you know what I’m here about,” I said.

  Ursula nodded. “Yes. It was so sad. I like Mr. Gottlieb very much. He made me feel like I was his granddaughter, or a favorite niece.”

  “I understand you are studying linguistics at the U? And working on a graduate degree in Scandinavian languages?”

  She nodded in the affirmative. “And how long have you been renting a room here?”

  She frowned prettily. “It has been about eighteen months.”

  “Have you discussed your situation with Aaron Gottlieb?”

  “Oh yes, he and I talked. He called me from Chicago. He is happy to have me here as a sort of live-in caretaker at least until the estate is settled or my lease runs out. That would be next year.” She poured more coffee for us. “I see to maintenance and keep the walks shoveled, things like that. He said I can really have the run of the house. I expect Mr. Gottlieb will try to sell the house as soon as he can.”

  “How did you find this place to rent?”

  “I had been sharing a house in Southeast. There were four or five of us at various times. But it became too much a party pad.” She paused. “Is that right?”

  I smiled. “Yes, a party house, and you wanted more quiet to study, I presume.”

  “Yes. I saw an ad in the American Jewish World. Mr. Gottlieb and I were um, simpatico right away, you underst
and?”

  I nodded.

  “He liked me. I could tell and he liked having a pretty young woman around.” Ursula stopped then and frowned. “You must understand. We were friends but it was all very straight, very much business.” Her eyes teared up. “Sorry. I miss him.”

  “I understand. Now tell me about the attic.” “I had some boxes from school and some other things I wanted to keep

  But not use in my room. We arranged to put them in boxes in the attic. I think there are four, yes? I haven’t been up there since we put them there last year.”

  “Do you remember, were they sealed?” “Yes, Mr. Gottlieb said it would be better to tape them so he got some

  Sealing tape for me.”

  “Did you and he carry the boxes to the attic?” I was beginning to think this was a blind alley.

  “When I first moved in here I was dating a man and he helped me move.”

  “Did you see the cabinet in that attic room?”

  “Oh, yes. It had hinges and a padlock on it. I thought it was crudely done to a very nice cabinet.”

  Ms. Skranslund gave me the name of the man who helped her move in and I wrote it in my notebook, although I suspected it would mean nothing in the end. But I would check him out anyway.

  Ms. Skranslund accompanied me to the door and we said goodbye. I noticed she seemed relieved when we parted, as if she thought she’d passed some kind of test.

  Chapter 9

  My liege?”

  I did not respond immediately. My mind was elsewhere.

  “Hey,” Catherine’s voice was closer and more insistent. Moving. A moment and her hot breath was warming my cheek. She’d just come in the door of my house in Roseville. During the winter I made it a practice to spend a couple of days every week, not necessarily in sequence, there, to be sure my resident livestock was fed and watered and that the systems continued to work as advertised. I’m referring to heat, water, electricity and like that.