The Fortune Teller

by Tim Healy

Dr. Maurice Picard, Director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, gestured toward the painting of the Cavalier and wondered. Would Lieutenant Flanagan believe that this painting was not the one that had occupied this frame on Friday? The small balding Frenchman hoped so, but up to now trying to convince Flanagan had been like trying to whistle into a hurricane. In fact, he now harbored the strong impression that Lt. Francis X. Flanagan’s idea of art was closer to a centerfold than the old masters.

“See, Lieutenant, the painting is different, just as I said.”

“I don’t see.”                                                  

“No, no, I will show you,” Dr. Picard said. “Whoever did this is a genius.  I first noticed it yesterday. Then I called you today."

“You wait a day to call me? You wait a day when you’ve been mugged? When you car’s ripped off? You wait a day for that?”

“Please, Lieutenant, you must understand. The deception is so clever that I myself am not certain it exists.”

“If it doesn’t exist, you’re going to explain this to the Captain, not me. We could be a laughingstock because of you – and it’s an election year to boot.”

“Let me bring the photographs. You will see, you will see.”

Dr. Picard returned three minutes later with a tattered brown envelope.  “Here is the file,” he said as he rummaged through the contents. “Look,” he said as he spread the photographs side-by-side on the table.
Flanagan looked. He looked at the painting of a young cavalier and three attractive women. The cavalier, hands on hips, was engaged in intense conversation with an older woman. Flanagan looked at Dr. Picard, then he looked back at the photographs. “It looks the same to me,” he announced with finality.  Dr. Picard could see the conviction etched on the granite jaw that dominated Flanagan’s florid face.

“Yes and no,” Picard said as he stroked his waxed moustache. See, there, the right eye of the cavalier. You see it, no? It is imperceptibly – how do you say it? – walleyed, no? Does he not look at both the old crone and us at the same time?”

Flanagan looked. Well, the guy may be looking cockeyed, he thought. But then again ...

“And in the upper left hand corner. The background. See, in the photograph it is a darker value, is it not? Barely darker, but noticeable. You see it, no?”

Flanagan looked and wondered. Did Picard jump his rails? Then what?  “Dr. Picard,” Flanagan said, “these photos – nice but useless. I need hard evidence, not this cockamamie horse shit.”

“Very well. I had the painting removed from the wall. I myself checked.  The stretcher frame, it is black. The canvass, it is yellowed. The copper tacks have patina. Yet I say this is not the original. Even merde is there, barely perceptible on the cavalier’s collar.”

“Merde?”

“To paraphrase you, Lieutenant – horse merde! A tongue-in-cheek chiding of the world of art. A crass inscription written ever so minutely on the cavalier’s collar by the artist la Tour, or the restor­er Dion. I say no more!”

Flanagan smiled sweetly. “Dr. Picard, this better not be a gag.”

“X-rays. We will take X-rays tomorrow and compare them.”

“And in the name of all that’s good, fine, and holy, why didn’t you do that already?”

“Because, monsieur, it is Sunday.”

- - -

“The X-rays, they tell us little,” Picard said. “Little more than the technique is the same.”

Flanagan’s slate gray eyes bored into Picard like a surgical laser. Dr. Picard bored back, smiling. “Heaven help you if you’re wrong, Picard.  Now, start at the top,” Flanagan said as he popped open his black notebook. “What’s the name of the picture?”

“It is a painting. The Fortune Teller – attributed to Georges de la Tour.”

“Attributed? That means you don't know?”

“We know and we don’t know. The story is complex. An elderly French  restorer said it had been in the de Gastines family for generations. The painting was studied for months at Solesmes.”

“That means?” Flanagan said, raising a matched pair of bushy grey eyebrows that looked like two haystacks after a tornado.

“Well, in 1960 M. René Huyghe, curator of the Louvre, said he had seen the painting in 1948. It is assumed he meant at Solesmes."

“Get to the point, Doctor. An art lecture I don’t need.”

“You asked if it is genuine. I am telling you.”

Flanagan kept his eyes on his notebook. Awtsy-tawtsies are all squirrels, he thought. Humor. That’s what he needs. I’ll humor him. What else? Flanagan let out his breath with a small hiss that sounded like the last gasp from an asthmatic steam engine. “Okay, Dr. Picard,” Flanagan said, “educate me.”

“There is not much more.  M. Huyghe wanted to buy the painting for the Louvre, but they lacked the funds because the war was recently ended. That’s when Georges Wildenstein offered a sum vastly superior to what the Louvre could afford. We hung the painting in 1960.”

“And that’s it? The Met hangs a painting and doesn’t know if it’s the McCoy or not? The public knows this?”

“Now you see. It is the world’s most controversial painting, no?”

Flanagan ran his hand through his thick, curly gray hair, then he looked up at the painting. Why me? he thought. A fake of a fake. And they want me to find the real fake. Who’s nuts?

Flanagan slammed his fist on the desk. “Who?” he roared.

“Who what, Monsieur?”

“Who is nutty enough to make a perfect fake of a fake?”

“I did not say it is a fake. Only controversial.”

“Okay, who is nutty enough to make a fake of a controversial?”

“Alfred Bertole.”

“Bertole? – The forger?”

“In the jury’s opinion. But Lieutenant, he is a copyist, not a forger. It was a case of misconstrued intention.”

“Merde, Picard, merde.”

“No, no. Bertole makes an honest living now. Everything he does is marked copie. He is innocent of this, I am convinced. I said his name because he is the only one good enough ..."

“Okay, let’s say it wasn’t Bertole. Then who?”

“Who? Ah, the mystery.”

So, it is Bertole, Flanagan thought. Plain as apple pie. “Where is Bertole now?”

“Why, I see him every day. He comes to the gallery and sits before this painting, and others. He admires and studies. Art, the great masters. They are his life.”

Lieutenant Flanagan rubbed his hand across his chin and felt the hard stubble. Bertole’s the perp, he thought. But where and how? If I bust him on this it won’t stick. Not in ten million years. And I got only six months before I hang it up from the force. Flanagan turned and faced Picard. His shoulders slumped. “Dr. Picard, procedure says we notify Interpol. And if you have any tips, you know, call. And, hey, don’t wait a day.”

- - -

Much to his surprise, Dr. Maurice Picard became a celebrity. Time did a feature on his discovery of the greatest art theft the world has ever known. Oprah and The View each had him on twice, and he was scheduled for O’Reilly.  Meanwhile, Alfred Bertole continued his daily visits to The Met. To the museum goers, who had increased tenfold since the crime was revealed, he was just a lonely old man in the crowd. Sometimes Picard would walk by and nod, with a smile, and Alfred Bertole would smile back.

Then one Thursday, just before lunch, Alfred Bertole grasped his chest, toppled, and died on the marble floor in front of The Fortune Teller. Most of the crowd hardly noticed, and the guards had him out before anyone really knew what had happened. Of course, Dr. Picard was notified, and he rushed to the anteroom where Alfred Bertole now reclined in final sleep.

“Here,” one guard said, handing Dr. Picard an envelope. “He was clutching it. It’s addressed to you.”
Dr. Picard looked. His name was neatly inscribed on the envelope. He opened it and found a key, and a brief note. Then he went to the lavatory and flushed the note away.

At 2:00 that afternoon, Dr. Picard opened the door to a dingy storage room in Yonkers. His eyes scanned the empty gloom, coming to rest on a large, thin, plywood container leaning against the far wall. Picard walked over to the container, lifted the latch, and swung open the lid. A soft gasp escaped his lips as his eyes fell on La Tour’s authentic work of art, The Fortune Teller. So, it is true, he thought. Bertole had done the impossible. A precise copy substituted for the original. And now, in death, he so graciously redeems himself. Picard allowed himself a brief moment to revere the piece, then he swiftly closed the lid, secured the latch, and carried the container to his car.

Don’t worry, Bertole, old friend, he said softly to himself as he drove away. Your secret is safe with me. I will not betray you, for you have truly earned your place as a master in the Met.