A filthy oriental rug covered most of the hard dirt floor. He found that curious, since anything and everything of value had been removed from all the rooms they’d seen. It looked like an old Kazak from what little he could see of the pattern. As consolation, at least they’d found something of value, he thought. The only other items in the room were a large flat wooden crate and a small metal steamer trunk with leather handles. It was padlocked. He tried lifting the crate to see if there were any markings on it. It was not as heavy as he had imagined.
‘Find anything?’ asked Jamie, leaning over the edge of the trapdoor opening.
‘Could be. I’m not sure. Come down and take a look? Oh, and bring down the toolkit, would you.’ He put the lamp on the floor closer to the ladder so that she could see her way down.
Jamie sat on the trunk while Kingston went to work opening the crate, using a large screwdriver and a hammer. The crate was about five by four feet and eighteen inches deep. About the right size for paintings, Kingston knew, but this time he wasn’t getting his hopes up. The rasping of nails being prised from wood filled the small room and soon he had the lid free. Jamie, at his side, held up both hands, fingers crossed. He lifted the lid and put it on the floor. Inside, all that could be seen was a snug-fitting blanket tied with string, a cushion to protect whatever was inside. He tried to lift it out it by squeezing his fingers down the sides but couldn’t. Moving to one end of the crate, Kingston raised it to the vertical position then tilted it, hoping that the contents would slide out. They didn’t.
As Kingston shook the heavy crate trying to dislodge its contents, Jamie was on the other side, her hands out, ready to prevent whatever was inside from falling to the ground. One mighty shake and the blanket-wrapped object was finally free, falling into Jamie’s hands. He lowered the crate and she slid the bundle across to him. Quickly he cut the string and removed the blanket, throwing it aside. On the floor in front of them was a metal case similar to that used by professional photographers to transport cameras and lenses, only much larger. The case was bound with heavy wire to prevent it from opening. Now his pulse was racing. These were the paintings. They had to be.
Jamie broke the silence. ‘This is getting like one of those Chinese box puzzles.’
‘It is, but we’re almost there, Jamie. This case has to hold the paintings,’he said, snipping the wires, unlatching the two chrome clasps on the lid. He lifted the lid, the underside lined with a foam material, exposing yet another package, this time, a tightly sealed plastic sheath. He lifted it out, carefully cutting the plastic with his knife. As the plastic casing was pulled away, it revealed three stretched canvases, each separated by a sheet of plywood. Kingston stole a quick look at Jamie. He removed the top piece of plywood, picked up the top painting and held it up facing them.
He couldn’t believe what he saw.
Chapter Twenty-three
Kingston took his eyes off the painting just long enough to catch Jamie frowning. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Rubbish, that’s what it is. I hope this isn’t Ryder’s idea of a joke. This is bloody awful.’
They were looking at an oil or acrylic painting about sixteen inches by twenty-four. The scene was a Parisian street in the rain, with vivid multicolour vertical brushstrokes where street and window lights reflected off the rain-slick pavement and road. It was the kind of garish art that is churned out for the tourist trade, peddled at street fairs and in lesser quality galleries all over Europe.
Kingston removed the next plywood panel and picked up the second painting. It was no better. Slightly smaller in size, it was a landscape in the style of Seurat. He grimaced—amateurish would have been a kindly description. The composition was dreadful, the colours lifeless. He put it aside and picked up the third painting. A quick glance was enough. It was equally hackneyed and lacking in any painterly talent.
‘These certainly aren’t what Fox had in mind,’he sighed.
‘If they’re worthless—and even I can see that, now—why would Ryder or anyone go to all the trouble to conceal and protect them so well? It makes no sense.’
‘I don’t know,’ Kingston muttered. He was holding up the tacky Parisian painting again. This time he examined the edges of the canvas where it was affixed to the wooden stretcher. He knew that a relatively simple method used to disguise paintings was to paint over them. It was a technique used effectively over the centuries, one all too familiar to art-theft and insurance investigators. Only recently, he’d read an account of the inspired and courageous actions of an art-loving Afghani doctor who, singlehandedly, had saved over hundred paintings in the National Gallery in Kabul, disguising the works by painting new scenes over them. His artistic camouflage was sufficient to hoodwink the Taliban religious police who would otherwise have destroyed the artworks, as they had thousands of others during their five-year rule. Had he been caught, the penalty might well have been execution.