Page 30 of Sinful Crimes for the Artistically Inclined
“Jorge,” the man replied. Spanish perhaps. How had this man become such a prick?
“And you are?” Percy turned to the right-hand man.
“Marcus.” Definitely some intelligence in that eye. Percy shook his hand.
“Very well. We’re all friends now,” said Percy, making eye contact with the main three while talking, seeing who was the first to look away from his gaze—trying to decide who was theweakest. “I’m sure you understand, we won’t be exchanging money until I know the picture is with you and in salvageable condition.”
Marcus assessed him with steely eyes. “Where’s the money?”
“Picture first.”
Marcus leered a little closer. “Money.”
“I can leave right now,” Percy bluffed. “I have no reason to believe the picture even exists anymore.” He and Marcus stared one another down, Marcus probably wondering how best to not lose the upper hand he imagined he had, Percy looking as prim and proper and non-threatening as possible, wondering all the while which of them had killed more people. He believed he had, by some margin, and his eyes were dark and cold and unflinching as he considered the myriad ways he might see this man die too.
“Bag,” said Jorge. One of the unnamed stepped forward and dropped a bag down on the pew. Percy flinched. They had rolled the canvas, after all.
Letting out an impatient breath, Percy stepped forward. He ripped the zip open, saw the curled, furled mess of canvas, and slammed the zip closed again. He threw a fresh cigarette in his mouth, lit it, snapped the lighter closed, and said, “What the fuck is this mess?”
“It’s the painting,” replied Jorge. “Exactly as you asked.”
“That’s not the fucking painting. It’s a fucking travesty is what it is.” He turned and paced the aisle. “Fucking degenerates,” he spat. “Which one of you folded it?”
There were five of them, but Percy’s clear distaste for them all put each in mind of whichever schoolmaster had the least tolerance for them in their youth. They may have despised him, resented him, but they each recognised a certain something that said he was not of their world, and was not to be trifled with.
Percy threw his new cigarette on the floor after two puffs and twisted the tip of his shoe over it.
“It’s—” one of them started.
“Get out of my fucking way.” Percy ripped the bag open again and gently pulled the painting free. He examined the exterior of the canvas, and there, in that instant, he felt the beauty of the thing.
The canvas was old. Undoubtedly. It was heavy and true and there was a small chance this was the very object.
His stomach lurched as he turned and carried it slowly, reverently, to the altar. He lay it down there. He didn’t unroll it—only looked over the back.
It was the gentle brown of old linen. It was thick and hard and crisp with age. Still, it could be any sixteenth-century canvas, the original, less-remarkable painting destroyed then painted over to make the forgery of a masterpiece appear more believable.
He examined the unbidden curls, shuddering at the very edge of a Nazi insignia disappearing into the folds. Without unrolling and possibly damaging the picture further, there was but a sliver of the painting to be seen along the very bottom of the work. There was no signature on that section, though that alone would have been easy enough to forge.
He ran his eyes over the group to make sure they all remained exactly where they were, then reached into the top pocket of his suit. The angry one made a move, and Percy stilled him with a disdainful eye. “I’m an art historian. Just what do you think I have hidden in my pocket?”
Appropriately shamed, the man said, “No sudden movements,” at which Percy laughed, then pulled free his magnifying loupe.
Caravaggio’s brush strokes were strong and full and bold, and right there, at the edge of the painting, Percy believed he saw that which he knew by heart, but it still wasn’t enough. Heran his finger over the preparation, exposed exactly as Caravaggio might have left it, and felt the coarse texture one might feel if sand were added.
It was everything Percy could have hoped for. Appropriate brush strokes, the expected colour, oil-based paint, seemingly of the correct period…
And now the question.
Gamble that this was the true painting, cut all ties with these people in the most final way possible, and make off with it? Or give them an art lesson, appeal to whatever sliver of humanity may have been lurking deep inside, and talk them out of taking the money somehow? Or keep them around in case this wasn’t the real thing and the painting was still out there somewhere? Percy’s stomach rose at the thought of any more communication with any of them, feeling the strong need for a very hot bath as it was.
He should do the latter. The more mature and well-adjusted individual would do the latter. Accordingly, he began to prepare a noble speech in his mind, but then, as he picked up the canvas, a chip of very old, very dry, very damaged paint slipped out the side and onto the altar.
Percy stared hard at it. He saw in his mind’s eye Caravaggio’s own hands mixing that colour and applying it, with unmatched skill and passion, never once imagining the horrors that lay ahead, that his painting would bear witness to.
He imagined the intent of the artist, all the very good thoughts and feelings that went into this creation, and this broken fleck of paint was the first definite sign of a beautiful thing utterly destroyed. A beautiful thing ruined by people who make it their life’s work to ruin beautiful things. And he thought of his beautiful little brother whom he had murdered. And he turned mechanically and slid the painting into the sarcophagus as he uttered the words, “Some of your money is here, gentlemen. Only one man may come and collect if youwant the rest.” He turned back, pointed a finger at the large, angry one, and said, “You first.”
Percy leaned back against the sarcophagus, his arms folded across his very nice suit, flashing his very nice watch, his ankles crossed one over the other, thoroughly genteel.
