Critics will tell you that abstract art is simply an exploration of space, form, and color, that it's a mirror into our soul and intellect meant to make us question our perceptions and beliefs. But I don't buy it. I just can't shake the feeling that abstract art is simply a scam meant to separate the gullible from their cash. It was a feeling that would serve me well.
* * *
"No, those are not artists," Mary Bain snapped. "They're construction workers building the new exhibit salon."
"Oh," I said. I honestly couldn't tell. The works on display at the San Francisco museum named the Collection of Modern Art, COMA for short, were barely distinguishable from the materials the workers were using to build the new room, I mean salon. Besides, have you ever seen a modern artist, particularly a sculptor, at work? If you haven't then trust me. You would have a hard time distinguishing them from construction workers.
"Come this way," Mary said. She was still smarting from my uncultured mistake. These art types have a very sensitive nature. "I'll show you where the sculpture was." I followed her to a space near the new exhibit room, I mean salon. Her blond hair brushed across the shoulders of a flowing, red Versace dress. The dress swished as she walked and it reminded me of the broad stroke of a wide paintbrush. The small blue and green paint stains on her thumb and index finger did, however, clash with her deep red nail polish. Not very artistic if you ask me.
I was at the COMA to investigate the disappearance of an expensive piece of abstract sculpture. Yes, I know, the race track one day, an art museum the next. A true gentleman must be able to effortlessly and elegantly operate within diverse environments - which means one must have a diverse wardrobe. And if you know me you know my closet holds something for every occasion. An occasion such as a visit to an art gallery demands absolutely impeccable attire. Therefore, I was impeccably attired in an exquisitely tailored gray flannel suit with a traditional English cut augmented by a perfectly starched white shirt and a tie bluer than the waters of Lake Tahoe on an absolutely sunny day.
I was operating in the modern art milieu at the request of Lars Stinquist. Lars was a good friend of mine and a great patron of the arts. He was also the president of COMA's board of directors. He seemed to believe that the missing sculpture was a serious matter. Obviously, I was in no position to disagree.
According to Lars the theft was a complete mystery. One day the piece was there, the next day it was not. The museum's security system was adequate, with video cameras on all of the doors, but the tapes revealed nothing. The piece had been taken by very good professionals or it had been an inside job. Lars was hoping it was the former.
"It was right there," Mary said, pointing to a gray, wooden platform about three inches high.
"I see," I said, though I saw nothing. "What did it look like?" I asked.
"Here's a photograph." She held an eight-by-ten up to my face. "This is what it looked like."
I gazed at the photo of an L-shaped hunk of concrete, wood, and metal cable.
"I hope you can solve this mystery before the public learns of the work's disappearance. We can't afford to have their confidence in us shaken. We're supported almost entirely by their donations. Any bad publicity would be disastrous."
"I understand." I began to turn away.
She sighed deeply before she spoke. "I don't want to tell you how to do your job, Mr. Churchill, but don't you think you'd better keep this photo?"
I stared at her the way a jockey stares at a meddling owner who offers too much advice. "Yes, I suppose I do," I said, although I didn't see what good it would do me.
She glared at me and stuffed the photo into my left pocket. I'll have to admit that she was quite attractive when she glared. Actually, she was quite attractive when she didn't glare. She was of a nearly imperceptible age with every line and wrinkle expertly covered up to the point where it gave her face the dignity of a Dutch portrait. Pity about those paint stains on her fingers.
"Mr. Stinquist has great faith in you, Mr. Churchill," she said. "I hope his faith is not misplaced."
"I always do my best," I said.
"Let's hope your best is good enough." She turned to leave.
"Oh, by the way," I said to her. "Do you think it could have been stolen during the day?"
"I doubt it," she said. "The security cameras are on all day."
"What about the construction crew? They're here during the day. There's lots of activity going on."
"What on earth would the construction crew want with a work of art?" she asked. "They couldn't distinguish art from their building materials!" She shook her head. "No, Mr. Churchill, I doubt that any of them took it." Her chuckle was sarcastic.
"I wasn't implying that they did. Isn't the back entrance open while they work? Couldn't someone have slipped in and taken the piece?"
"No. The door is always closed and locked. The temperature in the building must be carefully controlled to protect some of our more delicate pieces. We make the workers bring in whatever they need at the start of the day so they won't have to go in and out. Besides, either myself or Fred Nilless is here at all times. We would have noticed if someone had come in and taken the sculpture. The piece is very heavy."
"Who's Fred Nilless?"
Mary couldn't believe my question. "He's the museum's director," she said. "You didn't know that?"
"No," I said.
"He's an important figure in the art world. Anyone who knows anything about art knows Fred Nilless. He was very successful in New York before joining us. We are very privileged to have him."
"I guess I'm not too up on the art world," I said.
"So I gathered." She reached into her inventory of looks and looked at me the way a landowner looks at a serf who unexpectedly appears at the manor door.
Fortunately, James appeared and got me off the hook. Mary stared at him, her eyes a churning mixture of attraction and repulsion.
"Any luck, sir?" he asked me.
"No, James. It's quite a mystery. Where have you been?"
"Looking around."
"See anything?"
"Nothing worth seeing."
Mary continued to stare at James while she spoke to me. "I have work to do, Mr. Churchill," she said. "If you need me, I'll be around." She slithered off to wherever it is these art types slither off to.
"You know, James," I said. "If Lars wasn't such a good friend of mine I don't think I would be here."
"Miss Bain is rather snooty, sir."
"She is indeed, James." I pulled the photo from my pocket and handed it to him.
"This is the missing piece?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "It's off the wall if you ask me."
* * *
Fortunately, the house I was staying in was devoid of modern art. One day at the COMA was enough for me. I had managed to find my way into a temporarily vacant Presidio Heights home and I was enjoying its antique splendor tremendously. Presidio Heights, by the way, is one of those old San Francisco neighborhoods that oozes 1890's charm.
I settled into a comfortable chair in front of a comfortable fire and sipped Bass Ale until it was time to dress for dinner - you know how I feel about dressing for the occasion. Lars had invited me to dine with him at the Pacific Union Club, a stuffy club of stifling proportions patronized by washed-up near movers and shakers. Such a venue called for the utmost in conservative attire. I eventually decided to wear a dark blue suit with widely spaced, pale gray stripes, and a predominately silver checked tie. Very sensible, very suave, very Savile Row.
"The Rolls is ready, sir," James said.
"Very good."
We settled into the Silver Cloud III and he set a course for Nob Hill. He deposited me at the Pacific Union Club then went off to wherever it is he goes off to after dropping me off.
Lars had already arrived at the club and he rescued me from the stuffed doorman who, despite my impeccable attire, was unconvinced of my worthiness to enter the Club.
"What do you think, Winston?" Lars asked after we had been seated. His perfectly sculpted silver hair adorned the top of his head like a flag on a mast pole. He dressed the part of a patriarch with a conservative blue suit, probably Brooks Brothers, penetratingly white shirt with a tasteful foulard print tie sitting symmetrically between a starched straight collar.
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