Alex Ames - Calendar Moonstone 01 - A Brilliant Plan (22 page)

Ron and I had agreed to meet in the hotel lobby around two, enough time to freshen myself up and dress for the museum meeting. The moment I stepped out of the elevator I knew why Ron had said “… join us… ” the day before.

FOWLER WYNN AND I stared eye-to-eye until Ron dared to step in.

“Could you two each take one step backwards and let me explain?”

He got no answer from either of us. Fowler eyed me with open hostility and I looked back just as hard.

Ron pushed us gently apart. Fowler looked at Ron irritated. He was probably as surprised as I was. “What is this…
 
person doing here in Mexico?”

“Fowler, I am following my brilliant detective nose here because I am a little bit short on clues as to the murder of Wally Eastman and the burglary at the gallery.” Ron pointed in my direction. “Calendar has found this new angle to the case; it was her discovery of the Maximilian Jewels connection.”

“Well, it was probably her stealing it in the first place,” Fowler sniffled.

I rolled my eyes and went over to the lobby bar to order a tea. Luckily, the word works in most nations.

Ron and Fowler followed shortly afterwards. Before I could ask my question, Ron had already answered it for me. “By a sheer coincidence, Fowler’s company is also the general insurer of the collection of the Museum of Mexican National History.”

I looked at Fowler. “So the ‘The Max’ is really worth the high sum the Japanese collector was talking about.”

“In the range of about eight million dollars,” Fowler nodded.
 

“With the addresses you gave me, it was a matter of three phone calls to find the institutes that had expertise on ‘The Max,’” Ron explained.
 

“That was quick work.”

“By the time we arrived here at the hotel, we had received e-mails from two independent experts, one from Chicago and one from Philadelphia,” Fowler threw in.
 

“Please show her,” Ron said.

Fowler looked at me reluctantly but finally opened his briefcase and took out a stack of sheets. I quickly skimmed them, I had seen the originals in the Newport apartment but I had to cheer up Fowler and Ron. I carefully studied the drawings again, whistled appropriately at the final valuation.

“Whew, 8.5 million dollars.”
 

“They are top of the crop, my colleagues at the jewelry art department in London told me just a minute ago,” Fowler said.
 

“Isn’t it amazing that these treasures were hidden away in a museum cellar for so long?” I wondered. Then I tapped the drawing that showed the necklace. “This is the piece I saw on Phoebe Eastman. Look at the design. It is so classy and timeless, already has very straight lines that Europe would discover about 80 years later.” I pointed at the golden tiara. “But at the same time, full of Latin American identity. I wonder if the artist is known to us from history?”

“That’s why we are here, ladies and gentlemen,” Ron clapped his hands, he was probably glad that Fowler and I were on speaking terms. We wrapped up our things and stepped outside the hotel lobby into the winter afternoon heat.
 

We hailed a taxi and rode, all three of us side-by-side in the back of the cab, Ron between the cat and the dog. The Museum of National History was located in Chapultapec Park, Mexico City’s equivalent of Manhattan’s Central Park.
 

“Did you know that Chapultapec Park was actually the castle grounds? Emperor Maximilian lived there.” I said to break the silence. Fowler grunted and Ron gave a chuckle.

Ron asked Fowler, “Do you think the experts had a closer look at ‘The Max’ before writing their opinion? And were able to make photographs?”
 

Fowler suppressed the growl and sounded civil. “Oh, they had the originals on their desk, for sure. That is an absolute must for them to do a proper valuation.”

I nodded in agreement. It was impossible to judge the quality of gems just by a photo.
 

Fowler continued, “But, my colleagues told me, the courier who delivered the jewelry into their lab had given specific instructions not to film or photograph the set. He was present the whole time when the valuators were doing their job. And I tell you, it took two days for each of the experts.”

The Museum of Mexican History loomed before us, Ron paid the driver, and we stepped up the stairs and entered the lobby. Ron flashed his SDPD badge at the information desk in the museum lobby to impress whomever with whatever. The lady picked up the phone and spoke in rapid-fire Spanish. We waited for a minute and then a man in a dark suit, a nicely trimmed mustache and a big-toothed smile approached us.
 

“Pedro Vasolar, I am pleeesed to meeting you.” He spoke a polished, slightly accented English, shook my hand first. After I told him my name, he fixated on me as if I appeared in a different light, suddenly. “Moonstone. Didn’t you win the Royal Dutch commission some years ago?”

“Oh, you must be the one person who still remembers. Doesn’t happen often,” I said.

Pedro smiled broadly. “Theee art community of Mexico City remembers. You dared to beat our local contender; I think both of you made it on the shortlist.”

“Ignacio Hermosa. Of course, I remember his work. Later, I heard I won by a nose length.”

“And by a very beautiful nose length, if you allow me to remark. The right person won. Your work is superb, Calendar, you will allow me to call you Calendar, will you?” All that was missing was a hand kiss.

Ron rescued me from more Hispanic schmoozing; I secretly hoped that he was at least a little jealous.

“Ron Closeky, San Diego Police. Thank you for seeing us on such a short notice.”

Pedro turned to Ron, they shook hands and then Pedro said, “Good to see you again, Mr. Wynn.”

Fowler gave his best fake curt British nod. Pedro and Fowler were both unsure who was in the more favorable position. The museum that had paid the insurance fees or the insurance company that had to pay for the stolen national jewels.

“Lady, gentlemeeen, follow me please.” Taking my arm gallantly, he led us into the splendid museum. We walked a few yards ahead of Ron and Fowler.

“Did you submit any new art-jewelry lately?” Pedro asked.

“No, I concentrate on my retail collection and my shop. It is too bad about Ignacio Hermosa, I read about his death in the papers a few months back.”

Pedro made a face. “A very sad story. One of those crazy muggings; Mexico City can be a violent place. The Mexico City art scene was in shock. Such talent wasted. Step inside, please.” He led us into his light spacious office, overlooking the museum plaza.
 

After seating, refreshments and olives, Pedro looked at us expectantly. “Please, start with your very interesting story.”

Ron told him of our interest in the Maximilian Jewels, spoke about the ‘sightings’ and offerings of ‘The Max’ in California and that they seemed to have vanished. “About three months ago, some jewelry that we believe to be the Maximilian Jewels was handed over to two well respected valuators in Chicago and Philadelphia. They both wrote detailed evaluations. So we know that the pieces are really in the United States. But we were wondering, how did they get from your museum into the hands of another art dealer without you noticing?”

Pedro took a small sip of his lemonade. “Please, whatever I tell you now, keep in mind that this museum has about twenty thousand items on display at any time.”

Ron said, “But you should be able to keep track. I mean, every professional store is able to.”

Pedro gave a small sad shrug. “In addition to that, we have about three million items that are properly stored, lost or hidden away in the endless miles of our cellars, storage facilities and vaults.”

“Three million items?” Ron confirmed.
 

“That is right. And I think we count the Maximilian Set as one item.” Pedro picked up an index card from his desk and handed it to us. “When you called me a few days ago, I was intrigued because I pride myself in knowing the important pieces of our museum. I asked my staff to check out the ‘famous’ Maximilian Jewels.” Pedro indicated quote marks with his fingers around the word ‘famous.’ “None of my curators had ever heard of them either and we started a search. Unfortunately, we are not computerized in all areas, budgets, you know.” Another sad shrug. “Anyway, after a few hours search and research we came up with this.”

He placed the index card on the table and the three of us took a closer look. There was an index number in the corner, neat old handwriting, another number typed with an ancient typewriter and several short form descriptions of the Maximilian Set. Ten lines in Spanish, I recognized ‘oro’ and ‘diamante,’ some measurements in millimeters. Probably enough to differentiate it from the rest of the 2.9ish million items.
 

I asked Pedro, “How do you know that these items are the Maximilian Jewels. It doesn’t say anywhere.”

Pedro simply flipped over the card and gave us a translation of the few paragraphs on the backside. “Gift from… ” what followed were some unpronounceable Indian names, probably of Aztec origin, “… to the honor of the emperor and empress of Mexico. Introduced into collection on February 12, 1911. Previous owner: Royal Collection.” He pointed to the top of the card. “What you see here is a reference number to our filing system. Any items related to the documents are recorded and identified by a filing number.”

“Let me guess, you are having trouble finding the file,” Ron offered.

I wondered if Pedro Vasolar’s shoulder would hurt in the evening from all his feeble shrugging. “From 1911…. A museum of our standing has a very long memory. But also a spotty one.”

“What kind of documents could we have expected?” Fowler asked.

Shrug. “Anything that came along and is in paper form. Drawings, photos, certificates, authentications, former deeds. As it doesn’t give more information about its origin. ‘Royal collection’ is just a fancy expression that it belonged to the state in another form. I am as clueless as you are when it comes to the exact history of the Maximilian Set. You probably sort it under Hispanic chaotic disorganization. But I think, if we picked some random index cards from the central register, we would find other dead file references as well.”
 

Ron got a little impatient. “Let’s cut the chase, shall we. Have you found the Maximilian Set in your storage or not?”

Pedro took a deep long breath in, held it for a minute and then let it out. “No. Not yet.”

“When would you be in the position to give us a definite answer?” Ron insisted.

“My curators are still looking.” Pedro leaned forward to underline his next point. “We did a little research on the Maximilian Jewels. Up until now, we hadn’t considered them to be important elements of our national history. They were never on display, were never lent to any other institution, and were never used in any special exhibition. But to have them stolen from our vaults, and I insist that we don’t just let gold and diamond jewelry lie around in unprotected storage, to have them stolen from us is a great loss. The estimated value that you mentioned makes that evident.”

“Sir, when?” Ron ran out of patience.

“Mere hours. The jewelry vaults don’t hold too many items. But because the description on the index card fits the descriptions and drawings you brought along, I fear the worst.” Pedro shook his head. “I beg you to keep this whole affair extremely confidential. It would do tremendous harm to the reputation of the museum.”

Ron just nodded. I knew that he could care less about the museum’s reputation or the director’s ass, especially coming from another country.

Pedro Vasolar promised to keep us up to date of any development. We did the same and the meeting was over.

For our way back to the hotel, we decided to walk through the park. I had the anthill analogy again in front of my inner eye: people everywhere, families, joggers, strollers, pairs, police, businessmen, all enjoying the winter evening. I looked at Fowler. “What is your impression?”

Fowler looked back at the museum. “I have to read the fine print of our contract with the museum to find out exactly when our coverage is valid and make some checks with the museum. From what we just heard, you could probably argue neglect. But if it is anywhere close to our usual standards, we will have to pay up. All the way. Our underwriters will not be happy.”

Ron led us to a crowded sidewalk cafe on the opposite side of the street, facing the hotel.
 

“Work isn’t over yet,” he explained mysteriously. He asked one of the waitresses something and she pointed into the back of the cafe. We trotted along until we came to a booth with a little guy in a flamboyant white suit, slicked black hair, and a white summer hat. He was having a cup of coffee as he waited for us. He jumped up when he saw me and Ron introduced us. “Meet Inspector Lobos Coronel of the local theft division of the Mexico City Police Department. The museum is in his bailiwick.”

“Senora,” Inspector Coronel was kissing my hand affectionately. Finally, I had to come that far. He had a nice smile, I am not so keen on smaller men but he had something ‘agreeable.’

Ron introduced Fowler and we sat down. We were on a first name basis instantly.

“Your story sounded irresistible,” Lobos said. “A theft of something so valuable, so mysteriously, not found out for so long.” He spoke a slow English with a nice melody to it.

“We have met with Mr. Vasolar and his staff is currently checking. But I think we are all convinced that the Maximilian Jewels have been stolen,” Ron explained the situation. “Are you able to help us?”

“Gladly.” Lobos leaned back, enjoying the attention. “My superiors gave me the green light to support your investigation in any way I could. I forewarn you my friends; this affair might well go political.”

“Why is that?” Ron asked.

“The Mexican government is a little touchy when it comes to the looting of their national heritage. Add to that the fact that the criminals were probably American, Californians, too. That really, really hurts our pride.” Lobos wiggled his index finger at us as if we were evil American colonists.