Captain Noonan, the “Bearded Holmes” of the Sandersonville Police Department, was busy with one of his most pleasurable pastimes: a crossword puzzle. He loved crossword puzzles – and jigsaws – because every word/piece fit. In no other aspect of life does everything work where it is supposed to. However, he never finished a crossword or jigsaw puzzle because after the initial flourishes of “I know what that word is!” and “I know where this piece fits!” the puzzles become puzzling. Then it isn’t fun anymore.

It was just about to become ‘not fun anymore’ when Harriet, the office administrative assistant and common sense virtuoso, sidled up to Noonan’s desk and asked, “Did you hear about the idiot  who went to the Sistine Chapel?”

Noonan looked up and gave her a strange look. “A joke? This early in the morning?”

“Who said it was a joke?”

“OK, it’s not a joke. No, I did not hear about the idiot in the Sistine Chapel.”

“Well, he was being shown the painting on the ceiling, and he asked who had painted the masterpiece.”

“Yeah, Michelangelo. I know that. And what did the idiot say?”

“He didn’t believe a turtle had done the painting.”

Noonan was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Clearly there’s a reason to put instructions on shampoo bottles. And you are telling me this because . . .” he let the sentence hang.

Harriet pointed to his desk phone, “The woman on Line One swears a burglar is breaking into her museum and stealing nothing.”

 

* * *

 

“Noonan. What can I do for you?”

“Captain Noonan?”

“Better be. That’s what it says on my badge. What can I do for you?” Noonan dug through his desk for a notebook.

“I’m not sure anything. I mean, people call you about crimes, and I don’t know if this is a crime. I mean, I’m not in the crime business. Oh,” her voice clearly indicated she was horrified at what she just said. “I didn’t mean that. I meant I’m not in the law and order business, so I don’t really . . . ”

“Take it easy. We’ll sort this out. Why don’t you start by telling me who you are and why you are calling. I’ll take it from there.”

“My name is Magdel Pangolin, and, no, I have nothing to do with the animal.”

“Animal?”

“Pangolin. It’s a spiny anteater. I just happened to be named that way.”

“OK, Ms. Pangolin. Let’s go on from there.”

“Well, I manage the Pangolin Art Museum in Scarborough. Colorado. I think there’s a Scarborough in North Carolina.”

“A lot of them. Scarborough, that is. Now, your story . . .”

“I’m not sure I caught that.”

“The Scarboroughs are a huge family in Sandersonville. Now, as to your story . . ”

“Well, it’s a story but not a crime so to speak. Over the past month, the museum has had an extra guard who was never hired by the museum.”

“Guard, as in someone who is hired to watch the paintings?”

“Yes, that’s right. But you have to understand, it’s not as simple as one group of guards. See, we are a multi-level, scattered establishment.”

Noonan wrote ‘scattered’ in his notebook as he said, “I don’t understand.”

“The Pangolin Art Museum is only about one-quarter of a complex footage. We are linked to a sculpture gallery, Native Arts Hall, and an exposition center for traveling exhibits – not to mention a library and workshop. We all are connected in a sense you can walk from one to the other without going through a security doorway. During the day. After hours, there is a coded key box entry between all of the entities.”

“Does each entity have its own security guards?”

“Not really. We all share the cost, and the guards roam during the night. All night they wander on some pattern.”

“You said one of the guards was not hired but was there?”

“Correct. Sort of. He was a docent. Do you know what a docent is?”

“Kind of a retired teacher or artist who volunteers to be at the museum to answer questions and be friendly.”

“Correct. He appeared as a guard even though he had not been hired as a guard. He was well-known to the regular guards. They, that is, the guards, pull shifts around the clock, so they had seen him over the years. When he showed up in a guard’s uniform, no one thought it odd.”

“But if he wasn’t a guard, how did he get in after the entities were closed?”

“He could have put on the uniform and stayed in the office or a bathroom after the museum closed. The guards did a human check, and when they saw him in a uniform, they assumed he was on the payroll as a guard.”

“But you figured it out.”

“Sort of. A comment was made, and I called the security company. They checked their files and found no contract with the docent. Then they checked with the guards and found he had been there after hours on three different occasions.”

“And nothing was stolen.”

“That is correct, Captain Noonan. This is why I feel odd at even talking to you on the phone. The docent went to a lot of trouble to get a uniform and then pose as a guard on three different occasions. Then, with no property stolen, what I am asking is: what am I missing?”

“I’m not sure. How do you know the extra guard is the docent? He might have a twin brother.”

“I don’t know that he does. But nothing is missing. That’s odd?”

Noonan shook his head. “I agree; it is odd. OK, get a pen and paper, and I’ve got some questions for you.”

“I’m prepared.”

“Here goes, first, of course, does the docent have a twin brother, where is he now, what is his background, when does he usually get off work, on the occasions he was there did he leave with a package, how many guards are on patrol on any one night, has there been any missing items from any of the four entities in the past year, if so, what and was the perpetrator caught, what’s the most valuable piece of art in all entities, how often do you change exhibits, who did the actual inventory to make sure nothing was missing and, and, and that’s all I can think about at the moment. I may have some other questions later.”

“I can answer some of these questions right now . . .”

“No. I need all the answers together.”

 

* * *

 

Noonan spent the next two days perplexed. Crimes usually involve money, revenge, or jealousy. But it was usually money. Perps oozing revenge or jealousy are relatively easy to capture. They make so many mistakes. The first big one was not “moving on down the road” rather than acting on their revenge or jealousy impulses.

Crimes involving money were a bit different. The best ones take planning, and by the time the forces of John Law catch up to the perps, the money is l-o-n-g g-o-n-e – if the perps are caught all. What most people do not realize it might take a dozen bank robberies before the perp is caught. But, if he/she had stopped at ten robberies, he/she might be in the clear forever.

But greed’ ill getcha every time, as the old saying goes.

When Pangolin called back, Noonan was still mulling over the possibilities and, frankly, did not have a single line of approach that appeared reasonable.

“OK,” Pangolin said when Noonan came on the line. “I’ve got your answers, but I do not know what good they will do you.”

“Let’s hear what you’ve got.”

“The docent does not have a twin brother and stated he was the person in the guard’s uniform.”

“But he didn’t say why,” Noonan said ahead of Pangolin.

“That is correct. He didn’t say why. Unfortunately, we had to tell him we could not use him as a docent anymore. He did not seem to take it hard.”

“Whatever it was he did, it’s done, and he doesn’t need to be a docent anymore. How long had he been a docent with you?”

“About ten years. He and his wife are retired art teachers. She was a docent too but stopped two years ago when their three children came home from art college with no jobs. She had to find a job that paid. She’s a substitute teacher during the day and a college adjunct in the evenings. I’m assuming he’ll find a paying job again too.”

“Sad story. Go on.”

“Docents usually arrive at 10 am and work until 6 pm on whatever schedule they have. Some work all day; others are sporadic in terms of time and days. They are not paid, so we can’t tell them when to show up. On the nights he was a security guard, he did not leave with a package. He could not leave with a package during the day. Any day. That’s because anyone with a package, briefcase, or large purse gets searched on the way out of the complex. Or in. Anyone coming with a package, briefcase, or large purse had to put it in the locker. That’s simply procedure.”

“That makes sense,” Noonan replied.

Pangolin continued, “There are 18 guards per day, around the clock, and they are all long-term, which is why they were not surprised to see the docent. Nothing of value has been stolen in the last year, and there have been no break-ins in the last year. We did have some homeless people living in the dumpsters behind the museum, but there was nothing to steal in the dumpsters. The most valuable paintings we have are priceless in the sense we cannot sell them. On the open market, we are talking about $50,000, maybe. But we cannot sell them; they’re donated, and the terms of the donations are that we cannot sell the artwork. The bulk of our paintings are modern art, pop art, cubist, abstract or Fauvism.”

“Fauvism?”

“It’s a school of art from about a century ago. Representational. Pull up a Matisse on the internet, and you’ll see what I mean. The point I am making is the artwork here is not big dollar. It’s esoteric. You won’t find it on private gallery walls for sale.”

“But it does have a value?”

“Yes, but you have to understand how the art world works. You can offer anything for sale, but you have to have a name to get the big dollars. Andy Warhol could sell the painting of Campbell Soup can because he was Andy Warhol. Joe Smith can sell the painting of a bottle of Ketchup, but he will not get anywhere near what Warhol would get for the same painting. It’s publicity that matters – unfortunately (sigh) – as much as the quality of the artwork.”

“Go on with the answers.”

“As to your last question, the inventory of the various entities was done by their staff. My staff and I did the inventory of our artwork. It wasn’t hard because if something were missing, there would have been blank space on a wall. There was no blank space where a painting should have been.”

“I see. But did you go, yourself, through the museum to make sure each painting which should have been on the upper half of the south wall, for instance, was still there?”

“No. I just divided up the museum by rooms, 17 of them, and had our interns do the inventory. They found no blank spots.”

“I see. Did the docent say anything when he was retired, so to speak?”

“No. Odd. He just said it was at a good time. He said he wanted to spend more time with his children and helping them get their art careers off the ground.”

And a distant clang went off in the deepest recesses of Noonan’s mind.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Harriet slipped into Noonan’s office. She said to his back – because his front was deep in concentration probing for a ten-letter word for an Italian Jewish painter of the late 19th Century. “Picasso it is not,” she said when she figured out with which word he was wrestling.

Because he had already put in one letter: the “i” at the end of the word.

And he was tapping on the “8 Across” clue.

“Picasso was Spanish and in the 20th Century. And he’s still selling.”

“Speaking of selling,” she said and shoved a copy of the Scarborough Centennial between Noonan’s eyes and the crossword puzzle, “you sold a few papers yourself.”

Across the top of the paper was the headline, “BEARDED HOLMES SOLVES MYSTERY OF ART MUSEUM,” and beneath that, in smaller letters, “Attendance to the Pangolin Art Museum doubles!”

Harriet let her eyes drift upwards.

But not to Heaven. To the ceiling tiles where, two floors above, was the throne room of the Sandersonville Commissioner of Homeland Security who was death on anyone but himself when it came to getting public kudos. “His majesty will not be happy.”

“Oh,” Noonan said softly, “I’m sure he will get some local ink.” He tapped the Scarborough Centennial with his pencil. (Who does crossword puzzles with a pen anyway?) The instant he knows there’s an iota of publicity to be had, he’ll claim the credit.”

“All of it.”

“That’s the way of the world, Harriet. The longer your job titles, the less you do.”

“Speaking of doing, what, exactly did you do?”

“I’m sure it’s in the newspaper. Read, it’s great exercise for the eyes.”

“I’m blind.”

Noonan smiled. “Simply a matter of thinking off the wall. There was a docent passing himself off as a security guard. Three times. He had been around the Pangolin Art Museum so long he was well-known by sight. So, when he showed up in guard’s uniform, the guards just accepted him. They didn’t know he was ‘off the clock,’ so to speak. They didn’t check to make sure he was legitimate.”

“But he didn’t steal anything,” Harriet said, tapping the Scarborough Centennial.

“He wasn’t there to steal, Harriet. He was there to place. See, the guards check every package, briefcase, large purse, box, and grocery bag coming out of the museum. And coming in. Apparently, and this is only my guess, over some time he brought in three paintings.”

Harriet shook her head as if to clear the thought. “He brought paintings into an art museum?! That makes no sense. Perps take painting out, not in. Besides, how can you get a painting into an art museum if the guards are checking ‘every package, briefcase, large purse, box and grocery bag coming out of the museum,’ to use your term.”

“He had a background in art, so he knew what he was doing. He took the paintings apart and smuggled them in a piece at a time. The canvas he rolled into a tube and probably stuck in his jacket sleeve or taped to his thigh. He smuggled in the pieces of the frames one at a time the same way. He put everything in his locker inside the museum. Then, one at a time, when he needed them, he put the paintings together again.”

“Why would he do that?”

“For his kids, Harriet. His children. Three children. They were artists with no creds, no credibility. See, the docent was not there to make paintings out of the museum. He was putting them in. He had three children who were struggling artists, so he smuggled – frame piece by canvas roll – into the museum so he could reassemble them and hang them in the appropriate rooms. You know, cubist, pop art, modern or abstract. The point was to have the public accept them as the equivalent of the masters of cubist, pop art, modern and abstract. The longer they were there, the more acceptance by the public.”

Harriet nodded. “I get it. After a while he’d leak it to the press three living, local artists had work so good it was hanging on the Pangolin Art Museum’s walls next to the Masters.”

“That’s my bet. The Museum would not admit to being conned, so it would say something like, ‘We wanted to see if art aficionados would accept local cubist or pop art or abstract talent.’ There would be a blast of publicity, and the sale of the art by the docent’s three children would sell.”

“Three children. Three paintings. Why didn’t the Museum know the artwork was there?”

“That’s the cleverest part of the plot. The Museum suspected the docent was stealing, so they only checked the paintings they had. They did an inventory check. The director sent low-level employees to verify every painting that was supposed to be on the wall in such-and-such position was still there. They all were. But they did not look for blank spots on the wall that now had paintings. That was not their job.”

“So they did not see what was there.”

“A nice way of putting it.”

“Apparently, it worked,” Harriet tapped the paper. “Museum attendance is up, and the three paintings have jumpstarted some careers.” She quoted a line in the article, “As good as the Masters themselves, good enough to pass muster.”

“Publicity, Harriet, publicity. It all about the Monet.”