Feint of Art: by Hailey Lind Page A

of dirty turpentine, picked them up, and studied their ruined bristles. Pigment had settled to the bottom of the glass jar and formed a sludge, which meant the solvent was at least a few days old. These were good—read: expensive—brushes, made of sable and badger hair. No working artist would spoil fine brushes like these unless he was in a very big hurry.
    What now? Look for an appointment book? Surely Anton was too experienced a felon to write down anything incriminating. Or not. I stumbled over to a large desk and riffled halfheartedly through a few piles. Honestly, Anton was even worse than I was when it came to organization. Looking through a couple of drawers jammed with odds and ends, the assorted detritus of a messy life, I noticed a dog-eared brochure for an upcoming “Fabulous Fakes” art show in Chicago. Idly I wondered if there was a purse offered for the best in show and whether I had a shot. It might be an easier way to make the rent than my current line of work.
    Nothing provided any insight into Anton’s whereabouts, so I sat in the desk chair and waited for inspiration.
    Aha! A portfolio perched on a worktable across the room looked suspiciously similar to the one Anthony Brazil had carried yesterday. I’d noticed it at the time because it was not the standard-issue black portfolio sold in most art stores. This one was marbleized, like the endplates found in expensive leather-bound books, and had a European-style gold crest in one corner and a gilt border along the top edge. I went over to the table and opened it.
    As a former Old Master drawings forger myself, I immediately recognized what I’d found. Inside were numerous drawings, in the same league as the ones Brazil had shown me. Criminal mastermind that Anton was, he had left these forgeries lying right out in the open. The possibilities of what this meant were flooding my mind when a voice split the silence.

Chapter 5
     
     
     
     
Richard Parkes Bonington died at the age of twenty-six, yet since 1850, more than three thousand paintings have been attributed to him. Either Bonington produced a painting a day for ten straight years—or there is rampant fraud afoot.
     
—Georges LeFleur, “Fakes and Forgers,” unfinished manuscript, Reflections of a World-Class Art Forger
     
    “I take it you’re an art lover?”
    I jumped about three feet, dropped the drawings, and knocked over a half-empty cup of tea, splashing its contents on the cluttered worktable.
    A figure was silhouetted in the doorway, leaning against a shelf crammed with art supplies. I could barely make out his face, but it was clear that this was not Anton. On the positive side, he appeared to have a neck and he was not holding a weapon trained on me.
    “I was just . . . uh . . . looking for Anton,” I stammered, surreptitiously shoving the incriminating drawings under a pile of painting rags before grabbing the rag on top and mopping up the tea.
    “And you thought he might be under those drawings?” the stranger asked, not budging from his post at the studio’s only exit.
    “Certainly not,” I snapped, adrenaline coursing through my body in response to the fight-or-flight instinct. Not presently being criminally inclined and never, under any circumstance, cool under fire, my preference was to flee. However, since the stranger did not appear to be ready to move, and shimmying down the rickety lattice outside the second-story window seemed ill advised, I tried my best to adopt a menacing stance. At five feet three inches, it was a stretch. “Who the hell are you?” I demanded.
    “Michael Johnson, at your service,” the stranger said, bowing his head and stepping into the studio. He was wearing a dark brown leather bomber jacket, pressed khaki pants, and a snowy white shirt, open at the collar. A slightly lopsided smile showed straight white teeth and made endearing little wrinkles around sea green eyes. Not that I noticed.
    “Unghh,” I said suavely. “What are you