“You’re right; Ruskin is eccentric,” I murmured.
“That’s not him,” Bridget said. “That’s his valet.” She put her finger to her lips, then glanced at a red plastic globe on the wall above the window. “That’s a camera and a microphone that is very, very sensitive.”
The door opened again. Another man entered, leisurely walked the length of the room, and stood next to the figure in white.
“Ruskin?” I whispered.
Bridget nodded.
I’d pictured Ruskin as a raw-boned flinty-eyed Yankee with a mouth full of horse teeth, mop of unruly hair and a profile that looked as if it had been carved from a granite quarry. Bad call. Ruskin was as bald as a bullet, had a neck that belonged on a cartoon bully and looked as if he chewed steroids as candy. He was wearing a snug T-shirt and shorts that showed off a buff physique. His hands looked as if they could hurt someone.
He said, “Thank you for coming, Mr. Socarides. Please pardon the unusual meeting arrangements. This is a protected environment. I suffer from a number of acute allergies, all potentially life-threatening. It’s a rare, progressive affliction particular to the Ruskin family. This gentleman is an employee of mine. The suit he has on is to protect me from outside allergens that would cause a severe reaction.”
Despite his mauler looks, Ruskin spoke with a cultured accent that carried echoes of an English boarding school.
“No different than talking over the phone,” I said, although it was a lot different. “Ms. Callahan said you need a private detective to recover some valuable property.”
“Correct. Tell me, are you familiar with the work of Elmer Crowell?”
“The bird-carver?”
“That’s right, although he was much more than that. Allen Elmer Crowell is considered the Father of American Bird Carving. He was the master of a unique form of American art who has been called the Cezanne of waterfowl carvers. Another question. Have you heard of Viktor Orloff?”
I would have to have been stuck in a cave not to know about Orloff. His face had been in all the papers and on TV. “Sure. Orloff was the financial guy who conned his clients out of millions of dollars. Were you one of them?”
Ruskin’s lips twitched in an almost-smile.
“I knew better than to invest money with that slimy old grifter. We had a business arrangement. He had agreed to sell me a preening merganser.”
“Come again?”
“It was a carving, part of a set of six half-scale models that Crowell had carved for special friends. I own the other five. I paid Orloff for the decoy, but before I could pick it up he was arrested and put in jail. The judge denied bail because Orloff was a flight risk. His house was sealed with all its contents.”
“Including the bird?”
He nodded. “As you probably know, Orloff was convicted and went to prison. He had my money but I didn’t have the decoy.”
“No chance of getting your money back through legal channels?”
“Unlikely. Even if I could dig it out of whatever black hole Orloff had hidden it in.”
“I see the problem. There must have been a long line of people trying to get their investments back.”
“I wasn’t an investor. I could prove that I owned the bird. I didn’t want my money. I wanted the decoy to complete the set. An intact set of Crowell decoys would be worth millions, but the bird was desirable to me as a collector.”
“Any chance you could get the house unsealed?”
“Yes, under ordinary circumstances, but the house burned down before my lawyers could file a claim. Cause of the fire is still unknown. Then Orloff died in prison of a heart attack, which surprised many people who didn’t think he had a heart.”
“The decoy?”
“It supposedly went up in flames.”
“You sound like you have doubts.”
Ruskin whispered to the man in the white suit, who went to a wall cabinet and slid open a glass door. He reached inside and came out with a large plastic cube. He carried it back to Ruskin who set the container on the desk, flipped the lid back, took something out and held it above his head like an offering to the gods.
The carved bird in his hands was around half the size of a real one. Its copper-colored head was turned back in a graceful curve with the long, sharp beak pointed at the tail. The gray and white feathers painted on the wooden wings looked so real they could have riffled in the breeze.
“The preening merganser has everything Crowell was famous for,” Ruskin said, lowering his arms. “Attention to detail, accuracy, and beauty.”
“You’re confusing me, Mr. Ruskin. You said the merganser is missing, presumably burned.”
“It is.”
He turned the bird over and brought it to the window, close enough for me to see the black oval sticker on the bottom. Printed on the sticker in silver letters were the words: “Copy of A. E. Crowell Preening Merganser. Product of China.”
“A Chinese rip-off?” I said.
“Yes. A well-done fake, but still a fake.”
“What does it have to do with the missing bird?”
“Everything, Mr. Socarides. Only someone with access to the Crowell carving could have made a reproduction that is so accurate in every respect to the original.”
“Not sure I understand.”
“Ms. Callahan?” Ruskin said.
Bridget explained.
“The reproduction was advertised for sale in a collectors’ publication. It was purchased for a hundred and fifty dollars. My firm’s investigators traced the bird to a manufacturer in Hunan province, China, which specializes in making wooden reproductions of all kinds. The original piece is scanned digitally and the data fed into computer-guided laser carving machines. Skilled craftsmen do the final detailing.”
“That would mean the Chinese had access to the original?”
“Indirectly,” she said. “A company in upstate New York does the scanning and transmits the data to China.”
Ruskin rejoined the discussion. “And I believe the American and Chinese companies used the real decoy to manufacture the fake.”
“Do you know who contracted for the work?”
“No. Someone dropped the carving off, waited while it was scanned and picked it up. Payment was in cash.”
“Could they have copied it from a photo?”
“Yes. But not as accurately as this,” Ruskin answered. “Crowell knew bird anatomy from years as a professional hunter, and his birds were accurate in every detail. Moreover, he imbued his models with life. This is good for a fake, but without the hand of the master it is just a prettied up piece of wood.”
“Have you been able to run a trace on the magazine ad?”
He put the carving back into the case, closed the cover, and handed the container to his valet, who carried it from the room. Ruskin lowered his athletic body into the swivel chair, leaned his elbows on the desktop and tented his fingers.
“The ad was placed by something called Elmer’s Workshop. No email address. Orders went through PayPal. The ad listed a post office box in the town of Harwich, Massachusetts where, coincidentally, Crowell lived and worked.”
“Any idea who rents the P.O. Box?”
“No. It’s since been closed.”
“Any chance the reproduction was made before the fire?”
“The records at the New York and Chinese operations show that the reproduction was made after the fire, indicating that the original survived the blaze.”
“What would you like me to do, Mr. Ruskin?”
“I believe finding the source of the fake will lead you to my property. You may have some contacts locally. Having city detectives poking around would attract unwanted attention. You understand the need to be discreet, of course.”