David Hosp: Among Thieves

“Why would you do this?”

“Because my client is dead. A girl lost her father. I want to know why.” He pointed to the chair beside him. “Now sit.”

Bass sunk into the seat. He closed his eyes and turned toward the sun again. “What would you do?” he asked. “If I said you were right, would you tell the police?”

“Depends,” Finn said.

“On what?”

“On whether you give me a good enough reason not to.”

Bass sat very still for a long time. “I’m dying,” he said at last.

“We’re all dying,” Finn replied.

“The doctors say a year at the outside.”

“I’m sorry. But that’s not a reason.”

Bass opened his eyes and picked up his glass. He didn’t even bother to sniff the wine this time; he took a long drink. “I love the museum,” he said. “I love what it stands for. Can you imagine, building something that beautiful? One person. One vision. And then leaving all that beauty to the world forever? It is, perhaps, one of the greatest accomplishments I can think of.” He was looking off at some distant point, and his eyes had lost their focus. Then he looked sharply at Finn. “That place saved my life,” he said. “It fed me. It clothed me. It took me in. But more than that, it gave me a reason to live. In some ways, it gave me life itself. That sounds delusional to you, I’m sure.”

Finn shook his head. “No,” he said. “It doesn’t. But it doesn’t explain why you would steal from a place like that.”

“To save it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You see, Mr. Finn, I didn’t have much of a choice,” Bass said. “Jimmy Bulger could be-how did you put it before?-very persuasive.”

“He threatened to kill you?” Finn guessed.

“No, no, he knew me too well for that. He knew that I would never hurt the museum to save myself.”

“What then?”

“He threatened to take it all away from me. To take it away from the world.” Finn stared blankly back at the old man as he continued. “I lived in that neighborhood for a long time. I knew Bulger’s mother, and I was nice to her. He never bothered me until that one time, when he came to me and he told me that a friend of his wanted to rob the museum. I was outraged. I told him I would call the police, right then and there, and I would have, too. He knew it. So he used the only thing I ever loved against me. He told me that if I didn’t help them, they would burn the museum to the ground. It wasn’t an idle threat, either. I knew he had the people who could do it. That was always the greatest fear at the museum-a fire. Even if it gets put out, the damage to the building, and the destruction of the artwork from the fire and smoke and water, would be catastrophic. He told me all this; told me what they would do. And then he grabbed me by the shoulders and said, ‘Sam, only you can save the museum.’” Bass’s hands shook at the memory, and he took another sip of his wine. “It was a rationalization, I know, but I accepted it. We struck a deal; it would be a one-time thing, and then they would leave the museum alone forever.”

“You chose the paintings,” Finn said.

“I did. They wanted the most valuable, and only a few. I gave them almost all that they wanted.”

“Except The Rape of Europa, by Titian.”

“That’s true. I didn’t give them the Titian. Bulger was angry when he read the papers the next day and learned that I hadn’t told them to take the most valuable painting in the place, but I didn’t care. There are stories of how proud Mrs. Jack was when she acquired that painting. She had parties just to celebrate, and she called her museum complete with it. The depths of my betrayal wouldn’t go so far as to sacrifice that painting. In the end, Bulger got over it. I think he ultimately thought it was a good thing, because the choice of artwork confused investigators-particularly with the knickknacks that Devon Malley apparently decided to pilfer while he was there.”

“What did you get out of it?” Finn asked.

“Nothing,” Bass replied. “I wouldn’t have taken any money even if they’d offered-and they did. All I got out of it was a promise that Bulger would leave the museum alone after that, and that he would put the word out to other thieves that the museum was under his protection, so that no one else would ever attempt a robbery again. Other than that, I thought it was ended for me.”

“But it wasn’t,” Finn said. “Not quite.”

“No, not quite. Bulger came to me some time later and told me that he hadn’t been able to get rid of the paintings. He said he needed to hide them, and he wanted my help to make sure it was done in a way so that they wouldn’t lose their value.”

“And you helped him.”

“Of course,” Bass said, his eyes wide. “The only thing worse than the paintings being stolen would have been for them to be destroyed. As long as they were protected, there was always a chance that they would find their way home. So I stretched the canvases for him, and remounted them. Then I helped him build the storage box and I made sure that it would keep the paintings safe in the self-storage room.”

“What happened next?”

“Nothing. Not for fifteen years. I managed to put the whole thing behind me; managed to tell myself that I had done the right thing to protect my museum; managed to tell myself that Mrs. Jack would appreciate what I’d done for her, even. Only the empty frames on the walls served as a reminder, but I managed, even, to live with them. Then two months ago I heard that the paintings were being offered for sale. There have been rumors before, but not like this. Baxter made clear that this seemed to be genuine. When I had been diagnosed six months before, I wrote out a note that told where the paintings were so they would be found after I died. I thought that I might fix this all, in the end. With the offer to sell the paintings, though, all that was slipping away, and it looked like they would be lost again. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“So you took them?”

Bass nodded. “I took them. I watched the self-storage for two nights. Once I was convinced it could be done, I used the key Bulger had left with me so I could get in and check on the paintings to make sure they were being preserved, and I took them. It took me almost an entire night, and the exertion nearly killed me, but I did it.”

“And more people died.”

Bass looked down at his wine, and his face grew sad. “Rest assured, Mr. Finn, I will be judged by higher powers than you shortly, and I don’t believe I will be judged well.”

Finn sat there for another few moments, with neither of them talking. He raised his hand to the waiter and pantomimed a signature in the air to indicate that they were ready for the check. “One last question,” Finn said. “Why not return the paintings now? You’d be a hero.”

Bass shook his head. “I’d be a Judas. I am an old man, with little life left in me. The only solace I have is Mrs. Jack’s museum. It is the only thing in this world that ever truly gave me joy. If it was revealed that I had participated in the robbery-that I had kept quiet all these years…? No, Mr. Finn, I would certainly not be a hero, and I have little doubt that I would no longer be welcome in the museum. In my home. It’s selfish of me, I know, but I still believe I had the best intentions, and I am not yet willing to give up the one thing that I love. Given how little time I have, it will be enough that the paintings are returned upon my death, don’t you think?”

“That’s a question for your own conscience,” Finn said.

“It is.” Bass leaned forward. “The question for your conscience, Mr. Finn, is what will you tell the police?”

Finn took a twenty out of his wallet and put it down on the table to cover the drinks. “Do you have a will?” Finn asked.