Leaving traffic sounds and threatening black clouds outside and entering the imaginary world of movies, I stepped into Classic Hollywood Memorabilia. The shop was located in a long, narrow space stuck between two larger antique stores on south Broadway in the heart of Denver’s “Antique Row”, a section known for its multitude of stores and specialty shops that dealt exclusively in antiques.
As my eyes adjusted to the controlled lighting in the store, I saw a diminutive man at the back stand up and adjust his tie and pinstripe suit. He ran a hand over his white hair and tugged at the ponytail that touched his coat collar before he recognized me. Then a smile spread across his wrinkled face.
“’Allo, Reed. How are you?” Henri Benoit limped around the counter and shook my hand vigorously. “You have the poster, yes?”
Henri, a World War II veteran who injured his leg in the Battle of France in the spring of 1940, was a transplant straight from Paris. He had been a well-known and respected antiques dealer in France, but had also become an expert in Hollywood memorabilia, moving to the U.S. years ago to further that interest. Henri loved anything related to the movies, but had a special appreciation for the Golden Age of Hollywood, the 1930’s and ’40’s. An avid collector himself, Henri turned his love of classic movies into a thriving business, buying and selling vintage posters, placards, props, autographs, and anything else related to the cinema. He was also a noted appraiser, and his expertise was highly valued in the collector’s arena. His keen eye missed nothing, and for this he charged high fees, which weeded out both the novice collectors and the swindlers. “Would you like some tea?” he asked, finally letting go of my hand.
“No, thanks,” I said. “Here’s the poster I told you about.”
When I purchased my Bogart poster, Henri had appraised it to make sure it was authentic. I knew I could count on him to check my suspicions of The Maltese Falcon poster that Jack Healy had given to me. After my tentative look at the poster this morning at the office, I had called Henri, but he wasn’t available until after lunch. I came to the shop at two, barely containing my collector’s excitement.
“Ah, what have we here?” Even though Henri had been in the states for years, he still spoke with a stereotypical French accent, and with a penchant to end all sentences with a question. He gingerly took the poster from me and went behind the counter to the back of the store, where he used a dime-sized side room as a work area. “Where did you get this?” he called back to me as he laid the poster on a wooden table.
My eyes had been wandering around the small store, gazing enviously at all the wonderful memorabilia for sale. There were posters from a variety of old movies, autographed 8x10’s of dozens of famous Hollywood actors from Bing Crosby and John Wayne to Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise, props, and clothing worn by actors. It was like walking into a Planet Hollywood restaurant that specialized in the golden age of movies, only all the memorabilia was for sale. I leaned on the counter and could see him studying the poster. “A friend gave that to me.”
“Come, come.” He beckoned me to join him. “Let’s get a closer look, eh?” He donned a set of bifocals and set to work on the frame, treating the poster like priceless artwork from a museum. “Ah, another Bogie movie. I’ll bet you’re drooling over it now, eh?” I laughed. Henri knew how fond I was of Bogart movies. He finished removing the poster and set the frame aside. We stared down at the piece of paper, appreciating it.
“Let’s do a couple of simple tests,” Henri said. He bent down and sniffed at the paper, then had me do the same. “What do you smell?”
“It’s musty,” I said. “That’s one of the things that got me wondering about its age.” Recent posters have a new smell to them, but old books, papers, and documents sometimes have a different smell, a stale, old smell like walking into an unfinished cellar. Smelling the paper wasn’t a foolproof method of authentication, but it’s a start.
Just then a bell above the store entrance jingled, indicating a customer. “Excuse me a moment,” Henri said. He paused to straighten his tie before leaving the room.
I glanced over my shoulder and got a brief glimpse of the man who had come in, but I didn’t want to be nosy about Henri’s customers, so I occupied myself by calling Deuce.
“Hello?” he answered in a hushed voice.
“It’s me,” I said, talking in a low voice so I wouldn’t disturb Henri. “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” he whispered.
“Why are you whispering?” I whispered back.
“I don’t want anyone to hear us.”
“Who’s there?”
“No one.”
“Oh.” I said, resuming a more normal voice level. “I’m sure you don’t have to worry about that. Have you seen anybody going in the house?”
“Yes,” Deuce hissed. “I saw a man go in the back door at 12:40. I wrote it down because you said to do that. He had a small cardboard box with him. He was inside for fifteen minutes, and he came back out with the same box.”
“What’d he look like? Was he an inspector?”
“How should I know? He was just a guy.”
If you don’t ask a Goofball Brother for specifics, you won’t get specifics from him. I should have known. “What else?”
“That’s all. Except – ” He stopped abruptly.
“I, uh... A neighbor saw me, Reed. An old man across the street. He asked me what I was doing hanging around.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“That I was waiting for my realtor to let me in.” I was impressed with his smooth thinking, and I told him so. “I saw the ‘for sale’ sign out front,” Deuce said, with a touch of pride. “That’s how I thought of it. I went around to the back of the house after that.”
“Good job.”
“You should talk to the old man, though.”
“Why?”
“He says the house is haunted. He was giving me the creeps, talking about lights being on and stuff.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I don’t want to be here at night, okay? In the daytime’s fine, but not after dark.”
“No problem,” I said. I could hear Henri wrapping up in the other room. “I’ve got to go. Can you watch the house until six and then meet me at B 52’s?” I knew that both Ace and Deuce should be home from work by then. “And see if you can get Ace to take over for you and watch the house when you leave.”
“All right. I’ll see you tonight.”
While Henri worked out some details for appraisals, I put away my cell phone and looked closer at The Maltese Falcon poster. The quality of the paper seemed similar to my other poster. Almost all new posters use a heavier paper, but old ones were advertisements, not meant to have any long-term purposes, so they were printed on cheap paper.
Henri finished with his customer and came back into the room, and I told him what I had been thinking. “Yes,” he said, tipping his head thoughtfully. “I noticed the same thing. Let’s check one more thing.” He scrutinized the entire poster, his eyes running along the edges and back and forth across the paper.
“Hmm,” he mused. “The paper looks intact, no evidence that the edges have been tampered with.” If a poster was a reprint, the name of a reprinting company might be printed on the edges. People often trimmed such things off the edges of a poster in order to make it pass for an original advertisement. He concentrated on the center, where Humphrey Bogart looked stern and Mary Astor looked stunning.
“Ah, yes,” he finally said. “See?”
I looked where his finger was pointing, at a letter “B” in one corner of the poster. “Studios often included release information for a film, and also marked advertising posters with letters to indicate that it was part of a series of posters. The “B” would indicate that it was the second in a series of prints for the movie. I don’t see an “R” anywhere on the paper, which would tell me that this was a re-released poster.”
I felt my palms getting sweaty. “Are you telling me that this is an original advertising poster from 1941?” It couldn’t be. Ned Healy didn’t have any money to buy such a thing. Or had he bought it long ago, and Samantha and Jack didn’t know he had it?
Henri pulled his glasses off. “Maybe. It could be a very good replica. I need to examine it much more closely before I can say for certain.”
“Okay,” I said. I stared at the poster again. Maybe I was getting excited for nothing. That had to be it. “There’s no hurry. Let me know when you find out if it’s a reproduction or not.”
“Yes, I think I can fit it in. Business has been very good lately. This other gentleman that just came in, I’ve been working with him on some wonderful memorabilia. His collection is truly amazing, some very valuable pieces, but he is parting with some of it.” He gestured at the poster. “But for you, I can make some time. I’ll call you in a few days, maybe a week?”
“That’ll be fine,” I said.
“While you’re here, you want a nice picture of Bacall?” he asked me with a sly smile. “She’s very sexy, yes?” He took every opportunity to tease me about my adoration of Lauren Bacall.
“No, Henri,” I said with a laugh. “Not today.” A beeping interrupted us. My cell phone.
Jack Healy was on the other end. “I need to talk to you,” he said before I could finish saying “hello.” He sounded angry.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s Samantha,” he said, spitting out the words. “I should have known it was her. She’s as greedy as he ever was. If ever there was evil incarnate – ”
“Jack,” I said, discreetly turning away from Henri. “What about Samantha?”
“That bitch,” he almost screamed. “She’s getting a half-million dollar life insurance payoff.”