The Woman in the Blue Cloak

by Deon Meyer

  ‘Donald Duck,’ whispered Vaughn Cupido, with a grin and Griessel had to suppress a guffaw: the description was so spot-on, the voice, the nose, the waddling, dapper, cocky walk, a cockalorum, a cartoon duck. But he was back again, document in hand, and Benny choked back his laughter and watched the professor place the document carefully on the coffee table.

  Wilke said Alicia Lewis had made him sign this first, which naturally piqued his curiosity, who wouldn’t be curious, hey old Vaughn, if someone told you there was a big secret? I mean, I’m a historian, unravelling secrets is my business, my passion.

  So he signed, and she phoned him immediately, here in this house, and told him, Prof, I want you to go to the Cape Archives for me and search for a reference to a painting by Carel Fabritius.

  The prof said the name ‘Carel Fabritius!’ like the ringside announcer at a boxing match who knew he would arouse tumultuous applause.

  An awkward, deathly silence followed. The detectives had not the slightest clue what the professor meant, they had never heard of Fabritius.

  ‘Who?’ asked Cupido.

  ‘Fabritius,’ said the professor emphatically, but with less sense of fanfare, his expectations dampened.

  ‘We don’t know who that is,’ said Griessel.

  ‘The Goldfinch?’ said the professor, still hopeful.

  They both shook their heads.

  ‘Donna Tartt?’ queried the professor, but you could tell he knew by now what their response would be.

  Their blank faces showed they had never heard of her.

  ‘You have heard of Rembrandt?’

  ‘Of course.’ Cupido brightened. ‘Everyone’s heard of Rembrandt.’

  ‘Good, now Carel Fabritius was one of Rembrandt’s pupils. To tell the truth, he was the only one of Rembrandt’s pupils who really developed a style of his own. If you ask me, he was the best of Rembrandt’s pupils.’

  ‘So he’s dead already?’

  ‘Yes, of course . . .’

  ‘Okay, Prof, let’s cut to the chase,’ said Cupido. ‘Why is it a big thing that she asked you about this?’

  ‘Well, first, there are only a couple of Fabritius paintings left around the world, and the possibility that there might be one in South Africa . . . That is phenomenal. But there’s more, much more. I went to search the archives. And I found a reference. A reliable, trusted source, who referred to a Fabritius painting, here in the Cape.’

  12

  ‘Cool,’ said Vaughn Cupido. ‘And who has the painting?’

  ‘Gysbert van Reenen,’ said the professor.

  ‘Do you have an address?’ said Griessel, taking out his notebook and starting to make notes.

  Marius Wilke chuckled, a sound so like the quacking of a duck that Griessel and Cupido could not help laughing too.

  ‘I have an address,’ said Wilke when he calmed down. ‘Papenboom in Newlands. There is only one problem. You are two and a quarter centuries late.’

  They just stared at him.

  ‘The reference to a Fabritius painting was made by Louis Michel Thibault in 1788,’ said Wilke.

  The detectives frowned again.

  ‘Thibault is the one the Thibault Square in the city is named after . . .’

  ‘Aah,’ said Benny Griessel.

  ‘Okay,’ said Vaughn Cupido.

  ‘Thibault was an architect, an influential, wonderful man; it was he who . . . Do you know Groot Constantia, those glorious gables?’

  The detectives nodded.

  ‘Well, it’s believed that those were Thibault’s work. Very interesting man. A Frenchman, highly cultivated, highly educated, and brave too. He was a soldier when he arrived in the Cape in 1783, but okay, okay, you don’t want a lecture now, eh? The important thing is that Alicia Lewis asked me to search for any possible reference to a painting by Fabritius, and I thought it would be a waste of time, but she paid in pounds sterling, and one does not say no to that, not with this exchange rate. And can you believe it, I found it. In 1788. Thibault, who designed and built a house for Gysbert van Reenen on Papenboom in Newlands. Thibault wrote about it in his journal: he was at the house-warming celebration, and hanging on the wall was this astonishingly beautiful painting, and the name at the bottom was C. Fabritius, and the year 1654. Can you believe it? A Fabritius! In the Cape! That is phenomenal.’

  The detectives nodded, but without enthusiasm.

  Griessel looked up from his notebook: ‘In 1788?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Wilke, with passionate amazement.

  ‘Prof, is that what you were talking about on Monday over breakfast? About something that was written hundreds of years ago in a dead oke’s diary?’ Cupido asked.

  ‘Among other things. Oh, it was such a stimulating discussion, she was a fascinating woman, so interesting. Oh, I took her one of my books, incidentally, a copy to sign just for her, she was a very good client . . .’

  ‘And that’s all?’ Griessel asked.

  ‘No, not entirely. I wanted to know if she had traced the painting, if she had followed up the names that I had given her.’

  ‘What names?’

  ‘That’s the thing, old Benny, that’s the thing. Thibault wrote in his diary that the Fabritius painting had been in the Van Reenen family for a few generations already. Over a hundred years. Oubaas van Reenen told him it always went to the oldest son. That was all in the report that I wrote for Alicia. She came back to me immediately, asked me to make a family tree. I had to try to track down Gysbert van Reenen’s descendants. Now why would she want to do that, old Vaughn? Why? She wanted to find out where the painting is now, I am sure of it.’

  ‘And who does have the painting now?’ Cupido asked impatiently. In his opinion Donald Duck could have come to the point a long time ago.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Professor Marius Wilke. ‘The problem is, primogeniture is not always straightforward. Sometimes the eldest son dies before the parents, there aren’t always sons in the paternal line; a number of things can confuse the matter. I sent her nine possible names, of people who are alive, direct descendants of the old Gysbert van Reenen, who might have inherited. If no one has sold it, of course.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘She said thank you very much, and she paid me. I told her, if she ever came to South Africa, she should let me know, and I would give her one of my books, signed of course, since she was my very best client, and not shy to pay. For months I heard nothing, but just last week, I received an email, and she invited me to breakfast in that wonderful hotel.’

  ‘And she told you who has the painting now?’

  The professor’s face fell. ‘No. That was a great disappointment to me. She said it seemed as though the painting . . . as though it had disappeared.’

  They digested this information.

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘Well, at least we had a wonderful discussion, about art and history. She is a very intelligent woman, well read and well travelled and highly cultivated. Highly cultivated.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then I came home, and I went on with my work. But then I heard the news of her passing this morning.’

  They processed this information, disappointed.

  ‘Did she say where she was going, on Monday? Who she wanted to see?’

  ‘No, not that I can remember. She said she just wanted to explore the Cape, and my book was going to make it a very special experience.’

  ‘Did she say anything about Villiersdorp?’

  ‘Villiersdorp?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The professor thought a while. ‘No. Not at all . . .’

  ‘Did she mention any other appointments? People she knew in South Africa?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  Griessel rose reluctantly. He had hoped for more. Then something occurred to him: ‘Were any of the names, those nine names that you gave her, were any of them in Villiersdorp?’

  ‘Old Benny, no, you don’t understand. She only aske
d me for the names, the full names and ID numbers if I could get them. I didn’t . . . I am not geared for finding people, addresses and such. I don’t even drive any more . . .’

  ‘May we have the names, in any case?’

  The professor picked up the document from the coffee table and passed it to Griessel. ‘It’s all here,’ he said. ‘The contract, the confidentiality clause, and the names. I can get the research material for you too, of course.’

  Griessel took the document.

  Cupido stood up. ‘Prof, what do you estimate a Fictitious painting like that is worth?’ he asked.

  ‘Fabritius,’ said Wilke.

  ‘That one,’ said Cupido.

  ‘That’s exactly what I asked her. She said it depends on the condition of the painting. And if it really exists, and if it is genuine. She said it’s impossible to put a value on it, it’s “priceless”, that’s the word she used. So I asked her, what if something like that went on auction, at Christie’s, what did she think it would sell for. And she said, at least fifty million.’

  ‘Shoo,’ said Griessel.

  ‘Dollars,’ said the professor.

  ‘Slaat my . . .’ said Cupido.

  ‘But probably closer to a hundred million.’

  ‘Jissis,’ said Griessel and Cupido in unison.

  He accompanied them to their car. ‘Are you going to catch the people who . . .?’ and he motioned in the direction of the mountains and the pass.

  ‘We’ll do our very best, Professor.’

  ‘You must hurry, old Benny, you must hurry. Before someone smuggles that painting out of the country.’

  They drove the first stretch of the road back to work in silence, taking the N2 and then the R300, while they pondered the new information.

  At last Griessel said, with an air of resignation, ‘Funny old world . . .’

  ‘Damn straight,’ said Cupido. ‘Hundred million dollars . . .’

  ‘A quarter of a century in the SAPS, and I can’t even scrape together twenty-two thousand rand to buy an engagement ring, not even if I sell my bass guitar and my amp. But there are people who can cough up that sort of money for a painting . . .’

  ‘A picture, Benna. That painting is just a picture. A few brush strokes and a pot of paint. By a dead Dutchman.’

  ‘A hundred million dollars.’

  ‘One and a half billion rand. That’s just obscene.’ And then, suddenly worried: ‘You’re not going to do that, Benna, are you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sell your bass guitar.’

  ‘No. I can’t afford to, because then I lose the thousand two hundred I make from the gigs with the band. I thought, if I can save that money, I can buy the ring in five months . . .’

  Cupido sighed deeply. Life was totally unfair.

  13

  They took the Strand off-ramp. Saturday night traffic had woken up, parking for the factory shops at Access City was chock-a-block already.

  At the Stikland cemetery Griessel said, ‘There’s one thing that keeps bothering me . . .’

  ‘What?’

  Griessel took a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘At Murder and Robbery, one of my first cases . . . It must be nearly twenty years back, when we were still in Bellville South . . . Anyway, I was on a case, the body of a con man by the name of Volmink had been found in the President Hotel in Parow. Three or four stab wounds. That was the first time I heard about the pirate-map scam – that fake old map that is supposed to show where the big treasure is buried . . .’

  Cupido knew it, he just nodded and said, ‘X marks the spot . . .’

  ‘That’s right. Volmink was doing a version of that, spreading the myth of an old English ship that sank on the west coast with lots of gold. He had just about convinced a pig farmer from Kraaifontein to invest in the “expedition”, but he drank and talked too much that night in the President bar, and one of his drinking buddies also believed the map was genuine, and later on knocked on his door with a knife . . .’

  ‘You think this story of Prof Donald Duck is a treasure-map scam?’

  ‘I . . . No . . . It just feels that way, Vaughn. A hundred million dollars? That doesn’t sound right. For a painting by a man I’ve never heard of? And the coincidence . . . What did Prof Duck say? There are only a couple of his paintings left in the world. What are the chances that one would be in South Africa? I mean . . .’

  ‘I hear you. Do you think the Donald is in on the scam?’

  ‘No. But with the Volmink case, back then . . . They, the swindlers, they talk about the first stage of the con as the “foundation work”, when they lay the groundwork, when they build credibility. Volmink bought a genuine antique map, on an auction somewhere, the map was old. It was part of his foundation work; the con worked better if you had something genuine to show. Maybe Alicia Lewis got Prof Duck to provide credibility, without him knowing what her plans were. He had to find her something that really did happen. Perhaps she already knew about the historical reference, maybe she just wanted him to . . . I don’t know . . .’ And he suddenly doubted his theory.

  ‘No, Benna, you might just be on to something. This aunty works for the great art recovery company, every day she sees them pay crazy prices for pictures, and she schemes, these rich bums are all so gullible, so eager, let’s create a myth, a painting worth a hundred million dollars . . .’

  ‘And then someone thought it really did exist . . .’

  ‘Exactly . . .’

  ‘But if you think the painting is genuine, and if you think only Lewis knows where it is, why kill her with a single blow, and leave her body on the pass?’

  ‘Shit . . .’

  They decided to call Carol Coutts again. They could carefully enquire about the possibility of a swindle. They sat in Griessel’s office both listening to the call. She sounded half-asleep when she answered, and Griessel realised he’d forgotten about the time difference again. He apologised profusely, but she said please, no, she was usually awake much earlier. But the news of the death of her friend had caused her a bad night’s sleep.

  Griessel introduced Cupido to her over the phone. Then he said that they had fresh information on the case and would like to test her opinion, but they didn’t have to talk now if this was a bad time.

  No, she said. She really did want to help. She needed clarity. The secret that Alicia Lewis apparently had kept from her was one of the things keeping her awake.

  By turns they related the morning’s events. Every now and then they had to ask if she was still there, and she just said, ‘Yes.’

  When they had described all the information from their visit to Prof Marius Wilke, there was dead silence over the phone.

  ‘Are you there?’ Cupido asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  They waited. She said nothing. Cupido didn’t handle silences well. He filled this one by very carefully telling her about their theory, of the possibility of a scam, specifically about the treasure-map con.

  ‘No,’ she said with absolute certainty. And then she started to cry, and she apologised, and kept on crying. ‘Just a minute,’ she said. They could hear, far away in a bedroom somewhere in Europe, how she put the phone down on something, and then it was quiet, and then they heard her blow her nose, twice, the rustle of her picking up the phone and apologising once again.

  Then she said, ‘This is actually a huge relief. Somehow. At least I know what she was doing. If she believed the Fabritius was real, there is a very, very good chance that it does exist. You see, that period, those painters, the Baroque and Dutch Golden Era painters . . . She was one of the true experts. Especially when it came to lost works. And . . . It’s just that her relationship with art . . . She would never . . . I just don’t think she would. I don’t know, Captain, perhaps I didn’t know her as well as I thought, but my gut tells me this was definitely not a scam.’

  Cupido couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He asked if things like that really still happened, old, antique paintings found tha
t were worth something.

  Carol Coutts make a sound, and then she said, ‘Oh, yes,’ and she told them about the missing Gauguin still-life that was discovered in the American state of Connecticut barely a year ago. ‘It sold for more than a million dollars . . .’

  ‘But that’s the point, ma’am,’ said Cupido. ‘This professor was telling us the Fabritius will sell for a hundred million dollars, which is just ridiculous.’

  Not at all, Coutts said. In 2014 a Frenchman climbed into the attic of his old country home just outside Toulouse to mend a leaking water pipe, and came down with a painting that was identified in April 2016 as a masterpiece by the Italian painter Caravaggio. The whole art world expected it to sell for more than a hundred and twenty million dollars. ‘Gauguin’s picture of two Tahitian girls sold for three hundred million dollars in 2015,’ she said. ‘The Card Players by Paul Cézanne went for almost two hundred and eighty million. Picasso’s Les Femmes d’Alger sold for a hundred and seventy-nine million dollars . . .’

  ‘Jissis,’ said Cupido.

  ‘That French guy who found the painting in the attic, who’ll get the money when it’s sold?’ Griessel asked.

  ‘The Frenchman,’ said Carol Coutts. ‘I know the “hidden fortune in the attic” sounds like a scam, like a fairy tale. But it happens. And more often than you think. Have you heard of the Munich artworks?’