by Stuart Woods
“Who painted the copy?”
“Angelo Farina.”
“And you say it’s perfect?”
“If her eyes had been open and the copy exactly the same size as the original, the forgery could have been substituted for the original, before, during, or after the sale, and no expert would have been the wiser.”
“Farina is that good?”
“He’s that good. He has told me that more than a thousand of his forgeries are hanging in museums and private collections all over the world. Many of them have been auctioned or sold in fine galleries—some of them several times, and in so doing, authenticated by experts on each occasion.”
“So experts can be wrong?”
“They’re wrong at least half the time. Say you’re an expert, and somebody brings you a Rembrandt for authentication. It’s a new find, not in any catalog or sales record, never exhibited. You’re immediately suspicious, because Rembrandt’s oeuvre has been very well documented for centuries. In the absence of any forensic evidence that it’s a forgery, you’re going to say that, in your opinion, it’s a real Rembrandt and an important discovery.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll make everybody happy—the owner will be happy, the gallery that’s going to auction it will be happy, and the buyer will be happy. When the buyer dies, his heirs or the museum he bequeathed it to will be happy. And you’ll always be known as the expert who recognized a real Rembrandt. Who wants to piss in everybody’s punch? You won’t get much new work that way, and if nine other experts say it’s real, you’ll be the schmuck who couldn’t tell the difference.”
13
STONE TOOK THE TRANSPARENCY of Tillman’s van Gogh from his briefcase and handed it to Art Masi. “There’s a light box right behind you.”
Masi turned and, without leaving his chair, placed the transparency on the light box and switched it on. He gazed at it for perhaps half a minute. “Do you have a loupe or a magnifying glass?” he asked.
Stone opened a desk drawer, retrieved both items, and placed them on his desk. “Take your pick,” he said.
Masi picked up the magnifying glass, wiped it with a tissue from the box on Stone’s desk, and slowly looked at the transparency from top to bottom, side to side. He placed the magnifying glass on Stone’s desk, then repeated the process with the loupe. “What are its dimensions?” he asked.
“About fourteen by sixteen,” Stone replied.
“Has it ever been thoroughly cleaned?”
“Only with mineral spirits, not with acetone.”
Masi handed the transparency back to Stone, holding it delicately by its corners. “This is the most gorgeous piece of art I have ever seen,” he said. “And I’ve seen everything.”
“Is it a forgery?” Stone asked.
“A forgery of what?” Masi asked. “That term would imply that an original exists. I’ve heard the story of this, and it’s entirely plausible. It could have happened exactly the way Tillman said it did.”
“If it’s not a forgery, then is it an original work by Vincent van Gogh?”
“On the basis of a photographic examination, I could not say that it is not an original. I understand that three world-class experts, one from the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, have pronounced it as the real thing. Is that the case?”
“Yes.”
“And they were allowed to perform whatever tests they wanted to?”
“Yes, except Tillman would not allow it to be cleaned with acetone, only with mineral spirits.”
“That’s a red flag, but a very small one. If I owned the painting, I wouldn’t allow it to be cleaned with acetone, either. I mean, even if it had been painted on July twenty-ninth, 1890, there would still be the possibility of damaging it. What we’re talking about here is the last thing van Gogh ever painted, and on the day he was mortally wounded.”
“Did you search the Tillman apartment for the painting?” Stone asked.
“No. I was told that it had been stolen.”
“Did it not occur to you that the report might be false, and that it might have been hidden in the apartment?”
“Yes, but I reasoned that if Mrs. Tillman had hidden it, she would not have permitted a search of the apartment without a warrant, and the process of obtaining that would have given her time to remove the painting from the apartment and hide it God-knows-where. After all, it’s not very big, it would fit in a small suitcase or a large briefcase, or even a large envelope, if it were out of the frame. I assume it was framed.”
“I assume so, too. I don’t know, but I can find out. Art, do you have any vacation time coming from the NYPD?”
“About five weeks, I think.”
“If you can take two weeks off and find the painting in that time, I’ll pay you a million dollars.”
Masi blinked. “I assume the insurance company has offered you considerably more than that.”
“You may assume anything you like. There are conditions. You may not break any laws during your search, and that includes harming anyone.”
“I’m going to need it in writing,” Masi said.
Stone took a sheet of his personal notepaper, picked up a fountain pen, and wrote, after the date: I, Stone Barrington, agree to pay Arturo Masi the sum of one million dollars if he can recover, undamaged, a lost painting, ostensibly by Vincent van Gogh, formerly the property of Mark Tillman, deceased, by noon two weeks from today, as long as Mr. Masi does not violate any law in his search or harm any person. The painting is to be authenticated by comparing it to an 8x10-inch transparency of the work, which is in my possession. He buzzed Joan.
“Yes, sir?”
“Joan, will you please come in here and bring your notary’s stamp?”
“Right away.” She came in, he signed the document, and she notarized it. Stone handed it to Masi, along with an envelope.
Masi read it carefully, then he folded the document and tucked it into an inside pocket of his jacket. “The clock is ticking,” Masi said. “I’d better get going.”
“Don’t bother trying to gain access to the Tillman apartment,” Stone said. “I’ll take care of that myself.”
“As you wish,” Masi said, handing Stone a card. “That has all my contact information.” The two men shook hands, and he left.
Joan buzzed.
“Yes?”
“A Mrs. Tillman on one for you.”
Stone picked up the phone. “Hello there.”
“I trust you’re having a good day,” she said.
“It’s easy to have a good day after a good night.”
“I must agree. Have you any plans for the weekend?”
“Not yet.”
“Would you like to come out to my place in the Hamptons today?”
“I’d love to. May I drive you? You’re still short of a car, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but that won’t be necessary. My husband thoughtfully left me a helicopter. May we meet at the East Side heliport at four o’clock?”
“Certainly.”
“Bring a coat, it’s cold out there this time of year.”
“I’ll do that. I won’t bring a swimsuit, either,” he said.
“You wouldn’t need one, even if it were a hot day.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“I’m having some people over for dinner tomorrow evening, but it will be casual. You won’t need a suit or a dinner jacket.”
“I’ll see you at four.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” They both hung up.
Stone picked up Art Masi’s card from his desk and called his cell number.
“Yes, Mr. Barrington?”
“Change of plans,” Stone said. “Mrs. Tillman will be out of her apartment for the weekend. That should give you time to obtain a search warrant.”
“The
whole weekend?”
Stone gave him his own cell number. “Leaving today, not returning before Sunday. Ring me before you go in. If I say you got a wrong number, she won’t disturb you. If I say I’ll have to call you back, it won’t be safe.”
“Got it.”
Stone hung up and went upstairs to pack.
14
THE HELICOPTER ROSE from the pad and climbed to one thousand feet, just short of the overcast clouds, then headed for the shoreline. Once over the sea, the pilot descended to five hundred feet and followed the coast.
“I always ask him to fly low,” Morgan said. “I love the view this way.”
“Well,” Stone said, “there’s nothing to bump into.”
Three-quarters of an hour later the chopper slowed, flew over a large, shingle-style house, and made an approach into a tennis court, from which the net had been removed. Stone and Morgan alit, then two men ran onto the court and removed their luggage from the machine, then it lifted off.
“They’ll hangar it at the East Hampton airport,” Morgan said as she led Stone into the house.
The place was spacious without being overwhelming, and was beautifully decorated. “Mark Hampton did the decor,” she said, “years ago when my husband first bought the house. It’s nearly a hundred years old.”
They settled into a small sitting room off the big living room. “Would you like a drink?” she asked.
“A cup of tea would be nice,” Stone replied.
“Do you have a preference?”
“Earl Grey, if you have it.” It began to rain outside.
She ordered tea from a staffer. “I love it when the weather is like this,” she said, getting up and lighting a fire that had already been laid.
The tea and an assortment of cookies arrived, and Morgan poured, then settled onto the sofa next to Stone. “I’m so glad you could come,” she said.
“So am I, and I like this weather, too.”
“It makes the house cozier.”
They finished their tea, and she stood up. “Let’s go upstairs and unpack.”
Stone thought he knew what that meant, and he was right. They unpacked, undressed, she lit another fire, and they got into bed. Half an hour later they were spent and asleep.
When they woke up, darkness had fallen. They got dressed and went down to dinner, which was served on a small table in a handsome library.
“Give me your brief bio,” Stone said after the wine had been poured.
“Typical,” she said. “Born at my parents’ country house in Wiltshire, sent to Lady Eden’s School in London—all the fashion at the time—then a girls’ school near the country house, and a finishing school in Switzerland, where I was taught French and to cook and to set a table. There was no thought of university for me, but I insisted, and I got a first at Oxford. Then I went out and got my own job in a training program at an advertising agency. I spent a few years at that, along with a lot of partying with girls of a similar background and a lot of Hooray Henrys, then I met Mark, and the next thing I knew, I was married and living in New York.”
“Are your parents still living?”
“My father is. Mother died when I was sixteen.”
“Do you see him much?”
“Not really—once or twice a year. He likes his books and his horses in the country and his club in London. He does the Cowes Week regatta every other year, when they run the Fastnet Race. He’d rather I’d been a boy, and he never seems to know what to say to me. All in all, I’d say he prefers his own company to that of anyone else.”
“Would I like him?”
“When he decides to be charming, you would. He would find you exotic, because you’re an American—but acceptable, because you have a house in England and belong to the Squadron.”
“Do you love him?”
“Madly.”
“That speaks well of you.”
“Thank you.”
They moved to a leather Chesterfield sofa for brandy and gazing into the fire. Somehow he discovered that she wasn’t wearing underwear, and they entertained each other for a while, then went upstairs and entertained each other some more.
• • •
THE FOLLOWING MORNING was brilliantly sunny and windy; they managed a short walk on the beach, before nearly freezing and running back to the house. They had a lobster stew for lunch and the warming of their bones.
• • •
THE DINNER GUESTS began arriving a little after six. The first were a middle-aged couple named Joe and Martha Henry, then three more arrived: a man of about sixty, beautifully dressed and sporting an open-necked shirt with an ascot, something Stone could pull off, and a younger couple—an athletic-looking man of around thirty and his date.
“Stone,” Morgan said, indicating the older man, “this is Angelo Farina. And this is his son, Pio, and Pio’s friend Ann Kusch. All three of them are artists.”
Drinks were served, and people warmed themselves before the fire. When they were well thawed and well oiled everyone became gregarious, and Stone enjoyed their company.
• • •
AT DINNER, Stone was seated between Morgan and Ann Kusch, who seemed curious about him. “Where have I heard your name?” she asked.
“You tell me,” he replied.
“What do you do?”
“I’m an attorney, with Woodman & Weld.”
“My father, Antony Kusch, was a partner there until he retired a few years ago.”
“I remember him,” Stone said, “though I didn’t know him well. I work out of a home office, so I don’t see much of the partners.”
“Why do you work out of a home office?”
“When I first joined the firm I had already established my office, and I didn’t bother to move. It’s worked out well, though. I’m very comfortable there.”
“Now I know where I’ve heard your name—you were mentioned in a magazine piece about Holly Barker.”
“You know the secretary of state?” Morgan asked before Stone could blush and stammer a reply.
“We’re old friends,” Stone said.
Then someone changed the subject, for which Stone was grateful.
• • •
AFTER DINNER, over brandy, Stone and Angelo Farina fell into conversation. “You’re a painter, are you not?”
“I am,” Farina said.
“My mother was a painter—Matilda Stone.”
“Oh, yes, I know her work. She had a remarkable gift for bringing New York City to life in her paintings, particularly Greenwich Village.”
“Thank you,” Stone said. “I’d like to see your work sometime.”
“I live just down the road. Why don’t you come around for coffee tomorrow morning? I’ll show you my studio.”
“I’d like that,” Stone said, then Ann Kusch came around again, and Stone turned his attention back to her.
• • •
THAT NIGHT IN BED, when they had exhausted themselves, Morgan said, “You and Angelo got on very well. He doesn’t like many people.”
“He invited me around to his studio for coffee tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, good, then I’ll be rid of you while I’m talking with my decorator about curtains for the guest rooms.”
“Have you seen a lot of Angelo’s work?”
“Oh, yes, he and Mark were good friends. He used to be an art forger, you know.”
“Ah, that’s where I’ve heard the name.”
“He does his own work now, but he’ll whip you up a Monet, if you like, or an old master. He’s really quite brilliant.”
15
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, after a good breakfast, Stone pulled on his sheepskin coat and gloves against the wind, and put on a soft trilby, then he walked past the tennis court/helipad and followed a stone path for five minutes
until he came to an inviting stone-and-shingle cottage. Angelo Farina answered the door wearing a well-smeared painter’s smock.
“Good morning, Stone, come in and get warm.” He hung Stone’s coat and hat in a hall closet and led the way through a well-used living room and into a large studio that had been attached to the rear of the house. There were dozens of paintings and drawings and a few sculptures, as well as many empty frames of all sizes and shapes. On a large easel rested a newly begun painting of a haystack. “This one will be ‘after Monet,’” he said. “I was a very serious forger in my youth, but now I have to be careful to distinguish between my work and that of the original and make it just a tiny bit different, to protect myself from damnation.” He poured Stone a mug of coffee. “How would you like it?”
“Just black,” Stone replied, accepting the mug. “May I look around?”
“Of course, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
Stone took a sip of the coffee. “That and the coffee, which is excellent.” He started at his left and walked slowly around the big room. “It’s like being in a museum,” he said. “So many old friends—Rubens, Leonardo, Matisse, and I love the Picasso Blue Period things.”
“Who is your favorite painter?” Farina asked as he brushed at his canvas.
“After my mother, I particularly like Amedeo Modigliani, and of course van Gogh—everybody loves van Gogh.”
“Of course,” Farina said. “Let me show you something.” He went to a cupboard and removed a canvas covered with a cloth and set it on an easel. “Perhaps you know this one.” He pulled away the cloth, revealing Modigliani’s Reclining Nude. “It sold at auction a couple of years ago for nearly half a billion dollars.”
Stone stared at the woman; her skin was creamy, her pose, welcoming. He wanted to crawl into bed with her. Her eyes, he noted, were closed. “It’s breathtaking,” he said, “but weren’t her eyes open?”
“They were, but it would be too easy to let someone have it who might try to resell it as the original. It’s a defensive move.”
“May I buy it?”