The Caravaggio Conspiracy

by Connor, Alex

  And then he would finally catch the killer. Yes, Gil thought, three days would be enough.

  Seventy-two hours and counting.

  Sixty-Nine

  New York

  It was very early morning, but Catrina Hoyt was already up and about, sitting with her feet up on her desk, her skirt riding high on her thighs. Something was bothering her, the same something which had been niggling at her for days. Whoever had broken into the gallery had not come back. Neither had they contacted her, posted any shocking images, or in any way suggested they were still watching her. Which meant only one thing – she had been discounted. But why? The answer was obvious; she no longer had access to Luca Meriss, was no longer dealing with him. Catrina Hoyt was now irrelevant.

  Snatching up the phone, she put in a call to Harvey Crammer’s mobile.

  ‘Hello?’ the Canadian answered.

  ‘Has anyone contacted you? Or threatened you?’

  ‘Good Lord, Catrina, is that you?’ he replied, amused. ‘Still not over being secretly filmed?’

  ‘The pictures are off the website but the clock’s still on,’ she replied. ‘Still ticking. Made me wonder why.’

  ‘Clocks do tick, dear. That’s what they do.’

  ‘Cut the crap!’ she countered. ‘The clock means something. Unless you put it up on the website.’

  ‘I was with you when we saw it, remember?’

  ‘You could have pre-recorded it and preset the computer.’

  ‘For the clock, yes. But how could I photograph myself with you?’

  ‘You could have hired someone to do that.’

  He was genuinely amused. Excellent, Crammer thought. He really had rattled her cage. ‘Why would I hire someone to do something so pointless?’

  ‘To scare me,’ Catrina replied, ‘make me feel threatened, off balance. After all, I’d had a break-in at the gallery and I was jumpy. You could have arranged that too.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you being jumpy, Catrina. You’re hardly the nervy type.’

  ‘Dealers are being murdered – that would make anyone nervous.’

  ‘Only in London. I don’t think the killer’s reached New York yet.’

  Stung, she retaliated.

  ‘Well, he’s certainly been to fucking Berlin.’ There was silence on the line. ‘You still there, Crammer? I’ve been looking into something, totting up all the little crumbs you left me. You’ve mixed with some very unlucky types: the Hubers, the Weir brothers, Bernard Lowe – all murdered. All dealers who traded with you, Jacob Levens, and that smarmy bastard Oscar Schultz.’ She could sense she had irritated him and pushed on. ‘Was it some kind of secret society you lot had going? Did you do all that trouser-leg rolling up and wearing aprons?’

  ‘That’s the Masons,’ Crammer replied coolly. ‘Our association was just business—’

  ‘But you’re dropping like flies. I mean, that can’t be a coincidence, can it? And then I had another thought – I dealt with your lot too. Not for a while, but in the past. Was that why I was involved?’

  ‘You’re imagining things. We had no collaboration,’ Crammer replied, but he was needled, knowing that the redoubtable Catrina Hoyt wouldn’t let it rest. ‘You and I have only one thing in common – Luca Meriss. And that hardly makes us unique.’ His tone calmed. ‘Just think about it, Catrina: how many other people have seen Meriss’s website?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s a point.’

  ‘It’s a very good point,’ Crammer replied. ‘We aren’t the only dealers who are interested in the missing Caravaggios. There must be hundreds.’

  ‘You’re right. Many people probably have seen the website …’

  ‘That what I mean.’

  ‘… and know about Luca Meriss …’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘… and many of them will want to get hold of the Caravaggios too …’

  ‘Precisely,’ Crammer replied, his tone persuasive. ‘We’re talking about many, many people.’

  She smiled grimly down the line. ‘But how many of them were in Berlin seven years ago?’

  Clicking off her mobile, Catrina swung her legs off the desk and walked into the storeroom. When she found the holdall she returned to her office and sat down, staring at it. Luca Meriss had reacted very violently, the last thing she would have expected from a timid man. So what had triggered it?

  She remembered Luca on the floor, trying to grab the holdall. And he would still have it had she not snatched it off him. Catrina stared at the bag, her instinct alerted. Carefully she turned it inside out, feeling along the seams, then inside the pockets and lining. As before, she found nothing. Finally she tipped the bag over and stared at the underside.

  Nothing remarkable, but something prompted her. Grabbing a paperknife, she slashed open the bottom of the holdall and stopped dead. Something glinted, catching the light. Carefully, she drew out a capsule and held it up to the window. The liquid was clear, with no smell.

  Catrina Hoyt had little problem getting the substance checked out, and that afternoon her local pharmacist explained what it was. A muscle relaxant, he said, but only to be used in moderation.

  ‘Why? Is it dangerous?’

  ‘In excess it sure is,’ he replied, pointing to the vial. ‘In small doses, it relaxes muscle spasm. But that much could stop a man in his tracks. His muscles would be paralysed. He wouldn’t be able to move or speak.’

  She stared at the pharmacist. ‘But he wouldn’t be dead?’

  ‘No,’ the man replied, ‘he’d recover when the drugs finally left his system. It wouldn’t kill him—’

  ‘Just keep him paralysed until they finished him off.’

  Seventy

  Huber Gallery, Berlin

  3.30 p.m.

  Gil had thought about entering by the main door, but decided against it and instead climbed over the high back gate. He remembered the building well, skirting the stone steps to the first floor and aiming for the basement. Having been unoccupied for years, the Huber Gallery was showing signs of neglect and the windows were blackened from Berlin traffic fumes.

  He was making for a little-used window which opened on to the unused part of the cellar. As luck would have it, the glass was already cracked. Wrapping his jacket around his arm, Gil smashed it open. Pausing to check that he hadn’t been heard, he then climbed in and silently moved to the door which led to the rest of the basement.

  The gallery was silent above him. There had been no cars in the parking spaces outside and no street lights nearby. Even though it was only mid-afternoon, rain had made the day prematurely dark. Gil hoped that the gallery was empty as he made for the cellar steps, then waited. No sounds from above. Would the alarm still be working? he wondered. He hoped not. After all, the Hubers’ collection of paintings had been sold or put into storage many years before and there was nothing of value left to steal.

  Pausing at the top of the basement steps, he slid out into the entrance hallway. The windows were covered with metal grilles, some shuttered, and light was at a premium as he moved into the main gallery. A memory of the crime-scene photographs came back to him: Alma Huber naked and mutilated on the floor, blood seeping from her wounds, her eyes open, watching …

  Hurrying on, Gil moved past the desk and into the main gallery space. The walls were blank apart from old posters of past exhibitions and a couple of catalogues lay on the floor. Outside, the rain intensified and hissed against the barred windows as he headed for the staircase to the offices above.

  Hearing footsteps, he stopped and looked up the stairwell. But there were no lights on, nothing to indicate there was anyone up there. Gil thought back. He had checked that Oscar Schultz was in London, out of the way. So who was in the gallery? Obviously someone who was looking for something. Perhaps the same thing they had been looking for seven years earlier.

  The hairs stood up on the back of his neck as Gil felt into his pocket, his hand closing round the stun gun he had brought with him. He wasn’t going to be the next vi
ctim … Carefully he edged his way towards the back of the gallery, moving into the offices. What he found there surprised him. Books, files, ledgers, papers had all been thrown haphazardly onto the floor, filing cabinets turned over, desk drawers pulled out. Someone had been searching avidly, desperately. Even in the toilets the tops of the cisterns had been taken off.

  Gil paused, listening. Silence. No more footsteps.

  Maybe he had been mistaken.

  Imagining things.

  Was he alone?

  Or was there someone waiting.

  Listening, just as he was?

  His mouth dry, Gil crossed the room, making his way towards the Huber safe. It was large as a potting shed, made of steel. Used to store papers and, if needed, paintings. It was also locked. Remembering the combination Greta had given him, Gil entered the numbers, listening as each clicked into place. Finally he turned the handle and the enormous metal door swung open, the darkness inside unfathomable.

  Seventy-One

  New York

  Returning to her apartment, Catrina Hoyt rang Harvey Crammer again and asked for Gil Eckhart’s mobile number. If the Canadian was surprised he didn’t sound it – simply passed the number on hurriedly and rang off. He had obviously been in an airport; Catrina could hear a tannoy and the familiar sounds of a busy terminal in the background.

  She glanced at the vial on her desk. Her suspicions had been right: there had been something strange about Luca Meriss, and she had found it. He had been carrying a drug strong enough to paralyse a man. The Weir twins had been paralysed and tortured … The little bastard, Catrina thought, remembering Meriss. The snivelling little fucker, posing as a victim.

  Infuriated, she dialled Gil Eckhart’s number. She had to warn him about the Italian. He was chasing the wrong person. And looking in the wrong place.

  Seventy-Two

  Huber Gallery, Berlin

  4.00 p.m.

  The mobile went off in Gil’s pocket, ringing out twice before he could turn it off. Cursing himself for not putting it on mute, he froze, knowing that whoever was in the building would have heard it. Gil’s instinct fired up. He couldn’t hear anything, but he could feel it. Someone was there.

  His heart pumping, Gil moved from the safe, ducking into the shadows. Just as he had suspected, someone had heard. Footsteps came down the stairs, paused, then continued into the room where he was hiding. After another second he could see a figure in the doorway and heard the click of the light switch.

  The room was abruptly illuminated as a man walked in and looked around. Then he spotted the open safe and moved towards it, pulling back the door as Gil came up behind him.

  Seventy-Three

  ‘I thought you were in London, Oscar.’

  Schultz spun round, startled. ‘Eckhart! I knew I heard something. You should turn off your phone while you’re breaking and entering.’ He glanced at to the safe. ‘Thanks for opening it. I didn’t have the combination. How did you get it?’

  Gil ignored the question. ‘Why aren’t you in London?’

  ‘I’m going tomorrow. And I don’t have to answer to you, you have to answer to me. This is my property and you’re trespassing.’ He moved over to the safe, looked in and shrugged. ‘Empty.’

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Just clearing out.’

  ‘No, you bought this gallery for a reason. You’re searching for something. What is it, Oscar?’ He moved closer him. ‘The same thing you were looking for seven years ago? A painting? A Caravaggio? Did someone tip you off about it? Someone you knew back then?’

  Leaning against a desk, Oscar folded his arms. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You don’t have to pretend with me – I know what’s it all about. You found out about the paintings via my wife.’

  Oscar rubbed the side of his nose, smiling. ‘Your wife? I don’t even know her.’

  ‘My late wife, Holly.’

  ‘Ah, Holly …’ Oscar said. ‘Clever woman, that. Very bright indeed.’

  ‘She was working for Bernard Lowe, smuggling for him, using Lexington Limited to bring in the stuff from the Far East and Europe,’ Gil said coldly. ‘Yes, I know. Did she work for you too?’

  ‘This is all rubbish!’

  ‘Did she work for the Weir twins? Or were they just part of your group? I mean, there is a group of dealers, isn’t there? Some little association you’ve got going?’ Gil watched him. ‘It would make sense, explain a lot. Holly heard about the missing Caravaggio paintings from Luca Meriss when he was hospitalised seven years ago.’ He could see Oscar pale and pushed on. ‘She got it out of him and told you – all of you. I imagine the Hubers were part of your group. Jacob would have brought them in.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘No,’ Gil said calmly, ‘Greta said her mother was afraid of Jacob. I guess it was because he involved her in something she didn’t like, which makes me wonder what he had on his sister. By all accounts Alma was a decent woman – she must have been blackmailed into helping him.’

  ‘You’re floundering in the dark.’

  ‘I was, but it’s getting lighter all the time,’ Gil replied. ‘The Weirs had a company – The London Galleries Limited – which Bernard Lowe owned and which you now run.’

  ‘So what? People set up companies all the time.’

  Gil nodded. ‘They do. But it’s strange that the Hubers, the Weirs, and Bernard Lowe are now dead. As is Holly.’

  ‘Holly’s death was an accident!’ Oscar snapped.

  ‘I never believed that, and now – no way. Holly told you about Luca Meriss and the Caravaggios. They would make a fortune, make you rich, make your name. Not so much the second-hand car dealer with those finds, hey, Oscar?’

  ‘Fuck you,’ he said dismissively, ‘I’m not a killer. You’re looking in the wrong place.’

  ‘I’m looking in exactly the right place, and you know it,’ Gil continued. ‘Where are the disks?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The disks Luca Meriss made, the disks my late wife helped him create. The proof.’ He was surprised by Oscar’s blank expression.

  ‘What bloody disks?’

  ‘Luca Meriss made disks with the proof of his claims. He hid them in Palermo, but they were stolen from there. Holly knew about them – she gave copies to Jacob Levens for safe keeping. Copies that were stolen a few days ago in London.’ He paused. ‘You really don’t know about them, do you?’

  ‘No. Looks like you’re on the wrong track again.’

  Infuriated, Gil moved towards him and Oscar leant back with his hands raised. A coward, unnerved. ‘I swear I don’t know about any disks—’

  ‘Who brought Holly into the group?’

  ‘What group?’

  ‘Your fucking group!’ Gil shouted, catching Oscar by the collar. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘She wanted in,’ Oscar replied, blundering on. ‘She liked the excitement, liked the thrill of smuggling. Holly wanted to join us all—’ He stopped short, knowing he had said too much.

  Gil gripped his collar and twisted it. ‘Join you all in what?’

  ‘Der Kreis der Acht – The Circle of Eight,’ Oscar blurted out, trying to free himself from Gil’s grip. ‘It was a collaboration between dealers. We would club together, bid for each other at sales, sometimes join forces and raise funds for works we couldn’t have bought independently. The smuggling was a sideline. Using Lowe’s shipping company, it meant we could get stuff out of the Far East ourselves.’

  ‘No one ever found out?’

  ‘No. It worked like a dream. We were all greedy – the Weirs were bastards, out for what they could get, and Lowe would do anything to get hold of a piece he wanted. Holly became our go-between. She’d charm people, she was always travelling for her work, and she could speak several languages.’

  ‘What happened seven years ago?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Berlin, seven years ago!’ Gil repeated. ‘Take me back. Holly came to your group and to
ld you about Luca Meriss. Then what?’

  Oscar tried to knock away Gil’s hands, but he held onto him. ‘Let go of me! I can’t breathe!’

  ‘You’re lucky I’ve let you breathe this long. Tell me what happened.’

  ‘Holly was excited, said we could make a killing.’

  ‘Did she tell all of you?’

  ‘I don’t know! She told me and said it was in confidence, but she was a liar—’

  ‘That’s my wife you’re talking about!’

  ‘She was a whore!’

  Gil’s fist smashed into the dealer’s nose. He felt the bone crunch and a second later watched as blood started coursing down Schultz’s white shirt. Reeling, the German staggered back, flopping into an office chair and holding a handkerchief to his face.

  ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ Gil said, standing over him. ‘I want the truth.’

  ‘Holly said she’d only told me, but I could tell that Harvey Crammer knew, and Alma Huber. The atmosphere in the group had changed – everything was awkward, strained. I heard Alma arguing with her brother when Jacob came over to Berlin.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just before the Hubers were killed.’

  ‘So your group knew there were two Caravaggio paintings up for grabs seven years ago? Why didn’t you go after Luca Meriss then?’

  ‘He was in hospital. No one could get to him—’

  ‘Where was Holly in all of this?’

  ‘She was the only one who could get to Meriss. She encouraged him to confide—’

  ‘And make the disks?’

  ‘I don’t know about any fucking disks!’ he snapped, touching his face and wincing. ‘You’ve broken my nose, you bastard.’

  Gil ignored him.

  ‘Why did you buy this gallery? What were you searching for? Did you think the paintings were hidden here? That they’ve been here all along? What did Holly tell you?’ Gil paused, firing into the dark. ‘Or what didn’t she tell you?’ He could see he had struck a nerve. ‘You thought it was just you and her, didn’t you? Just the two of you in on the secret? But she told the others …’