Bea spotted the three. How rich did she have to look to buy one of this lot? Able to afford four hundred quid, at least, which is what the roses cost. She moved her eyes back to the middle of the wall, to the Spirit Bear, or whatever bear it was, saw a twelve-hundred-pound price tag and frowned. Technically proficient, but nothing behind the technique. Next to the bear, and far better, hung a small painting of a Highland terrier that she moved closer to. A tiny brass plaque in the frame said Charlie. Bea smiled. Despite its clear superiority to the bear, it cost but half as much.
Bea looked round to see if she was interrupting any transaction, saw the moneyed man had gone and said, “Mr. Zane?”
He’d started toward the tanzanite case and the couple there and turned. “Miss Slocum?”
“This still life—” She gestured toward the roses. “—I think I’ll buy it for my mum. She likes paintings of flowers; she likes still lifes. ‘Quiet lifes’ she calls them.”
He smiled. “I like her description, but I’m afraid that one is sold.”
Sold? Of course. She moved a few feet and stood looking at the bear. “Well, she really likes animals, too. Perhaps this one—?” When he had moved to where she stood, she went on: “This Spirit Bear—if you’ll pardon me—has no spirit. Yet the price is pretty steep. Good color, good technique, but no soul. But Mum wouldn’t see that.”
Leonard Zane smiled. “Good assessment. This is one of Bergeron’s—” He bent down and studied the corner. “Yes, Henri Bergeron. He’s a Canadian and extremely popular. Ah, yes, but I’m afraid that one is also sold.”
“But why do you have the sold paintings still hanging?”
“Begeron likes me to keep his paintings up until the client actually wants to take possession of them. He wants people to keep on seeing them. Does a lot of animal stuff.”
“Well, he didn’t do Charlie.” Bea pointed to the little Highland terrier.
He laughed. “You’re quite right. The dog is far superior. A new artist; I like her work.”
This was not one of the suspect paintings. “Reason I’m asking is because my mother’s birthday’s here. ‘Bea,’ she says, ‘couldn’t you paint a kitty now and then?’ You know, as if painting were a now-and-then pastime, done to paint fluffy things.”
Again he laughed.
“But you know what? I’d like to buy that terrier for her. She’d love it and it’s good. My uncle’s named Charlie, too. So there’s that.”
“Wonderful.” He looked at the price. “I’ll let you have it for five hundred.”
She gasped at this largesse. “That’s really generous of you.” Now Bea realized that she couldn’t go for a purchase of the third painting, because Leonard Zane would surely be suspicious. She was rather desperately looking for another still life and saw one of several pieces of fruit, the apple, pears and plums rather recklessly arranged. She was superb at sizing things with just a look; she looked from the fruit to the roses and saw they were almost exactly the same size. “Oh, and this one she’d really like.” It was seven hundred. She could put it on her credit card. The terrier painting would go on her debit card.
“Two paintings? You must be very fond of your mother.”
Bea hadn’t seen her mother in years. They’d never got on. “I missed her birthday last year and feel I should make it up to her. Thanks so much for knocking a hundred quid off the terrier.”
“Not at all. Tell her I said, ‘Happy birthday.’ I’ll get my assistant to take your card details and bring something to wrap these in.” He removed both paintings from the wall, laid them on his desk. He tapped on his mobile and told Maggie to come up and take care of a customer. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and said to Bea, “I’ve got to look after these people right now. Maggie will be up in a minute.” He left her for the couple on the other side of the room.
Immediately, Bea took out her own mobile and tapped in Melrose’s number. When he answered, she said, “Mum, distraction is needed here.”
“I’ll see to it.” Melrose rang off.
In another minute, a plain-looking youngish woman who, Bea assumed, must be Maggie came in with a large brown envelope, made small talk as she put the cards into a portable machine and then shoved the fruit painting into the envelope.
As she taped it closed, Bea said, “That’s very clever as a wrapping. Saves effort and time.” All around, she thought.
Maggie said, “I should have brought another wrapping. I’ll just go and get—”
“Please don’t bother. It’s a small picture and I can certainly carry it without getting it scratched or anything.”
Maggie looked doubtful. “Well, if you’re sure—”
Bea told her she was and retrieved her cards. “Thanks.”
Maggie left. Leonard Zane was still apparently negotiating with the couple about a piece of jewelry.
Bea was standing by the window, trying to work out her next move, when she saw two City Police cars, blue lights winking, stop below near the front door. A third car appeared to have stopped at the curb. Three uniforms emerged from the cars in the driveway; a plainclothes officer came walking up the drive to the door.
“What’s police doing?” she said in a voice loud enough to reach Zane’s ears.
“What?” He turned from the couple at the glass display case and moved to the window to stare down at the cars. “Oh, for God’s sake. Not again.”
“Again?”
“I’ll be right back.” He plucked up his mobile, punched a number and said, “Maggie, come up here, will you, and take care of the couple viewing the tanzanite.” Then he hurried out of the gallery.
Bea figured she might have two minutes, moved to the front of the desk (first assessing that no one was paying any attention to her transaction), exchanged the suspect bowl of roses on the end for the painting in the brown envelope and hung the fruit painting in the place where the roses had been. She picked up Charlie and, with the two paintings and her portfolio—quite a load—left the gallery.
She passed Maggie at the top of the staircase. They nodded pleasantly to each other.
Melrose saw Bea, but could say nothing; wanted to help her with this formidable load of stuff, but couldn’t. But Sergeant Wiggins could: he stepped forward and said, “Let me help you, miss.”
“Oh, thank you, officer.” She handed over both of the paintings, moved to the spot where Leonard Zane was arguing forcibly with the two policemen. “Sorry to interrupt. Mr. Zane, thanks so much for your time and help. My mum will be delighted. And I’ll be in touch.” She held up the portfolio. “I’ll be taking this, as I’ll need it. I really appreciate your help.”
He said, “Look, I’m truly sorry I didn’t talk to you about your work; I liked what I saw there.” He nodded toward the portfolio. “Please ring me so that we can set up a time to get together.”
“I will.”
Leonard Zane said good-bye to her and returned to his argument.
Wiggins walked out with her, saying loudly he’d get her a taxi, then walked her down to the curb where, out of sight, they both climbed into an unmarked Metropolitan Police car and drove away.
Melrose Plant merely gaped. After saying a few words to Leonard Zane, who was still engaged with the police, he too managed to extricate himself.
New Scotland Yard, London
Nov. 9, Saturday afternoon
38
The woman was Barbara Porter, of the scaled-down Arts and Antiques Unit of New Scotland Yard. Scaled down to nearly nothing except for Barbara herself, because funds had been drastically cut. Art and its theft were no longer considered a top priority. Physically, she was unprepossessing—round and marshmallow soft. Everyone agreed she was an escapee from a Beatrix Potter book. But Barbara’s specialty was botany and she was extremely adept at identifying dyes.
She was bent over one of the paintings, scanning the frame, when Jury walked in.
“Hi, Superintendent. You’ve good reason.”
He waited. Nothing.
“You mean ‘to believe’?” She was known for her elliptical manner of speech.
“Yeah. I’ve done a lot of dabbling in woodsy stuff.”
Jury loved that “woodsy.” He stood behind her, looking over her shoulder at the painting. “What about the woodsy stuff?”
“The wood here is Madagascar ebony.”
“Beautiful. Very dark.”
“And wavy. The finish makes it difficult to see any joining. This frame is in two parts. Very hard to see where the parts meet because the grain is so fine and the waves are so variable. Madagascar wood has a lot of illegal trade going on. The Chinese especially like it for its imperial look. Look here: you can hardly see the matchup.” She ran her finger down the side of the frame. “You see this line?”
Jury shook his head, surprised by this turn in the painting inspection.
“That’s what I mean.”
“Are you saying it’s the frame you’re suspicious of?”
“Of course. The two parts are glued together. It could be the framer wanted a particular thickness for aesthetic purposes—”
“Or for smuggling purposes?”
“Exactly.”
“Well.”
“Give me a half hour. I don’t want to damage the frame.”
It was a half hour well spent.
“Reasonable grounds?” Detective Chief Superintendent Racer’s small mouth bunched to hide his smile. The smile came from having scotched—or being about to scotch—Jury’s request for a search warrant.
“Illegal import of tanzanite,” said Jury.
“That’s not reasonable grounds, Jury. That’s just your theory.”
“No, it isn’t. He’s been smuggling it in picture frames.”
Racer just frowned at Jury.
“And we found a beautifully cut, very large piece of tanzanite in his desk drawer.”
“And how is it you were searching his desk, eh?” said Racer, ignoring the more important point in favor of the lesser one.
“I wasn’t. Someone else was.”
“Someone you put up to doing it, no doubt.” Racer spread his arms wide. “So what? I keep a gold nugget in mine. That doesn’t amount to reasonable suspicion, either.”
“You keep it buried in a drawer full of broken glass?”
“What’s he do that for?”
“To keep people from stealing it, I expect.”
“Well, it’s not illegal.”
“One of this size—twenty to thirty carats—certainly is. And it’s undoubtedly slipped under the VAT radar. “He’s linked to this shooter. Not only did it happen at the Artemis Club, but Leonard Zane owns a mine in the Merelani Hills in east Tanzania.”
“The source for the name ‘tanzanite.’”
What a coup! “The shooter is a Tanzanian police officer.”
“What?”
“A Tanzanian policeman.” Jury would treat anything Racer said as literal. “An inspector known as Benjamin Buhari. I think he’s got something to do with Zane’s mine.”
“So you think Leonard Zane paid him to shoot the Moffits?”
“Actually, no. I think Leonard Zane is badly in need of money. But I also think he’s got some hold over this policeman Buhari—and somehow manipulated the man into doing the shooting. But I don’t think Zane planned on having it happen in front of the Artemis Club.”
Jury got Racer’s agreement, albeit grudgingly, and took himself off to the magistrate for the warrant.
Artemis Club, London
Nov. 9, Saturday afternoon
39
“Of course, you have a warrant,” said Leonard Zane, who was standing in the doorway of his office when Jury walked in with four other people—two forensic techs, Barbara Porter and Sergeant Wiggins.
“Of course,” said Jury, pulling the warrant out of his pocket, holding it up and letting it waterfall in front of Zane’s face.
“Just what are you looking for?”
“Illegally imported goods: gemstones, works of art, and proof that you paid the VAT for same.”
“Christ,” said Zane, before turning back to his office. “What a waste of everybody’s time.”
The forensic technicians stood at the bottom of the stairs and Jury motioned for them to ascend to the gallery. Once inside, Jury walked Barbara over to Zane’s desk and pulled out the bottom drawer on the left-hand side. “Look.”
“What the bloody hell? That’s glass shards. And razor blades? Looks like smashed lightbulbs.”
“Right. This is what’s in among them.” He showed her the picture of the tanzanite stone.
Barbara whistled. “That could be near thirty carats, guv. That’s illegal, right there. There’s a limit to the size of a stone you can import.”
Jury shut the drawer. “Leave that for the moment. There are two other paintings whose frames I suspect, and neither painting being really good, I suspect them even more. One is that painting of a cheetah.” Jury moved toward the middle of the wall. “The other is this bear. These are two of the three Zane had shots of in his desk. Though why he couldn’t remember which frames were packed with stones I can’t imagine.”
“Maybe it was for someone else. To identify them, I mean.”
“Possibly.”
Wiggins was at his elbow. “I found these, boss.”
“These” were a number of import forms listing the Abasi paintings with their declared value, which seemed low, but not scandalously low; several forms detailing some of the tanzanite stones now in the display case in front; other forms citing a few of the pieces of sculpture.
Wiggins said, “Keeps good records.”
“I bet he does, when he keeps them. These two—the gemstone forms—see if you can match up these stones to the ones in the display case.”
“Bit of a challenge that. He’s had them done in settings.”
“You were always a man for a challenge, Wiggins.”
When Wiggins left, looking overly challenged, Jury walked over to the left-hand wall and took a closer look at the paintings. He studied the poor Rothko reproduction, and wondered why he was so sure it was poor, never having understood Mark Rothko in the first place. His glance trailed along to the Abasi painting of the lion and woman that he really liked. After a few minutes he’d worked his way over to Barbara, who had put away the laser toy or whatever it was and was now running her fingers over the frames.
“Should we take them with us?”
Jury thought for a moment. “No. Take one of them—the bear—and also take a couple of others as a blind. We don’t want him to know we know.”
“But doesn’t he already suspect we do? Your friend took one this morning.”
“He might have thought that was because his assistant took it down.”
“Which ones do I take, then, besides the bear?”
Jury looked behind him. “Take that small Matisse-like painting. And the Rothko copy. Maybe Mr. Zane will think we think there’s art forgery going on. And that won’t bother him at all.” Jury motioned Wiggins over.
“Write up a receipt for this stuff we’re collecting.”
“The paintings? What about that stone?” Wiggins nodded toward the desk.
“We’ll leave that buried for the time being.”
Jury nodded to the forensic fellow named Cornelius Zimberlee. “How did the forms match up with the tanzanite pieces in the case?”
Zimberlee said, “Pretty well. Of course, they’d have been cut, some of them, to size, to make the various pieces. I’m assuming from what I’ve seen that all of them can be accounted for.”
“Okay. Good. Then let’s go.”
Jury and the team restored order and went down the staircase to join the one who had finished his search of the ground-floor office.
Leonard Zane was lounging in the doorway of the dining room, smoking a thin cigar.
“Thank you, Mr. Zane. We’ll be going.”
“With my artwork, I see. If you’re transporting those paintings, please wrap them.”<
br />
“Of course. Newspaper?”
Zane asked Maggie Benn to get the brown envelopes or some wrapping paper. “How can I be sure I’ll get them back in good condition?”
“Here’s your receipt, Mr. Zane. Nothing will come to harm. We’re always very careful.”
Maggie was back with a stack of paper; they proceeded to wrap and tie the paintings. Barbara Porter took charge of them and they left.
“What do you expect to find in those paintings, sir?” asked Wiggins as they climbed into the car.
“This.” Jury held out his hand, filled with a dozen small blue stones, ones that Barbara Porter had handed him in an evidence bag when he left Racer’s office.
“Tanzanite?” Wiggins whistled, held one up to the light. “What a beautiful blue.”
“Isn’t it? These were inside the frame Bea Slocum got. There are two others. Now, are we going to idle here all afternoon or are you going to start the car?”
Wiggins started it, but was still surprised and still idled. “I don’t get it. Why? It’s not illegal to import gemstones.”
“Neither is it to bring in diamonds, but a lot of smuggling goes on there, doesn’t it? Move on, Wiggins.”
Wiggins pressed a little too firmly on the gas and they nearly hit the low concrete wall against which Zane’s car was parked. They nearly hit that too.
“Sorry.” Wiggins applied his foot more gently this time and they slid out of the parking area onto the road. Wiggins continued: “But diamonds are valuable. Tanzanite isn’t. You can pick up a piece of that stuff online for a song. I looked.”
“Well, there’s cheap everything. And I’m guessing you won’t be able to do that much longer, because there’s a very limited amount of tanzanite. They expect that in another decade, or two at the most, it’ll be gone. The mines depleted. Zane owns one of those mines. And there are very few big ones. Value has a lot to do with scarcity—”
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