Paint Gold and Blood

by Michael Gilbert

  A rapping called his attention to the auctioneer on the rostrum at the far end of the room, a small man with a mop of white hair. He had a noticeable squint. When he went into action this was useful as he seemed able to keep his eyes on different bidders without moving his head.

  Business went forward smoothly. The amateur paintings either went for small sums to friends of the artist or were withdrawn. Better prices were paid for Max Berry’s misty riverscapes, a long way after Whistler, and for some pictures in the pop-art manner from the kerb artist, but it was only when the three antiques were put up that the bidding became brisk. The dealers opened their mouths for the first time and Mr. Chaytor, who had slipped quietly into the back of the crowd, accepted battle.

  All three of the pictures ultimately went to him.

  “It was a complete racket,” said Stewart to Peter. “Chaytor knew he could bid as high as he liked. The auctioneer – his name, believe it or not, is Crankling – was in it too, I imagine. Meyer, I’m sure, had already bought the pictures from the men who stole them on the continent and had paid them the agreed price. Probably not a great deal. So if they were knocked down to him now for five times as much, what did he care? He was only paying himself. And the fact that one of them – the portrait – apparently now cost him £4,000 at auction would be a very useful bargaining point when he sold it to a Midland boot manufacturer who liked a little art about the home.”

  “Very smooth,” said Peter. He had already told Stewart about his talk with Commissaire Meurice. Somehow the interval of two days and a few hundred miles had weakened the impact of the Commissaire’s warning. If Peter had been worried by it, Stewart was not. He said, “I think that idea of muscle being for sale here is greatly exaggerated. I’ll have a word with Les. He knows all the hard boys. Anyway, we aren’t interfering with this racket. We’re simply investigating it. No harm in that, is there? As long as we keep our distance.”

  “I suppose not,” said Peter. “As long as we do that.”

  “And we’ve found out a lot of the answers. We now know—”

  “Or suspect.”

  “All right. We suspect that Meyer’s in touch with a number of petty thieves who lift paintings from country churches and small-town museums. He buys them for about a tenth of what they’re really worth, pushes them through Pikorx and sells them for something more like their real value, to customers in this country. All profit on these transactions goes to him. Right?”

  “Yes. I think that’s right.”

  “That’s the small stuff. The important paintings are lifted by the two Iranians. The reason they do it – this must be right, surely – is that in these cases, although Meyer takes a handsome commission, the bulk of the profit goes to Zaman and is channelled by him to Iran. The pictures are either stored by Meyer until the relevant period is over and he can put them up openly for sale, or they are sold at once to a dealer in South America.”

  “Why South America?”

  “Because, once a picture lands up in South America, the authorities refuse to answer questions about it, or to investigate who it belongs to. Result – as far as its owner’s concerned, it’s gone for good. Chaytor told me all about it.”

  “Why was he so forthcoming?”

  “To tell you the truth, I did wonder. He’s invited me twice to that house of his and I’ve met him once for lunch up here. That was the only time that I had him alone, without his wife and on that occasion I did get the impression that he was trying to tell me something, but was afraid to do so.”

  “Afraid because of his wife being implicated?”

  “That’s what I thought at first. Now I’m not so sure. I think he’s in it, too. It may be his wife who brings the important pictures back from France, but I think that he’s involved in the next step.”

  “Their export to South America?”

  “Yes. And it can’t be easy. To start with, they’d probably go by air and you can bet your bottom dollar that packages to South America are closely scrutinised.”

  “Could he send them openly? Apply for a licence—”

  “For a picture important enough to be on the Interpol list?”

  “I suppose not. Perhaps, if we keep our eyes open, this time we may find out how it’s done.”

  Stewart looked at him suspiciously. He said, “This time? What do you mean? You’re keeping something back aren’t you?”

  “I thought you might be interested in something I read in France Libre. I bought it at the airport.”

  The report was written in the style of sarcastic indignation at which French journalists excel. ‘Le Mans’, it said, ‘stands in the mind of most Frenchmen for one thing only. Motor racing. Probably they visualise the inhabitants spending their time either speeding round the famous twenty-four hour circuit or collecting the autographs of the heroes who do so. Such a notion overlooks the plain truth, that Le Mans has a cultural life of its own. One of the centres of culture being the Musée de Pierre Roland, tucked away in a quiet corner between the cathedral and the Quinconce des Jacobins. A museum little visited by the public maybe, but which holds, as a gift from its founder, one of the country’s most notable treasures. The earliest of Rembrandt’s self-portraits, painted at least two years before the Portrait as a Young Man, now in the National Gallery in London. We say that the museum holds it. Had they taken reasonable precautions, they might still do so. Unfortunately there were no night guards and an inadequate alarm system. A thoughtful arrangement which no doubt appealed to the two men who entered the museum over the roof of an adjacent building, broke a window in the main gallery and abstracted the painting with no trouble at all.’ The article concluded by expressing, in no unmeasured terms, its opinion of people who took so little care of the country’s national treasures.

  Stewart read the report carefully. Some of the expressions in it had to be translated for him. His grasp of French was a long way short of Peter’s fluency. Finally he said, “You know what this means, don’t you? If we’re right about what’s going on here, Gertrude Chaytor will soon be on the move. I’d like to know if and when that happens.”

  “Lisa will know.”

  “How?”

  “By watching Chaytor. The moment his wife takes off – particularly in view of what happened last time – he’ll be wetting his pants.”

  “Right. And we go round and mop up.”

  “You can go. If you think it will serve any useful purpose. I’ve got a lot of letters to write.”

  It was five days later when the call came. Lisa said, “Mrs. Chaytor went off this morning. It must have been an impromptu arrangement. Normally she escorts two or three children in both directions. This time all she can manage is one boy to be taken across.”

  “Interesting,” said Stewart. “Expect me around four o’clock.”

  When he got to Hertford Street he found Colin Chaytor in the anticipated mood of nervous desperation. He said, “I told Gertrude, this must be the last time.”

  “Why?” said Stewart. “It seemed to me she was onto a very good racket.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Escorting rich kids. I imagine she gets well paid.”

  “Oh, that. Yes.”

  “Or is the trade falling off? I gather it was only one boy out, this time, and no one back.”

  Chaytor did not ask Stewart how he had come by this information. Instead he said, “It’s not just the children. It’s something else—”

  Unfortunately, at that moment Lisa came back. She said, “If you’d like to hang about here, Mr. Chaytor, please do. I imagine you’ve told your wife to telephone here when she gets back.”

  “It’s very good of you.”

  “Then I’ll leave you and Stewart in charge. I’ve got a date I can’t skip – with my hairdresser. She’s so booked up since she was patronised by royalty that you have to go down on your knees to get a booking a month ahead. Meyer’s in Belgium, so the shop is all yours.”

  “What happens,” said Stewart, �
�if an eastern potentate rings up and wants to spend some of his ill-gotten millions on a picture?”

  “Offer him the Mona Lisa.”

  2

  Since, this time, she had with her only the one boy, a polite and biddable viscount, and realised that she might be pressed for time, Mrs. Chaytor decided to use the hovercraft crossing from Dover. She was in Paris by midday and had completed the handover of her charge before one o’clock. She then made her way, on foot, up the Boulevard de Magenta, passing the western end of the Gare du Nord. She noticed that the Café Continental was back in business, though looking sadly battered. She was heading for the maze of small streets that lay to the north of the station, on the other side of the Boulevard de La Chapelle.

  She had been warned that she might be followed and had been told to take no notice of it. ‘Carry on as normal,’ Harry Meyer had told her cheerfully. She hoped that he knew what he was doing.

  The Café d’Afrique, which she found in the Rue Jessaint, was a smaller and quieter place than her previous rendezvous. There was a single line of half a dozen tables on the pavement, none of them occupied. She stumbled down two steps into the dark interior where she found a bald man, with his sleeves rolled up, leaning over the ‘zinc’, and two workmen drinking Pernod and arguing with him. The discussion, a political one, was accompanied by thumpings on the bar and other gestures of dissent and defiance. She succeeded, finally, in attracting the bald man’s attention and he served her with a cup of lukewarm coffee, which she paid for.

  Her appointment was for two o’clock and when this hour had come and gone she began to get worried. On previous occasions her contacts had been punctual to the minute and she had been instructed that if they failed to arrive she should take herself off as quickly as possible and return home without making any further attempt to get in touch.

  She decided to give it exactly five minutes. At four minutes past, when she was gathering her things together, the street door opened. But it was only a small and grubby boy. He came into the café, looked round, and sauntered over towards Mrs. Chaytor. He seemed fascinated by her coloured umbrella which was propped against the table and stared at it and at its owner with bland impertinence.

  The proprietor, spotting him, said, “Défilez, goujon,” before continuing his discussion which had ascended to a climax of fury. The boy took no notice of the insult, but sidled up to Mrs. Chaytor and said what she guessed to be, “Are you waiting for someone?”

  She nodded. The boy dipped a hand into the pocket of his baggy ankle-length trousers and produced an envelope. He said, with a grin, “There is nothing to pay, ma mère,” and sidled out followed by a glare from the proprietor.

  The paper in the envelope said, ‘Leave without haste and make your way to the Gare du Nord. Opposite the steps which lead down to the Metro you will notice a line of four guichets. They deal with such matters as, reservations, group tickets and refunds. They are not much patronised. The guichet on the left will be shut. Approach it at exactly half-past two. This is important. Time yourself by the clock above the Metro steps. Knock on the guichet window. When the man, who will be waiting inside, opens it, do what he says.’ The note was typewritten and was unsigned. She folded it, put it in her handbag, finished the coffee and made for the door. None of the three men spared her a glance. The street outside seemed to be empty.

  Mrs. Chaytor was a woman who usually managed to control her nerves, but she was conscious that her mouth was dry. She said to herself, ‘Don’t hurry. You’ve time to spare. Spend a few minutes buying yourself a paper at the bookstall. Don’t keep looking at your watch. There are plenty of clocks in the station.”

  She located the guichet which had been described in the note. At two twenty-nine, she started to stroll towards it. When she knocked the interior blind shot up as though she had touched a spring. There was a speak-through attachment in the glass of the window. A man whom she could only see indistinctly said, “Go to the door on your left. It will be unlocked.” The blind shot down as quickly as it had gone up.

  The door was marked, ‘Personnel SNCF’. She turned the handle, pushed the door open and went through, pulling it shut behind her. Now that she had a clear view of the sallow youth who was waiting inside she realised one thing. He was terrified almost out of his wits. His hand was shaking so badly that he bungled the job of refastening the bolts on the inside of the door. She pushed him aside and finished the job for him. “Well,” she said sharply. “What now?”

  “Through there.” He was pointing to a door on the other side of the room. “Quickly, quickly.”

  “It would save time, young man,” said Mrs. Chaytor, in her most schoolmistress-like French, “if you pulled yourself together and gave me proper instructions.”

  The youth gulped and said, speaking a little more calmly, “You go through there, along the passage and down the stairs. At the bottom you will find a door which you can open.”

  “Very well. And then?”

  “That is all I know. Now, please, please go.”

  He was almost on his knees. Mrs. Chaytor moved off with deliberate slowness. When she reached the door at the foot of the stairs she found that it was both locked and bolted, but as the key and the bolts were both on her side she opened it without difficulty and stepped out. She was in an alley, between one side of the station and a windowless block that looked like a warehouse. While she was wondering what to do next, a closed car slid up beside her.

  She recognised the driver, a stout and jolly-looking man who had acted as go-between on previous occasions. Everyone addressed him as Jojo. She had never discovered his real name. When she started to get in beside him he held up one fat hand and gestured her into the back. After she had climbed in and shut the door she discovered that the windows were curtained. Jojo drove off, gathering speed as he cleared the mouth of the alleyway.

  This was a part of Paris that Mrs. Chaytor knew well, a district favoured by traffickers in cheap jewellery and knick-knackery. With time to kill when waiting for her charges, she had often strolled through it, window-shopping and occasionally making a small purchase. When the car checked before crossing a main road, she knew that it was the Boulevard de La Chapelle. The immediate right fork which they took was clearly the Rue de La Goutte d’Or where some of the better shops were to be found. The next main crossing was over the Boulevard Barbes. After this she was at a loss. The car was taking first right and first left turnings at random. All she could tell was that it seemed to be heading west. Then, as it turned a corner, the curtains swung slightly apart and she caught a glimpse of white monuments and gravestones. This could only be the Cimetière de Montmartre and she now knew where she was. A right turn as they reached the north-west corner of the cemetery wall, followed by a left turn, would take them into the Rue Lamarck. It was an area which had lately been redeveloped, she remembered, with blocks of newish and rather expensive flats.

  The car came to a halt. Jojo said, speaking more sharply than he had ever done before, “Do not get out until I tell you. When you move, move fast, but don’t run.”

  It was evident that he was keeping his eye on passers-by on the pavement. She could hear their footsteps approaching and receding. She sat with one hand on the door-catch.

  “Now,” said Jojo.

  She pulled the door open and moved quickly across the pavement and into the entrance hall of the flats opposite. Jojo was on her heels, but she had time to notice the number, thirty-four. A porter was standing beside the lift. Jojo ignored him. He hustled Mrs. Chaytor into the lift and slammed the gate shut. When it stopped at the fourth floor he held the gate open for a few seconds, examining the passageway to left and right, before he allowed her to get out. Then he walked across, pressed the bell and spoke into the entryphone. As the door opened Mrs. Chaytor noticed how ponderously it moved and saw that a sheet of steel had been bolted across the inside.

  She was in a fortress.

  There were two young men in the passage. One of them shook
hands with Jojo, the other ushered Mrs. Chaytor along the passage and into a room, adequately but unimaginatively furnished, with a long window which filled the outer wall. It would have given more light had its bottom half not been covered by a mesh screen. The man who had been sitting on the couch in front of the window, rose to greet her. The young man grabbed her umbrella and suitcase and hurried out of the room.

  When Commissaire Paul Meurice had described Agazadeh Zaman to Peter as a dangerous man, he had spoken the truth. He was a fanatic who had camouflaged himself behind a façade of mediocrity. His black hair, originally curling and rampant, had been subdued by careful barbering. His skin was no browner than that of any Frenchman who had spent his summer on the Riviera. His suit of charcoal grey cloth was well, but not too well, cut. Passing him in the street you would have placed him at once as one of the legion of middle-class bureaucrats and businessmen who kept the wheels of government and finance turning in that crowded strip which lies along the north bank of the river between the stations of Concorde and Châtelet; men who lunched in the Rue de Montpensier and returned every evening to their families in the outer suburbs.

  This impression would not have survived five minutes of conversation, but Zaman talked very little and never to strangers. Mrs. Chaytor only knew that she respected him and feared him; feelings which were increased by his invariable politeness.

  He waved her to a seat and said, “I trust you have not been put out by our last-minute change of plan.”

  She said, “Well, it was a little disconcerting.”

  “But necessary.” Although he spoke impeccable French, when dealing with Mrs. Chaytor he preferred to converse in English. He knew that her French, though serviceable, came from the schoolroom.