“I’m sorry it took so long. As I say, we’ve been extremely busy. What made you doubt their authenticity in the first place?”
“Someone told me they’d seen The Red Tower in circulation.”
“If so, it’s fraudulent. A copy. This is a genuine Kirchner.”
“What do you think it’s worth? The Red Tower?”
His friend shrugged. “I read about a Kirchner going for $450,000 at Sotheby’s in Geneva. That’s not bad in today’s art market.”
Zany had been up in St. Joseph spending some time with the sheriff and was home late for dinner. He nodded at the casserole his wife had sitting on the stove, but took a beer from the refrigerator before sitting down at the table.
“You weren’t doing cop work up there, were you?” his wife said, putting the casserole back in the oven. Zany could smell tuna fish and cheddar cheese.
“Not really. Just tying up a few loose ends. Filling him in on some old cases.”
“Well, it’s nice of you to do that, but you do have it firm in your mind now that you’re no longer a cop?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
They hadn’t completely made up their minds about the future, but were seriously pursuing the idea of expanding the beach shop with an addition and selling marine supplies and fishing tackle. The local banker, doubtless feeling a little guilty about the price Zany had paid for simply doing his duty, had already agreed to lend them the money. The store wouldn’t be ready until the next summer’s tourist season, but the mayor had offered him a job at the marina for the interim. He hadn’t yet given her an answer.
“You had a call, Zane. From Chicago. Matthias Curland. He said to tell you he had that painting checked for authenticity and that it’s definitely the original. The one you found on the sailboat is a fake.”
“Yes?”
“He said he had some others checked, too, and they’re also originals. He said you don’t need to call him back. He just thought you should know. I told him I’d pass on the message. I almost didn’t.”
“It’s interesting news. If he’s telling the truth.” He started for the phone.
“Don’t you call him back, Zane. Don’t you dare.”
“I’m not calling him. I’m going to call his ex-wife.”
“What the hell for?”
“It’s time I found out if the man does tell the truth.’”
“And then what?”
“I just want to satisfy my curiosity.”
CHAPTER 16
Except for Cindy Ellison—whom he’d at last managed to talk to on the telephone and on whose improving condition he checked every day—Matthias shut everything else out of his life but the work before him. He didn’t hear from Sally or Diandra—or Peter Poe—and didn’t try to contact them. Often he let his phone ring on unanswered. Christian was seldom at the house, busying himself with his forthcoming gallery show, and Matthias was able to sketch and paint without distraction. He went at it all day every day and long into the night. It wasn’t a matter of obsession. Not yet. He just wanted this phase of the job done and behind him, so he could move on to whatever was coming next. His injured hand was no impediment. Rather, the still-lingering pain seemed to goad him on.
He wasn’t exactly producing masterpieces, but these illustrations didn’t need to be. All that was required was bright color and mass and grandeur. All they needed to do was please Peter Poe.
But the developer wanted to make a big impact. The trouble with Matthias’s pictures was that they were too small. To enhance the impression Poe was trying to make, Matthias was going to suggest that the principal rendering be photographed and that a huge enlargement of it be made and used as a backdrop for the announcement press conference. Usually when major development plans like this were unveiled, a scale model was presented, but Poe hadn’t been interested in that. Perhaps it was just that he was in a hurry, or possibly because he wanted to avoid questions about how much land his building would take up. His Cabrini Green tract didn’t quite accommodate their grand scheme.
To Matthias’s surprise, he was finished in less than a week, but he held back from telling Poe he was done, except to arrange for the photographic enlargement of the principal illustration.
Matthias wanted someone whose judgment he valued to look at his design. This extraordinary building would likely be his major professional achievement as an architect. For all he knew, he’d muffed it. Some of the world’s greatest architects had occasionally put up some truly awful buildings, full of the belief that anything they might do must perforce be brilliant.
Christian’s eye and judgment were excellent. He might have made a national reputation for himself as a museum director had they been allowed to do more with the Albrecht Collection than carry out their grandfather’s wishes.
He caught his brother early one morning when Christian, who was making a ritual of this, had dashed in to shower and change clothes. It disturbed Matthias that Christian was now back to begin-the-day bloody Marys, but he suppressed that. Matthias himself was content to drink coffee. Their roles were back to normal.
“I’ve finished the renderings,” he said. “Have you a moment to look at them?”
“Always a moment for you, big brother. As many moments as you like.”
Two of the watercolors were on easels. The others he propped on a table against the wall, facing the window light.
Christian smiled. “Poe will be ecstatic.”
“I know what Poe thinks about this. What do you think?”
“I think it’s bloody marvelous.”
“The concept?”
“The concept, the depiction, le tout ensemble.”
“Really? You don’t think the sail is too much?”
“If Chicago worried about ‘too much,’ Matt, there never would have been a Sears Tower, or a Merchandise Mart, or the first Louis Sullivan skyscraper. Big and bold, that’s our toddlin’ town, n’est ce pas?”
“Christian, a giant pig would be big and bold. What do you think of it as a building? Forget the scale.”
“I think it’s extraordinary, magnificent, unique, cleanly yet fully realized. No other architect could have done it. You’ve found yourself, Matthias. Forget art, forget the museum. This is indeed your true calling.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m more than sure. I’m your brother.”
“But don’t you have any criticism? Don’t you find anything wrong with it?”
Christian examined the aerial view of the building more thoughtfully.
“Well, I wouldn’t want it here on Schiller Street. Ruin our lovely morning light, don’t you know. Ruin everybody’s. But out there in the city’s sprawling nethers, it should be absolutely wondrous.” He paused and squinted. “I don’t like the base. I don’t think it should bulge out like that. I’d rather it just came shooting out of the ground.”
“Poe wants a ground floor with a grand entrance and big display windows, so I need some vertical facing delineated from the main structure—a façade, if you will, a storefront. He wants to put museums in there. The Holocaust Museum and the like, a lot of ethnic-oriented cultural and historical collections.”
“Very civic-minded, our Mr. Poe. How appealing to the elected representatives of the people. How wonderfully ironic that we of the German Museum should involve ourselves with a Holocaust Museum.”
“Christian!”
“Sorry, big brother. I forget your egalitarian sensibilities. At any rate, it’s genius. I’m proud of you.” He turned, looking at his watch. “I’m afraid I must be off. Larry Train’s throwing a little brunch for me this morning. Some of his closest friends—and best customers.”
They went downstairs. Christian stopped in the kitchen to finish the remains of his drink.
“You and Larry Train are rather close these days,” Matthias said.
“He’s been a prince—as good to me as Peter Poe has been to you.”
“I didn’t think he handled much contemporary rep
resentational art like yours. I thought he followed the norm—living abstract artists, long-dead representational ones.”
“But I’m a local boy, in addition to being a fantastic talent. And besides, your relationship with Poe seems to have given the Curland name new cachet in this town. We’re what you might call hot.”
He emptied his glass and set it down. Matthias wasn’t ready to let him go.
“I had Kirchner’s Red Tower and a few other canvases checked for authenticity,” he said.
“You went into the vault and took out paintings?”
“I had them cleaned in the process. It’s allowed under the terms of the will. They’re back in the vault, safe and sound.”
“And?”
“They checked out. All authentic. All originals.”
“Yes? So?”
“You had this theory about Jill, that she might have been involved in some kind of art fraud—selling counterfeit art on the underground market. I think you suggested that Train might be involved as well. That she might have been selling them to him.”
“Drunken rambling, big brother. Nothing to it. I sounded out Larry on it—very discreetly. He positively loathes German Expressionists, especially all those dark, brooding, macabre fellows we have in the vault. Larry’s a man for the pretty picture. Check his client list and you’ll find his customers are, too. I really don’t know what I was thinking. I was very upset. So were you.”
“I still am, Christian.”
“I presume that explains your recent resort to demon rum. We have to watch that in our family, Matt. Road to ruin, ha-ha-ha.”
He took a step toward the door.
“We still have no answer to the question. Why Jill had a copy of The Red Tower with her when she was killed.”
“That will likely haunt us the rest of our days, but I fear the answer has gone with her to her grave.”
Matthias followed him to the front door. “Annelise and Paul are coming for dinner tonight,” he said. “Can you join us?”
“Afraid not. Pressing previous engagements. I’m making all the social rounds with a vengeance these days. Stir up interest in my show.”
“We’re going to discuss family finances.”
“How depressing. There’s nothing more to discuss, is there? Thanks to you and me and Peter Poe.”
After so many years in Area Six burglary, Zany had learned enough tricks of the trade to make a pretty good burglar himself. Back in the 1960s, a group of cops in what had been the old Summerdale District had given in to the temptation such expert knowledge presented. The exposure of their burglary ring and subsequent public outrage had resulted in a top-to-bottom reform of the entire police department.
This night, Zany would be following in the Summerdale ring’s footsteps—not after goods or money, but simple knowledge.
Train had an expensive burglar alarm system at his gallery, but it was nothing that an expert thief—or a good burglary detective—couldn’t master. Zany had examined the workings of hundreds of sophisticated alarms in his time—knew precisely how they functioned and how to disconnect them.
Chicago was blessed—cursed, as far as the police were concerned—with nearly as many alleys as it had streets. Zany waited until after nine o’clock—three hours after the gallery had closed—then turned into the one behind Train’s gallery with no one noticing him and reached the back door undetected. It took about three minutes to disengage the alarm. He’d not be able to put it back together on his way out, so he’d have to make this look like a real burglary, which would mean he’d have to take something. He didn’t mind. As far as he was concerned, this was tit for tat. The robbery of his wife’s store outweighed any guilt he might have felt, and he didn’t feel any.
As he had learned on his previous visit to the gallery, most of Train’s inventory was kept in a basement storeroom. It was illuminated with overhead fluorescent fixtures. The storeroom had no windows, so he turned the lights on.
The room was full of paintings, some stored neatly in bins and racks, larger ones set against the walls. His search was far from easy. He had to look through more art than he’d ever had in a museum visit, but eventually found what he sought.
There was a wooden crate set to the side. It hadn’t been sealed, but there was a hasp and a key lock. He picked it open in a matter of seconds.
He was enjoying wonderful luck. There they were—nine paintings—each confirming his suspicions. All German Expressionists, they were quite similar to The Red Tower. One, in fact, was identified as a Kirchner. It didn’t need to be. The brazen woman in bright red who was its focal point was almost the double of woman in the Tower painting.
Each of the canvases looked genuine—either originals or copies done by the same expert hand, possibly treated with an aging chemical. That could be determined later.
What was not affixed to the paintings, or anywhere else Zany looked, was any paperwork—any hint of an eventual destination or prospective customer.
He started returning the paintings to the crate, then froze. There were voices upstairs—one flavored with an affected, almost English accent, the other, Christian Curland’s.
Forcing himself to keep calm, he got the rest of the paintings back into the crate and set the lock back into position. He turned off the overhead lights and switched on the pocket flashlight he’d brought with him—like any good burglar—cursing himself for failing to replace its fading batteries.
They were coming downstairs. There were some very large canvases set against the wall in a corner. Zany hurried to them and crawled behind, wishing he was only five feet tall.
The two were carrying something, one of them grunting. He heard the sound of wood being set on the floor.
“These are the last?” said the voice Zany took to be Train’s.
“I think it’s enough,” said Christian Curland. They both spoke with distinctive upper-class accents—Train’s affected, Curland’s sounding quite genuine.
“I wanted to get them out of the vault,” Curland said. “I don’t think Matthias appreciates my messing about in there.”
“Let’s have a good look at them.”
There was more movement, scraping sounds. Then a silence.
“They’re really quite good,” Train said. “We should have done this a long time ago.”
“When I wanted to, you weren’t interested.”
“What I told you back then, dear boy, was that they couldn’t possibly bring you the kind of money you needed. Now that’s quite moot.”
“I daresay.”
“Well, they’re lovely. Simply lovely.”
“Thank you.”
“Lovely, Christian. Just like you.”
Zany heard quiet, muffled sounds he couldn’t quite fathom. Edging forward on his elbows, he cautiously peeked outside the other side of his shelter, then quickly pulled back.
He’d seen enough. The two men were embracing—and not simply in manly, comradely fashion. Train was kissing Christian on the lips. Zany found himself feeling acutely embarrassed.
“It’s late,” Train said. “Do you fancy dinner?”
“Dinner, and a stiff drink.”
“We should celebrate. Shall we go to Les Nomads?”
“I think not, Larry. Somewhere more discreet.”
“My place, then. We can listen to Vivaldi.”
“Vivaldi.”
It was the last word they uttered. The lights went out again. Zany lay there for a long time listening in the silence. Then he crawled out of his den. When he turned on his flashlight this time, its glow was dim indeed.
First he crept upstairs, making sure that Train and Curland had left the gallery. Then he returned to the crate.
He had to hurry. It was a long drive back to Michigan. He’d told his wife he was going to look up some marine supply wholesalers in Chicago to see what terms they might have to offer. He’d actually stopped by one to pick up some brochures as proof he’d done what he’d said. He’d left them in
his car—on the front seat, so he wouldn’t forget.
Zany had brought a large plastic shopping bag with him, carried rolled up. He decided he’d take two small paintings from the storage racks and one of those in the crate. If Train wanted to report its loss to the police with the others, well, that would be very interesting—if, as he had little doubt, it was an exact duplicate of one of the works in Curland’s German Museum.
He stopped. Had Train and Christian Curland brought more such canvases? Curland had mentioned the vault.
The paintings they’d brought were by the stairs, set backward against the wall. Zany was sure that when he turned them face forward he find more German Expressionists. Using his handkerchief to prevent fingerprints, as he had done since he first entered the gallery, he turned the first one over, then the next, then another, finally all of them. He swore.
Something was damned wrong here. There wasn’t a German Expressionist—real or ersatz—in the bunch. They were just paintings, Christian Curland’s regular work. Two of them were portraits of women, very finely and almost photographically rendered, the kind society people hung above their mantels. The rest were street scenes of Chicago—extremely well done—and all very contemporary. Could Curland be an innocent in this? Just another artist peddling his wares? Was it only Train and Jill Langley who’d been doing this?
After taking the Kirchner from the crate and putting it in his bag, Zany went over the box again carefully. There was no label of any kind, but he noticed something he hadn’t before. With a marker, someone had drawn the letters “P” on the side.
Standing for what? Poe? Pittsburgh? Philadelphia?
He had a big problem. He couldn’t go to the police—not even his good friends in the department—with what he’d found without admitting that he himself had committed a crime: burglary one. There was no way to pass it off merely as an unauthorized search. And he was no longer police chief at Grand Pier, Michigan.
He needed some help. Fortunately, he now had someone he thought he might trust.
First things first. Zany had to get the hell out of the gallery. He picked out two other canvases—small, bad landscapes—and put them in the bag with the Kirchner.
The Big Score Page 33