The Big Score

by Kilian, Michael;

  “Possibly the world. Let me see it!”

  Matthias still hesitated, letting the old man’s eagerness and impatience build to the maximum. Much depended on how dramatically his expression changed—if it did at all.

  Curland opened the lid, unrolled the painting, and held it up.

  “A very rare work, you’ll agree,” he said.

  Franck looked as stunned as if Matthias had held up a blank piece of paper. His left hand began trembling. His pale-blue eyes blinked, uncomprehending. They had their man.

  “That’s Street Scene, Leipzig,” Franck said. “Completed in 1919.”

  An expert, indeed. Matthias nodded.

  “It’s part of your grandfather’s collection. I can’t buy that.”

  “But you ordered it, sir. Didn’t you? From a collector in Chicago?”

  The old man’s face had gone pale, but now began to color. He coughed, continuing to do so in violent spasms. Zany was afraid he might keel over on them.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Franck?”

  “No.” They all sat waiting for the coughing to subside.

  “Mr. Curland,” he said, “I’m afraid I have no business to conduct with you.”

  “On the contrary. I said this wasn’t from my grandfather’s museum. And it’s not.” He reached into the briefcase again, handing another rolled painting to Zany, who unfurled it and held it up.

  “That’s the Street Scene, Leipzig from my grandfather’s vault,” Matthias said. “The one I’m holding is a copy. A wonderful copy, don’t you think? Done by a real expert. Only an art historian or a restoration technician could tell them apart.”

  Franck had now gone so pale it seemed to Zany someone had pulled a plug on his blood.

  “But I have certificates of authentication,” Franck sputtered.

  “You have what? On these?”

  “No. I know nothing about these paintings of yours. On my own. I never buy a painting unless it’s examined by an expert and certified as authentic. That’s true of every painting in my collection.”

  Matthias set the painting in his hands on the desk. Zany did the same.

  “Let’s put it this way, Mr. Franck,” Rawlings said. “Suppose someone had an original Kirchner in his possession and agreed to sell it to you. Suppose he had a recognized expert examine it and make out an affidavit attesting to its authenticity, as you demanded. But suppose that, when it came time for shipment, he replaced the original with an excellent copy like this and sent it along with the certificate.”

  “Suppose he did this to you with a lot of paintings,” Matthias said.

  “You’d have a whole bunch of phonies on your hands and be out a lot of money, but you’d never know it,” Zany said. “Unless a couple of guys turned up with evidence to prove it beyond a doubt. And we’ve checked. The paintings in the Albrecht vault, right now, as we speak, are authentic. Anything that might have been sold is guaranteed fake.”

  “Completely spurious, however perfect the likeness,” Matthias said.

  “Anyone who bought them has been had. A nice, neat con job.”

  Franck sank back into his chair, looking very small and frail. “My God,” he said weakly.

  Anger came into his face, strengthening him.

  “Matthias Curland,” he said. “Do you know who was a party to these sales?”

  Matthias nodded gravely. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Your own brother. And you knew nothing about it?”

  “I’ve been living in France, for several years.”

  “Who else was a party to these sales?” Zany said. “Who was the middleman?”

  “I don’t think I should say anything more,” Franck said.

  “Was it Laurence Train?”

  The old man simply stared.

  “There won’t be any charges placed against you,” Zany said. He pulled out his deputy’s badge. “I say that with some authority. We’ll presume you didn’t know these were paintings covered by covenants of Karl Albrecht’s will, that you bought them in good faith. As far as I’m concerned, you’re not part of a criminal conspiracy. You’re just the victim of an art swindle.”

  “Were you trying to buy another Kirchner this summer?” Matthias said. ‘A work called The Red Tower? A companion work to this one.”

  “Yes,” said Franck, barely audible. “It was never delivered.”

  “Was there another party involved in these transactions?” Zany asked. “Besides Laurence Train?”

  “Yes. Another collector. Someone I’d bought paintings from before.”

  “You want to tell us his name?”

  “It’s Peter Poe.”

  CHAPTER 24

  When they arrived back at O’Hare, Rawlings went to collect their bags while Matthias hurried to a pay phone and called Poe’s penthouse, trying once again to reach Diandra. He’d been calling her for several days, always with the same frustrating result. The housekeeper answered and said, “Mrs. Poe is not home,” never telling him anything more.

  This time, the phone rang unanswered.

  Matthias rejoined Rawlings in the concourse. “No one home,” he said. “I don’t know where she is.”

  “We’ll find her.” Zany looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get over to Area Six and get the paperwork started on this case.”

  “Paperwork?”

  “That’s where you start.”

  “You didn’t do paperwork before you shot those two men.”

  “That’s a cheap shot, if you’ll pardon the expression. They were in my house. With guns. We’re going after some big people here. You start with warrants.”

  “Don’t take too bloody long.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I want to find Christian. I’ll start with the house in Lake Forest. I want to check on my father, too.”

  “What will you do when you find him?”

  Matthias took a deep breath. He didn’t want to lie. There’d been enough of that. “I’m going to tell him about our visit to Mr. Franck.”

  Zany scratched his head. “You know, Matt. What I have to do could take a real long time. They may want to go to a grand jury first. The Chicago cops will want to be real careful how they go about this, not to speak of the state’s attorney, who—may I remind you—is a politician. If you tell your brother what’s up now, he might get scarce before the authorities are ready to move.”

  “Christian told me he was planning to move to the Bahamas. I wish he’d already done that.”

  “I’m not sure what he’ll be charged with. They might even offer him an out—unindicted coconspirator, or cop some kind of plea. It’s Poe and Train who are the main bad guys.”

  “I’m not asking for any favors. I’ll leave all that up to Christian. He knew the consequences of what he was doing. I just want to give him a chance to face up to them on his own.”

  “But I can count on you to go through with this with me, right?”

  “All the damned way.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you back at your place as soon as I can. Don’t go off and do something crazy. Wait for me.”

  The old Rolls-Royce was still in the O’Hare garage where Matthias had left it—too old, apparently, for anyone to want to steal. The engine started, but with some complaint, and made odd noises once he got it onto the expressway. He nursed it as best he could. It took much longer to reach Lake Forest than he had counted on.

  Annelise was there, but Christian was not. A maid told Matthias he could find his sister upstairs, in the guest room Christian used when he stayed there.

  “Matt!” his sister said as he came through the door. “Where have you been? I was just trying to reach you.”

  “I had to go out of town. Where’s Christian?”

  “He went off somewhere with Father. Look what I’ve found, Matt. All these paintings. None of them finished.”

  Matthias glanced at them. Half-finished copies. German Expressionists. A bloody factory going here. “Did he say where he was goi
ng with Father?”

  “Downtown. There’s an emergency meeting of the park board. Something like that. Christian said he’d drive him. Look at these things. I can’t believe Christian did them. They’re so ugly, like the paintings in the basement of the museum.”

  On one, a skull-like face in torment. Otto Dix. On another, a cruel-looking man in military uniform, his arms tightly holding a terrified, nearly nude woman. Ernst Kirchner.

  “Throw them away,” Matthias said. “How long ago did Christian and Father leave?”

  “At least two hours. Is something wrong?”

  “Yes, but I’ll take care of it.” He stepped forward and gave his sister a brief hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Nothing for you to worry about, Annelise. If Christian calls, tell him I want him to bring Father back here at once. And I’d appreciate it if you’d wait here until he does.”

  “What’s the matter, Matt? What the hell’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I just don’t like Father attending these meetings. I don’t like him being on the park board. I should have gotten him to resign his seat before I left.”

  “It’s only a board meeting. All he has to do is sit there.”

  “There’s more to it than that. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the city. Please do as I say.”

  He thought he might yet get to the board meeting in time, to stop the vote, to extricate his father, but the old Rolls finally failed him. When he reached the off ramp from the Kennedy Expressway at Division Street, in full view of downtown Chicago, the engine commenced a continuous sputtering, then died. He coasted to a stop on the shoulder by the embankment wall, the exhaust belching oily smoke. A Volkswagen convertible full of teenagers rumbled by, its passengers laughing at him.

  As well they might. By the time he walked to a gas station and got a tow, he’d lost half an hour. It was another twenty minutes before the cab he called came. He reached Park District headquarters just in time to find Poe and his secretary about to get into one of Poe’s red limousines.

  “Matthias,” said Poe, surprised but looking cheerful. “I thought you were out of town.”

  “I came back, but not soon enough, apparently. Where’s my father?”

  “On his way home, with your brother. He sure as hell came in handy. We got it by just one vote.”

  “You bastard.”

  “Knock it off, Curland. What’s wrong with you? We’re all set. We’re rolling. You’re going to be the world’s greatest architect.”

  People were streaming out of the building, some of them possibly reporters. Matthias didn’t care. He felt in no way restrained. “You couldn’t wait, could you? Ram everything through, no matter what.”

  “Wait? Why wait? Come on, Matthias. Everything’s set. I meet with the mayor tomorrow morning, and then it’s a go. I’d take you along, but the way you’re acting, I don’t think you’d be a lot of help.”

  “I’ll see the mayor on my own, Mr. Poe. I’m going to stop you. You’re not going to have your building. Not where you want it.”

  “What are you going to do, threaten to have your Republican friends vote against him?”

  Matthias stepped close. He’d forgotten how much he towered over Poe. “I’m going to tell him he’ll be doing business with a crook, Mr. Poe. A common thief.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “An art thief, Mr. Poe. You and Larry Train and my brother, selling pictures from our museum.”

  “You’re crazy. Go to your museum and take a look. I’ll bet you there’s not a fleck of paint missing.”

  “Art swindler, then.”

  “You’re nuts. Now get out of my way. I’m a busy man.” He started to push past.

  “Herman Franck,” Matthias said.

  Poe stopped, worry in his look. “What about him? I sell him paintings. So what?”

  “You’ve sold him fraudulent copies of pictures in our collection. I have a signed statement from him. I’m going to show it to the mayor.”

  Matthias now saw something in Poe’s eyes he’d never encountered there before—fear.

  “You’d sell out your own brother, because I want to put a building on the lakefront?”

  The secretary had been staring at Matthias with icy fury from the moment he’d first spoken. Now she stepped between them, pushing close to Matthias, her eyes blazing, her lips curled back. “You’re not going to the mayor, to the cops, to anyone y’under-stand? You’re going to take that signed statement and shove it up your ass!”

  The other people on the sidewalk had looked at them, but none had lingered within earshot. Matthias stepped back. Mango moved close again.

  “Listen to me, Curland,” she said. “You want Peter’s wife, don’t you? You’re in love with that well-dressed set of bones, right? That’s what you told Peter.”

  “She’s leaving him.”

  “Not just yet she isn’t, sweetheart. We’ve got her stashed, where you can’t get to her. You say one word to anyone about this art shit and the next time you’ll see her will be at her funeral. A little accident, y’know? A swim in Lake Michigan with no place to go. People swell up in the water. They swell up like sausages. That’s how she’ll look next time you see her. I mean it. That’s what’ll happen.”

  Matthias stared at her. He had never looked into such a hateful face in his life. Only in paintings.

  “You think I’m bullshitting? Think about that helicopter that went down at Meigs. Think about Park District Chairman O’Rourke. Think about the bomb that went off in your boat.”

  Matthias turned to Poe. “Your own wife? You’d let this happen?”

  “Listen to her, Curland. She means business.”

  “You get out of this town, Curland,” Mango said. “You be outa here tomorrow. And you don’t say anything to anyone about nothing!”

  “And Diandra?” He was ashamed at how rattled he must seem.

  “Play ball, and she’ll be all right,” Poe said, his confidence returning. “I guarantee it.”

  “If you don’t, you’ll find her with the fishes,” Mango said. “And I guarantee that.”

  “First thing you do,” said Poe, “you hand over that fucking statement.”

  “I don’t have it,” Matthias said. “I left it with someone for safekeeping.”

  “Get it back,” Poe said. “I want you at my penthouse with it in your hand tonight.”

  “It may take longer.”

  “Tonight.”

  “It could take all night, damn it! I don’t know where this person is at the moment.”

  “All right. I’ll give you till tomorrow morning. I’m not a hard guy to get along with. You be at my place with that thing by the time I come back from meeting with the mayor. Say, ten o’clock. Then we’ll work it out about Diandra.”

  Matthias wondered why Poe was being so generous. Was he going to use the time to try to get to Franck?

  “Don’t fuck this up, Curland,” Mango said. “Death’s a long time.”

  He stood there motionless, watching helplessly as they got into the rear of the limousine. Mango made an obscene gesture as the long car roared away from the curb.

  “They’ve all got to go, Peter,” Mango said, as they turned up Michigan Avenue. “Train, Curland, all of them.”

  “No, Mango.”

  “And you have to do something about your wife.”

  “Diandra doesn’t know anything.” Poe was pouring himself a big drink.

  “How can you be so sure? She was screwing him, wasn’t she?”

  “No more of this. Not now.”

  “Now’s when it counts.”

  “I mean it. All they have is the word of that old fossil in Philadelphia. I can talk him out of it. Buy back the paintings. Something. And anyway, I’ve got friends in the courts. This’ll go nowhere.”

  “You’re wrong, Peter. This could go to the mayor’s office. He’s not exactly a sure thing, you know. Anything c
ould turn him the other way.”

  “More murders sure would.”

  Mango stretched out her legs. She was staring forward, thinking.

  Poe drank, then added more whiskey to his glass.

  “Did you have to tell Curland about all those killings?” he said.

  “He got the message, didn’t he?”

  “You left out the Langley girl. How come?”

  She gave him a weird smile. “That wouldn’t have been honest, Peter. I didn’t lift a finger against that little bitch.”

  “Who did?”

  “One of Train’s friends maybe.”

  “I’m not looking forward to this thing with the mayor tomorrow. It won’t be like cutting another deal. I’ve nothing to offer him. I’ll just be begging.”

  “Buck up, Peter. Play your hand. It’s a good one. In fact, I just thought up a new hole card for you. What were you planning to do with that Cabrini Green land of yours?”

  “Sell it. Maybe put up some townhouses.”

  “I’ve got a better idea. You’re going to give it away.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who to?”

  “To a worthy charity. To the mother church. I think you ought to go calling on the cardinal tonight.”

  “The cardinal?”

  “The mayor’s a very religious guy, Peter. What do you want with a bunch of slum property anyway?”

  Matthias took a cab and went directly to his Schiller Street house. He hoped somehow Christian and his father might have gone there, but the residence was empty. He hurriedly called Annelise. Without offering any useful explanation, he told her to take their father to her place in Barrington as soon as he arrived, and to keep him there indefinitely.

  “And have Christian call me immediately.”

  “Won’t you please tell me what this is all about? You have me frightened.”

  “It’s all very complicated. All you have to know is that I’ve taken on Peter Poe.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that I want you to do as I ask. Trust me, Annelise, please. It’s all for the family.”

  “All right, Matt. Call me tonight. Please.”

  “As soon as I can.”

  It took him awhile to track down Rawlings through the Chicago Police Department phone system, but he finally got transferred to the burglary section and Zany was summoned to the phone.