by Morris West
‘No,’ Mather took this one very quietly. ‘My position with Seldes is equivocal. He employs me to provide certain services. Our communication is coloured by that fact. On this matter I have dealt only with you, but you are free to communicate my information to whomever you wish.’
‘There is, however, a change in Mr Mather’s personal situation of which he wishes you to be aware.’ This from Liepert.
‘And what is that?’
‘Mr Mather has been approached by the Palombini family to place his academic knowledge at their disposal once more and to act for them in the matter of the Raphael portraits. I have just negotiated his contract which provides, among other things, that Mr Mather shall be the sole intermediary between the family and the market on this matter. He wishes me to tell you that you are the first to have this information, which will be made public in due course.’
‘Which means,’ said Berchmans in his brutal fashion, ‘he’s cutting me out.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Mather. ‘You are in exactly the same position as before, except that you have a friend at court – if you choose to regard me so. That’s up to you. Nothing changes except that I become the point of reference for the family and am remunerated by them, not by anyone else.’
‘In that case,’ Berchmans beat a reluctant retreat, ‘thank you for telling me. We should stay in touch.’
‘That would be wise. À bientôt, Mr Berchmans.
As he put down the receiver, Niccoló Tolentino puffed out his cheeks and gave vent to an explosive sound.
‘Boh! So much talk. So much greed! These are beautiful things, the work of a great master. They are not bones for dogs to fight over. Forgive me, I get angry too quickly these days. I think I should go for a walk and talk to the ducks.’
‘You can’t,’ said Max Mather firmly. ‘We have to work out your travel arrangements to New York, draw cheques for you, write a letter to accompany your visa application.…Alois, can we have your secretary take some notes, please?’
‘A tyrant.’ Tolentino raised hands and eyes to heaven. ‘A tyrant, mad with the lust for money.’
THIRTEEN
Advance copies of the April edition of Belvedere were delivered to Harmon Seldes’ desk ten days ahead of publication. He called the staff in to look at it. Everyone agreed it was a slap-up job – first-rate material, handsome layout, accurate colour definition. His editorial sat well, the photographs were as provocative as he had intended them to be. Mather’s stuff on domestic economics in Tuscany smelt of the lamp, but the Danziger commentary helped it along.
The surprise of the edition was the lift-out on Madeleine Bayard. Instead of running a conventional advertisement on the final page, Anne-Marie Loredon had elected to fill the space with a full colour reproduction of ‘The Bag-Lady’, centrepiece of the forthcoming exhibition. It made a splendid display piece and exactly fitted the highly emotional tone of Max Mather’s memorial.
Now there was a surprise! In one leap, with the same issue, the plodding scholar was turned into a poet. Several of the senior editorial staff remarked on it – though careful to give full credit to the wisdom of Harmon Seldes, the maker and breaker of talent. The mutual admiration society was still in session when a call came through from one of the senior vice-presidents at the mother house, passing blessings and compliments from on high.
Enough then of compliments! There was work to be done. Seldes pushed everyone out of his office except his secretary, with whom he settled down to that most tantalising of pastimes: ‘making a market’. This began with those favoured souls – directors and curators, major dealers, reviewers – who were privileged to receive advance copies of the magazine, prefaced always by a ritual telephone call from the master himself:
‘Charles, my friend!’ or ‘Anna, my love! Harmon Seldes. I have some real surprises for you this month. Yes, it’s on its way round to you by courier this minute. Take particular note of the stuff on the Palombini Raphaels. Of course you haven’t heard of them; they’re a Belvedere exclusive. A Harmon Seldes exclusive, really; but there. Modesty forbids. Believe me, you should not discount this. Henri Berchmans and I have teamed up to do further research. Also, take a look at the lift-out…Madeleine Bayard. This might be a first and last chance to pick up a bargain.’
In the middle of this agreeable exercise, Henri Berchmans called from Paris to tell him that Max Mather had been contracted to represent the Palombini. Seldes was outraged.
‘Well, after all his protestations of disinterest! And what are his qualifications anyway? The man’s a palaeographer. He knows nothing about art. He’s a pretentious puppy!’
Berchmans gave his harsh braying laugh. ‘It seems your puppy may have grown into a mastiff. How much progress have you made in your researches?’
‘There’s hardly been much time, has there? The advance copies of our April edition arrived on my desk only half an hour ago.’
‘You miss the point, my friend. Already Mather has traced copies of the two portraits in Brazil. I have a hold on them, but I do not expect too much. What impresses me is the man’s ingenuity and industry.’
‘I wish I could say the same about his honesty.’
‘I begin to be impressed with that too,’ said Berchmans. ‘He has dealt very openly with me.’
‘Not so at all with me.’ Seldes was beginning to be petulant. ‘After all, I am his senior editor – I do keep him eating.’
‘Try getting him to eat out of your hand. He likes polite people.’
‘In my present mood I’d rather fire him.’
‘That could be an expensive mistake. I’d much rather keep him on our side.’
‘I wonder what other little surprises he has in store for us?’
‘I’m waiting to know what his evidence is and where his sources are.’
‘You asked me about Raphael attributions. Passavanti is still the best and most up-to-date authority. It might pay you to get him to look at the Brazilian material.’
‘I have to get my hands on it first. Camoens drives a rough bargain. He won’t budge an inch without money in his fist.’
‘You could, of course, send me down to Rio to talk to him.’
‘I’ll think about it. And cool down, Harmon. Our young friend is doing all the work for us. But he’ll never get within a shout of the market. In the end the Palombini will drop like peaches into our basket.’
Seldes was still chewing over that interesting proposition when Leonie Danziger walked into his office and announced briskly, ‘I need some help, Harmon.’
‘For you, Danny – anything. The issue looks great, doesn’t it?’
‘One of the best. Congratulations!’
‘You’re not happy about something?’
‘I’m not happy. Period. Do you keep your office diaries?’
‘Of course. Best lesson I ever learned: don’t dump the records. You never know when you’ll need ’em. What date do you want to check on?’
‘February 18th last year.’
‘What’s the significance of the date?’
‘It’s the day Madeleine Bayard was killed.’
‘Oh!’
‘The police want to know – I need to know – what I was doing from dawn to dark. I’ve been over this with them a dozen times before. They seemed to accept that I had no alibi, but now they’re back again. I can remember less now than I could at the beginning. I throw out my diaries as soon as they’re used. And don’t read me a lecture, Harmon; I can’t bear it. Just…just look up your entry. See if you have me down for any meeting, any assignment.’
‘Sure. Relax now. You know where the liquor is, pour yourself a drink.’
‘No, thank you.’
Seldes opened a cupboard and immediately located the diary. He turned back the pages and read the entry for February 18th.
‘Aspen…Aspen…Aspen…all the week. That was the Moulton skiing party, I remember. I brought back the story about the sale of their Vanvitello collection – the only on
e outside Italy. Now that’s a thought for Max Mather…minor eighteenth-century Italian landscapists…’
‘Please, Harmon. This is serious. What assignments was I working on that week?’
‘It doesn’t show here, Danny. And if it doesn’t show you could have been working anywhere, couldn’t you? I was away from the office. But in any case you’re a freelance. We meet. We set an assignment. You go. You don’t come back until it’s finished.’
‘Thanks for nothing, Harmon.’
‘Please! Don’t be like that. I want to help. What are the police fishing for this late in the day?’
‘I don’t know, but they certainly have quite a lot of background on this.’ She waved the Madeleine Bayard lift-out under his nose. ‘That’s what they were quizzing me about – Madeleine’s love-life, her sex habits, her friends.’
‘Of whom you were one, as I remember?’
‘As who wasn’t, Harmon, when Madi was really swinging?’
‘I don’t believe our article brought this on.’
‘I don’t either. The police mentioned a communication of some kind from Hugh Loredon. It was written before he died; sent on from the US Embassy in Holland. They seem to be using it as a text for this new round of interrogations. They mentioned Max Mather too. But there’s no way in the world he could be involved.’
‘Our golden boy is really getting around,’ said Seldes with marked distaste. ‘He’s due back in a week or so; you’ll be able to ask him yourself. Meantime I’ll have a check run on all our records for February 18th last year, just to see if we can place you on Tom Tiddler’s ground. Try not to worry.’
‘Thank you, Harmon. And congratulations on the April edition. It really is very handsome.’
‘Thank you, Danny my love.’
But ‘Danny my love’ was already out of the door and striding towards the elevators. There had been a moment when the paper scissors on Seldes’ desk had looked exactly like a dagger and the temptation to use them had been almost irresistible.
In the studio building in SoHo, the painters were putting the last coat on the interiors, the electricians were testing the track circuits and pushing screens about the floor to test the spots. In Mather’s apartment on the top floor, carpet was being laid and curtains hung. Anne-Marie was in her office with a pile of invoices and a stack of letters on the desk, the two homicide detectives drinking coffee and making polite but persistent conversation. She had names firmly fixed to them now: the young and good-looking one was Sam Hartog; the older, more rugged and less polished was Manny Bechstein. They were a well-practised team. Hartog led the dance with deferential attitudes and carefully placed queries. Manny put in the tricky moves, reversing over old ground, twisting and twirling an answer until it sounded like something quite different.
Sam Hartog sipped his coffee and worked patiently through his questions.
‘So your father told you he was going into the London Clinic for tests? After that he went on to Amsterdam?’
‘Right.’
‘Why did he go there?’
‘I presumed for business. High category auction goods and auction clients come from all over the world. My father travelled all the time between auctions.’
‘I understand . Then your father asked Mr Mather to meet him in Amsterdam?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why Mather and not you?’
‘As Max explained it to me, although my father was feeling very threatened and lonely, he didn’t want to upset my life. He knew that Max and I looked after each other…so he called Max.’
‘But your father did write to you – a letter which was transmitted with other correspondence from him through our Embassy after his death.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Would you be willing to show me that letter?’
‘Sure. I have it here.’
She fished in her handbag and brought out the envelope with the Embassy stamp on it. Sam Hartog opened the letter, glanced at it and handed it to Bechstein, who nodded and passed it back. Hartog summed up the message briefly.
‘Your father knows he is dying. He apologises for being an indifferent parent. He tells you he loves you – and begs you at all costs not to marry Edmund Bayard…’
‘Which I have no intention of doing.’
‘In spite of the fact that you are good friends and will be doing considerable business together?’
‘It might be more accurate to say because of that fact.’
‘Why did your father dislike Bayard?’
‘He had a long affair with Madeleine. He thought Ed Bayard treated her very badly – a fact which Ed admits freely and regrets very much. My father always saw him as a man of uncertain temper and an unsuitable husband for a much younger woman.’
‘But he saw no problem in your doing business with him, leasing the studio, arranging an exhibition of his wife’s pictures?’
‘My father had nothing to do with those arrangements. I made them without consulting him.’
‘But he did try to talk you out of them?’
‘Without success. Now, Mr Hartog, I think you owe me some explanation. I’ve been very open with you.’
‘You have. We appreciate it.’
‘I think, therefore, that you should be equally open with me.’
For the first time Manny Bechstein stirred out of his silence.
‘It’s not always possible for police officers to be open, ma’am. But let’s go as far as we can. At the same time as he wrote to you, your father wrote a letter to us at NYPD. He had the letter notarised at the Embassy, so it has weight as a document in evidence. It is an account of the murder of Madeleine Bayard and his connection with it.’
‘And what was that connection?’
‘Accessory after the fact.’
‘Which means?’
‘Someone else killed her. Your father assisted that person to evade detection.’
‘Who killed her?’
‘We can’t disclose that – and we haven’t proved his accusation yet.’
‘You mean he could have been lying?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘But why? Dammit, he was a dying man!’
‘Which doesn’t mean he was telling the truth,’ Manny Bechstein pointed out. ‘Only that he could say what he liked and get away with it.’
‘That’s why,’ said Sam Hartog mildly, ‘we have to be careful about mentioning names or giving out information. When is Mr Mather coming back to New York?’
‘Within a week.’
‘We’ll catch up with him then.’
‘But what possible connection…’
‘That’s the problem with murder,’ put in Manny Bechstein. ‘It connects the most unlikely people. Thank you for your help, ma’am. We’ll be on our way.’
‘My card,’ said Sam Hartog, ‘in case you want to get in touch. And, before I forget, Manny and I would like to be invited to your opening.’
‘I’ll send you cards. It will be a black-tie affair.’
‘I approve.’ This surprisingly came from Manny Bechstein. ‘My mother used to say, “It makes for respect.” She was an artist too. She used to engrave crystal for Corning. Some of her work was museum quality. See you, Miss Loredon.’
When they had gone, she shrugged resignedly and turned back to the pile of work on her desk: bills, advertising layouts, the draft of a circular on Tolentino’s seminar, guest lists, phone calls to be answered, correspondence with artists and their agents. Somewhere far in the back of her skull a warning bell was ringing. This addiction to work, this refusal to address any personal questions, this compulsive flight from quiet were abnormal symptoms. Her grief and her rage had never been properly purged. The puzzles of her relationship with Bayard had never been worked out. Her dead had never been laid to rest in proper fashion. So, the vague bells rang; but she shut out the sound and wished that Max Mather would come soon to share the burden of Hugh Loredon’ s last cryptic communication:
…I k
now I haven’t been much of a father. I’ve never been much of anything except an auctioneer and an entertaining bed-mate. But even there I always functioned best with women who didn’t take me or what we were doing too seriously. Now it’s all too damn serious and too damn short to do anything except to tell you that in my very odd fashion I’ve always loved you and always admired the good job you are making of your life.
Also I must tell you – and take my word for it – Bayard is the wrong man for you. He’s all screwed-up. He’s intelligent. He wants to be open and pleasant. He can’t be. There’s no joy in him. Madeleine didn’t help, of course; she was screwed-up too. They both had highs and lows, but never in sync. If they’d been able to hit the crest of the same wave just a few times they might have made it.
Madi and I managed to have some good times, but I was never a horse for the long ride. I liked the short gallops and a quick change of scenery. With Madi, I know, I hung around too long and all sorts of things got balled up. I’ve written a letter to the police that I hope will straighten things out. Let them close the record and let you get on with your life.
Max Mather will know what I’m talking about. He’ll answer your questions. I like Mather very much, but I’m not sure that he’s a stayer either. That’s all for now. I was never much of a writer. So just let me say it once again: I love you. I’ve made a will. Whatever’s left is all yours. Don’t grieve. Drink a toast and then break the glass.
Hugh
The first time she read it she had wept bitterly. Now it made her angry. It was too flip, too facile – a tawdry performance by a bad actor to an audience for whom he lacked respect. The problem was that she, his daughter, could not yet find the grace to forgive him. Max Mather’s note, written a few days later, had chided her gently but firmly:
Hugh escaped me at the end because that was the way he had come to terms with termination. He wanted to be alone with his executioner. I don’t think any of us would deny another that last indulgence. Besides, much as we may want it sometimes, we have no right to possess our parents. They have as much need to escape us as we them. And after all, Hugh was a great escape artist, a latter-day Houdini. Be angry if you must, smile if you can, but in the end, for your own peace, you must forgive him. I hope you will forgive me too, your unwilling surrogate in the last passion of Hugh Loredon.