The Rembrandt Secret

by Alex Connor

  Surprised, Philip stared at Marshall intently. ‘You still love your ex-wife, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Admit it! I can see it in your face. You’re too ardent to be indifferent. Why did you two split up?’

  There was a moment’s pause before Marshall replied. ‘We couldn’t live together. I don’t know why. It just didn’t work. We loved each other, but day-to-day living … it just didn’t work.’

  ‘Yeah, I know about that,’ Philip said, nodding. ‘Does Georgia know how you feel about her?’

  ‘She’s married to another man, and pregnant. It’s too late for us. So, no, she doesn’t know how I feel.’

  ‘Five will get you ten she does.’ Philip sighed. ‘Your father wasn’t passionate—’

  ‘Except when it came to his work,’ Marshall said, trying to size up the well-groomed man in front of him.

  He gauged Philip Gorday to be around fifty-five. Not especially good looking, but confident and charismatic. A man a woman would feel safe with. A man who seemed very grounded and obviously prosperous. Finishing his sandwich, Marshall then emptied his glass and felt his pulse slowing, his heart rate steady as he looked over the mantelpiece at the portrait of Charlotte Gorday.

  ‘It’s very like her.’

  ‘Your father organised it, he chose the painter.’

  ‘Who paid for it?’

  Philip smiled, ignoring the question. ‘Georgia asked me to represent you if you needed a lawyer.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything. Yet.’

  ‘Are you thinking of doing something?’

  ‘I’d like to string up the bastard who killed my father,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘But you don’t know who it is.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Marshall got up and stared at the portrait of Charlotte. ‘Did you find her body?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you found Nicolai Kapinski’s too?’

  ‘No,’ Philip replied, refilling their glasses. ‘I went to his hotel to talk to him, but he was dead when I got there.’

  ‘Did you see his body?’

  ‘Yes. Unfortunately, I did.’

  Marshall kept staring at the portrait of the dead woman. ‘Nicolai Kapinski was a little man, soft-fleshed, not strong. I don’t imagine it would have been difficult for anyone to overpower him. But he wouldn’t have just sat there while he was blinded.’ He turned to Philip, his expression unreadable. ‘There had to be more than one person involved.’

  ‘He could have been drugged?’

  ‘That would have taken planning. The killers would have to have waited for a drug to take effect. No, I don’t think Nicolai was drugged. This person kills violently. He takes his time, makes it last; it’s brutal and vindictive.’ Marshall paused. ‘And they knew him.’

  ‘How d’you figure that out?’

  ‘They let him in. Even Nicolai, alone in the middle of New York, scared for his life, trusted the person who came to his door. It had to be someone he knew.’ Marshall turned to Philip Gorday, his expression challenging. ‘Was it you?’

  ‘Me!’ he exclaimed, laughing, and then realised that Marshall was serious. ‘You can’t think that.’

  ‘My father had known you – albeit from a distance – for years. He wouldn’t have thought twice about letting you in. He might have been surprised, curious, but he wouldn’t have been afraid.’ Marshall paused, watching the sturdy man in front of him. ‘And Nicolai had come to you for help. So if you then turned up at his hotel he’d have been delighted to see you. Relieved, in fact.’

  ‘You’d make a bad advocate.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No motive.’

  ‘But there is a motive, isn’t there?’ Marshall continued. ‘The oldest motive in the world – envy. You might have resented my father for years. You could have killed him for that alone.’

  ‘I’m not the jealous type.’

  ‘You go to great pains to make that clear,’ Marshall went on. ‘Well, sexual anger would be one motive. Of course, the other motive is simple – you wanted the Rembrandt letters. Perhaps you asked Charlotte to get them for you. Maybe she refused, and you lost your temper. Maybe she got scared after my father was killed—’

  ‘And ran home to me?’

  ‘Maybe she didn’t know it was you until she got home,’ Marshall said, glancing around the room quickly to ascertain his nearest exit. ‘Maybe you killed her before she could tell anyone.’

  ‘And Nicolai Kapinski?’ Philip asked, helping himself to another drink. ‘Why would I kill him?’

  ‘For the same reason you’d have killed Stefan van der Helde. To keep him quiet. Nicolai came to you asking if you had the letters – so then you knew that he didn’t have them. But he was running around talking about knowing someone who would want them, would perhaps buy them. And you couldn’t have that, could you? You wanted the letters.’

  ‘But I don’t have the letters,’ Philip replied evenly. ‘I’m a lawyer, not an art dealer.’

  ‘True, but you’re a cultured man, and a greedy one. You could make a fortune with the letters and get your own back on your wife’s lover at the same time. I know you have a long standing interest in the art world. You know Lillian Kauffman—’

  ‘Ah, Lillian. Has she heard this wild theory of yours?’

  ‘No,’ Marshall admitted. ‘I didn’t even think it was you until a few minutes ago. Then it all fell into place. The fact that you knew Lillian. That Georgia had known you – and your wife. The fact that she had been connected to you in the past. That niggled at me. It was too much of a coincidence.’

  ‘You surely don’t think your ex-wife is trying to harm you?’

  ‘No, not Georgia,’ Marshall replied, moving a little closer to the door. ‘But I think you played her, like you played everyone, for a long time. When I arrived, you didn’t open the door immediately, you wanted to make me sweat, think those men would get to me before you did. You did it to make me rely on you. Trust you implicitly. After all, who wouldn’t trust the person who was protecting them?’

  ‘This is bullshit—’

  ‘When I called you from the cab you asked me where the letters were,’ Marshall continued. ‘Why would you ask that, if they weren’t important to you?’

  ‘Four people have been killed because of those letters. One of them was my wife! It would have seemed fucking odd if I hadn’t asked about them.’ Philip sat down on the window seat, his tone impatient. ‘I have nothing to do with any of this. I’m not a murderer, I’m offering to help you, for Christ’s sake!’ He stared at Marshall, tossing the catalogue of the next day’s auction onto the sofa between them. ‘I’ve been invited to the Rembrandt sale, people can attend by private invitation only. I can take you in with me.’

  Marshall paused, his tone suspicious. ‘Why would I want to go to the auction?’

  ‘I don’t know, but you obviously do, otherwise why would you have risked coming to New York?’ Philip sighed, folding his arms. ‘Your life is in danger – not from me, despite what you think. I’d like to help you, but I need to know a few facts. The people after you want the letters. Do you have them?’

  ‘Next question.’

  ‘All right, if you don’t have the letters, you must have got rid of them. Put them somewhere safe. A bank?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘OK, let’s say that the letters are in a bank, where no one can reach them. But you’re out on the street, inviting trouble. Which means that you’re confident. That even if something happens to you, you’re confident.’

  Marshall smiled to himself. Philip Gorday was smart, Georgia had been right about that. He was also beginning to wonder if Gorday was innocent, or simply double bluffing him. If he stayed with Gorday would he last the night? But then again, Marshall thought, if he left where would he go? He thought of the letters, on their way to the newspapers. In the morning the news would be all over the headlines, just in time for the auction. Just in time for Rembrandt’s secret to u
ndermine the whole sale. And when the truth was out, Marshall could step forward …

  All he had to do was to get through the night. But where? And with whom?

  ‘You are confident, aren’t you?’ Philip repeated, almost admiringly. ‘Which would imply to me that you think the letters are in the right hands. That they’re safe, that whatever happens to you, they’re protected.’ He glanced away, thoughtful. ‘You can’t trust anyone, Marshall. Accusing me proves how suspicious you are, how confused. You’ve got your doubts about everyone, haven’t you? So who would you consider safe? You must understand that you’re making it very difficult for me to help you.’

  ‘I just want somewhere to stay the night.’

  ‘And tomorrow?’ Philip queried. ‘What about tomorrow? You’ve got people after you, Marshall, they won’t just stop. Even if you gave them the letters, you wouldn’t be safe, because you know what’s in them. Besides, you could have taken copies …’ He trailed off and looked closely at the younger man. ‘You’ve gone to the press, haven’t you? Your father would never have done that, but you have, haven’t you?’

  Marshall said nothing, just watched as Philip drew back the curtain and looked down into the street below.

  ‘I’m not risking my neck for some fucking stranger,’ he said coldly. ‘You want my hospitality, you have to pay for it. And by that, I mean you have to trust me.’ He turned back to Marshall. ‘You can stay here, I’ll give you a room and my protection. These apartments have good security, no one can break in unannounced, and I’ll take you to the auction as my guest tomorrow. You won’t get in otherwise; as I said, it’s invitation only.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not doing it for you, Marshall, I’m doing it for my own reasons. And one of them is my late wife. You were right – I am a jealous man. I was very jealous of your father. I knew he would always come first with Charlotte, but the Rembrandt letters are unimportant to me.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about some dead artist, or if every one of his paintings turned out to be fake. Why should I care? The art world’s corrupt anyway, always has been. Perhaps it’s time for them to get what’s coming to them.’

  Surprised by this outburst, Marshall stared at him and asked, ‘So why are you helping me?’

  ‘Because of Georgia.’

  ‘Because of how you treated her mother?’

  ‘Jesus, you still don’t get it, do you?’ Philip said, turning away. ‘Georgia is my daughter.’

  45

  At seven in the morning a thin rain covered Manhattan. It came from the river and slid against the high rises, sullen and cool as a shroud. Oyster-coloured clouds scuffed against minuscule slashes of blue sky, the sun making no entrance on the day. It was very cold. As the temperature dropped, the heating came on in Philip Gorday’s apartment and the dog scratched at the door to be let out. Rubbing his neck, Philip phoned down to the doorman and asked him to come up for the Labrador. He handed over the dog at the door, relocked it, then flicked over the morning’s papers and stared down into the street below.

  The previous night he had slept little, rising often and walking to Marshall’s door to listen and see if he was also awake. But his visitor slept well, undisturbed, and no noises came from the guest room. Philip did hear the cistern flush once in the early hours, but after that there was silence. Plenty of silence to give him time to think. And – in between dreaming and waking – he thought of his affair with Eve, and of Georgia, his daughter. It had been an arrangement between himself and his lover that she should pass Georgia off as her husband’s child. It would be better for both of them, and save both marriages, Eve had said. He had agreed, and their affair continue intermittently.

  Never an easy child, Georgia had been difficult to know, and believed that Eve’s ex-husband was her father. When he died, Philip had been tempted to step forward, but resisted. Georgia, he surmised, was beyond being able to understand and forgive, and if he was honest he thought it unlikely that she would ever accept him. To Georgia, he was just one of her mother’s lovers, no more. Not one of her favourites either, not one she even liked. Keeping the truth to himself, Philip had never confided in Charlotte, and when he heard that Georgia was marrying Owen Zeigler’s son he had appreciated the irony.

  Opening the fridge for some more fruit juice, Philip remembered Marshall’s response when he had confessed last night. He had not reacted violently, just got up from the sofa where he had been sitting and stared at the older man.

  ‘I need somewhere to stay for tonight.’

  Subdued, Philip had shown him to the guest room, watched Marshall walk in, and then seen the door closed in his face.

  The door which was still closed now. Philip went to the guest room door and knocked. No response. He waited, knocked again and then walked in. The bed was made, the curtains drawn – nothing to indicate that Marshall Zeigler had ever been there. He could have left soon after he had retired to bed, or only half an hour ago. But he had gone.

  Swearing, Philip moved back into the sitting room and stared at the the mantelpiece: his invitation to the auction had disappeared.

  Startled when the phone rang, Georgia reached out for it, her voice groggy.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me, Marshall.’

  She had been sleeping on top of the covers, too nervous to take off her clothes and relax. Samuel had gone to bed early but she had found herself reading, anything and everything she could about Rembrandt and his history. The study was pointless, she knew that, it had just been a way of keeping her mind occupied, her fears at a distance. Several times she had heard footsteps on the gravel outside and tensed, waiting for someone to break in. But no one did. The hours had meandered by, listless and malignant, round the clock. Apparently Greg Horner was also restless, and he seemed to spend a lot of the evening moving back and forwards from the kitchen to one of the guest rooms. Then, for some reason, he had a bath around half past midnight. The action had been oddly comforting to Georgia, and finally she had drifted off to sleep.

  But now, at four in the morning, she was alert. ‘Marshall, are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. Don’t worry about Dimitri Kapinski, he’s OK. Teddy Jack’s looking out for you, you’re fine—’

  ‘I know, I got your messages.’

  ‘How’s Harry?’

  ‘Off the ventilator, making real progress. He’s out of danger now, thank God.’

  ‘I’m glad. I should have never got you involved with all of this,’ Marshall said quietly. ‘I’m so sorry. Really, Georgia, I’m so sorry. You know I’d never hurt you deliberately.’

  Her stomach knotted.

  ‘Marshall, you’ve got to get some help. I assume you’re in New York; did you go to see Philip Gorday?’

  He smiled at the name. ‘Yes, he gave me all the help he could.’

  ‘So get out of it, while you still can.’

  ‘It’s too late for that,’ Marshall replied. ‘I couldn’t get out of it now, even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. I just wanted to make sure you were safe, that’s all. You know, just in case something happened to me … we had some good times, didn’t we?’

  She clung to the phone. ‘We did. And we will again—’

  ‘No, not like before. You’ve got a family, a new life. Live it, Georgia, and make it work, OK?’

  ‘Jesus, you sound like you’re saying goodbye!’

  ‘I don’t regret anything,’ Marshall said, his tone sincere. ‘I want you to know that, Georgia. Whatever happens to me, I’m glad I got into all of this. I hadn’t cared about anything for a long time – not since we split up. It felt good to have something in my life that mattered. Besides, I wanted to see the art world take a beating, particularly Tobar Manners.’

  She felt herself tense up. ‘You said wanted. What have you done?’

  Marshall ignored the question. ‘I felt sorry for Geertje Dircx. Just one of the ordina
ry people that are trampled on. She made me wonder about all the histories which have been blotted out to preserve a reputation or make someone a hero. What Rembrandt did to her was brutal, nothing excuses that. Not even being a genius.’

  ‘Marshall—’

  ‘Look, one way or the other, it’ll all be over soon.’

  ‘The auction, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, the auction.’

  ‘Have you got a plan?’

  ‘I had a plan,’ he said, ruefully. ‘Now I have no plan at all.’

  ‘You’re scaring me.’

  ‘You never get scared, you’re too tough,’ he teased. ‘I love you.’

  Putting down the phone before she could answer, Marshall dropped the mobile into the nearest waste bin and moved on.

  He had left Philip Gorday’s apartment around eight. From the foyer he could see the men outside, watching him. Getting back into the elevator, Marshall had got out at the next floor, but pushed the button for Philip Gorday’s floor, watching the lift rise to the twenty-first floor. Then he took the back stairs to the street and made for the nearest newspaper vendor. Grabbing a copy of the New York Times, Marshall had read the front page with surprise, then, panicking, hurried through the rest of the paper. There was no mention of the Rembrandt letters. Not a word about the fakes coming up for sale in two hours time.

  He had lost. In that moment Marshall realised that the assistant manager at the bank had not sent his letters. They had been thrown away, discarded. The damning news was still hidden; the Rembrandt secret still unknown. Throwing the newspaper onto the street, Marshall began to walk towards the Museum of Mankind. He felt cheated, let down, betrayed. He felt stupid too, and hardly cared if he was being followed.

  Angrily he pushed past a pedestrian and stumbled across the road, the traffic blaring its horns, a cab swerving to avoid him. He was aggressively alert, staring at people who passed him like a man looking for a fight. Or someone still drunk from the previous night. Damp from the rain, Marshall arrived at the entrance of the Museum of Mankind and stared up at the posters – REMBRANDT AUCTION. And on the hoardings were images of the portraits. Portraits Rembrandt had never painted, portraits Carel Fabritius had created, many years before in Delft.