by James Green
‘Thank you, Cynthia, I’ll deal with this gentleman.’ Cynthia gave Jimmy a look that dissociated her thoughts on him utterly from the word ‘gentleman’, and left them to it. ‘I’m afraid Thurlow is away at the moment on business. Perhaps I can help? I’m Thurlow’s partner, Franklyn Tollover.’
They shook hands. Tollover’s was soft and smooth. He must have been sixty but unless you looked carefully he could have easily have passed for forty. Maybe he’s never had anything much to worry about, thought Jimmy. Oh well, it’s time he started.
‘Thurlow Somerset isn’t away on business, Mr Tollover, he is missing and has been for some weeks.’
Tollover aged a lot of years in about half a second. This is the bloke, thought Jimmy, this is lover boy. You didn’t need to be a trained detective to see that. The pain in his eyes had nothing to do with business. When the pain passed it was replaced by worry.
‘Come this way, Mr…?’
‘Costello, James Costello.’
Tollover led Jimmy sufficiently far enough away from Red Lips so they could talk unheard then stopped.
‘Do you know where he is? Are you a detective, is he…? Is he…’ He couldn’t get the word out. He was too frightened to even say it.
‘Is there somewhere private we can talk?’
‘Yes, there’s the office.’ He turned and Jimmy followed into the back part of the gallery. Cynthia was by a picture which was bathed in lighting from somewhere in the ceiling.
So that’s how they do it, thought Jimmy; maybe the stuff is worth looking at after all..
As they approached her, Cynthia began to make a deeper study of a painting. Tollover stopped so Jimmy stopped and looked at the painting. To his unpractised eye it looked like something off the top of a box of chocolates.
‘See we’re not disturbed, Cynthia.’
Cynthia’s back went rigid. She gave up on the chocolate box lid, turned and gave Tollover a look that was a nice blend of anger and betrayal. But Tollover didn’t notice and moved on. Jimmy gave her his best smile, the one that never worked like it should.
‘Yeah, see to it, Cynthia.’
Her look, now directed solely at Jimmy, was a nice blend of loathing and hate. She had a real talent in combining looks but Jimmy didn’t wait to appreciate this one. He walked away, following Franklyn Tollover.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The room at the back of the gallery was part office, part sitting room, and done out like Tollover: good to look at and, even to Jimmy’s inexpert eye, all class. A place where the super-rich would be at home while they were parted from their money. Tollover went to a table and poured himself a drink from a bottle of red wine. When he spoke he was back to normal, in control.
‘Anything for you, Mr Costello?’
‘Do you have any beer?’
‘No, sorry. I’m afraid there’s no call for beer.’
‘Nothing for me then.’
‘Please sit down.’ They sat down in two leather club chairs beside a dark wood table. ‘Do you have any news of Thurlow?’
‘He’s dead.’
Tollover coughed out some of the wine he’d just drunk, which landed on and soaked into his shirt and slacks. His glass fell from his hand and bounced without breaking on the thick cream carpet, creating a dark stain at his feet and sending dark splashes onto the pale tan of his loafers. His face went into his hands and he sort of crumpled. It had gone down exactly as Jimmy had wanted. Big.
Jimmy waited and after a few seconds the face came out and looked at him. There were no tears and the eyes showed anger rather than pain. Tollover looked at the glass on the carpet by his feet, bent down, picked it up and went to the wine bottle where he poured another. He took a drink, returned to his seat, put the glass on the table and looked at Jimmy.
Jimmy thought he’d taken it all very well.
Tollover’s voice was steady when he spoke.
‘You’re very direct, Mr Costello.’
‘Is there some way you’d have liked it wrapped up?’
‘No, I suppose not.’ He picked up his glass. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
Tollover took a drink and returned the glass to the table. He was working hard at being in control and not doing so badly.
‘May I see the body?’
‘There is no body and if it’s found you wouldn’t want to see it, not after this length of time.’
Tollover looked at the glass, thinking about taking another drink but decided against it.
‘Who are you, Mr Costello? You’re English so not the police, at least not the NYPD?’
‘I’m nobody, nobody official that is. I’m looking into the supposed suicide of a young man who Mr Somerset knew. They both used a chaplaincy to the gay community in Vancouver. I understand Mr Somerset went there a couple of times a year.’
‘Then if you’re not anybody official how can you be sure that Thurlow is dead.’
‘We’ll get to that.’
Tollover wiped a hand over the stains on his shirt. He was feeling better. He thought he was back in control.
‘I’m not so sure I want to get to that. I think I should call the police.’
‘Go ahead.’
Jimmy sat back and waited while Tollover thought about it. Then Tollover also sat back. Now, thought Jimmy, now he’s back among the living. Now he’s as in control as he’s ever likely to be.
‘Take a drink, Mr Tollover, you need it and it will help.’ Tollover hesitated, but only for a second, then he picked up the glass and finished what was in it. ‘Get yourself another.’
Tollover stood up.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t…’
‘No, Mr Tollover, I’m sure I wouldn’t. You have another but then call it quits for a while. Getting smashed will do neither of us any good.’
Tollover went and got his drink then came and sat down.
‘I’ve been to the police, several times in fact. They have no idea where Thurlow is or what’s happened to him. There’s been no demand for money, no contact of any kind. The police don’t seem to be trying too hard to find him.’ He leaned towards Jimmy and tried to get as much emotion into his voice as he could. ‘I would appreciate any information about him, any information at all.’
Jimmy liked it. Tollover was either a very good actor or he really cared about Thurlow Somerset. But for the moment there were more important things to deal with.
‘Why did he go to Vancouver?’
‘You’re sure he’s dead?’
‘Yes, and so will you be when I’m finished. Why Vancouver?’
Tollover’s manner changed. He seemed to switch off the emotion. It was as if he’d suddenly accepted what Jimmy had told him and found he could live with the news after all.
‘I’m afraid Thurlow was in love.’
‘There was another man?’
‘No, not another man. He was in love with art, it was his only real passion. In particular he loved sacred art from the Renaissance. Many people found that strange because he was a lifelong atheist and for most of his life mocked the faith that had sponsored the art he loved. That the Catholic religion judged him and all other gay people to be no more than perverted hell-fodder may, of course, have had something to do with his attitude. As the Church reviled homosexuality, so he used to revile the hypocritical, pious cant of the Church. But over the years that changed. Slowly he arrived at a conviction that truly great art cannot be based in any way on something totally false. He came to believe that behind the artists who created such masterpieces there was some sort of primal truth which transcended, but could be expressed by, the subject matter they dealt with. He never wavered in his total rejection of conventional piety or the flummery of their rites. But he began to believe that the music and the art Catholic artists had given to the world must have been created by men who were inspired by a knowledge hidden from the rest of us. Some great, mystical truth. Have you ever heard of Gnosis, Mr Costello?’ Jimmy shook his head. ‘For th
ousands of years there has been a belief in some sort of secret knowledge, a knowledge hidden from most people. Anyone who could possess that knowledge would have the key to -’
‘Can we stick to Vancouver and what he found there or what Marvin Brinkmeyer told him he had found. The pictures. I don’t want or need to know about anything else.’
Tollover took another drink. Jimmy could see the transformation taking place. He’d seen it before in so many interviews, when the person being interviewed begins to work out whether or not they have a bargaining position.
‘Thurlow wanted to find out what lay behind great sacred paintings. His position regarding religion in general and the Catholic Church in particular was well known in the circles in which we moved. There was no point in trying to talk to anyone in New York about the Catholic Church, and in any case to do so would have seriously prejudiced his position. In our business we live and die by reputation and you cannot do such an about-turn as he proposed and keep your reputation wholly intact. If he wanted to know about the Catholic Church he had to look elsewhere and he came up with Vancouver. He went there and found it give him access to people who could help him in his search. We put the story round that he had a nephew out there, that the nephew was gay and that his family blamed Thurlow and had cut off all contact. As far as the art world of New York was concerned the reason Thurlow went to Vancouver was to see his nephew without his family knowing. About a year ago, on one of his visits, he met Marvin Brinkmeyer and found they shared a love of sacred art. They became friends.’
‘Are you sure it was just friends?’
‘You’re not gay, are you?’
‘No.’
‘So do you jump into bed with any woman who shares an interest, who might be a friend?’
The last time Jimmy had met a woman who was interested in him that was exactly what had happened. But he could see that now wasn’t the time to say so.
‘No.’
‘Exactly. The last time he came back from Vancouver he was very excited, he told me he had found something stupendous.’
‘Some very valuable paintings?’
‘It must have been, but he wouldn’t say which paintings. He said he wanted it to be a surprise. A special surprise for me.’
‘He was going to get these pictures for you?’
‘Not exactly. He was going to get the owner of the pictures to let me put them in this gallery and manage the sale.’
‘Why was that such a big deal?’
‘It was a big deal because he said I would be the one who brought something astounding to the art world.’
‘Some lost masterpieces?’
‘No, he was the one in love with what you call masterpieces. I deal in contemporary art, what you might call modern art. Our artistic inclinations were very different and complemented each other perfectly - he loved the beauty of the old, I loved the shock of the new. Our success was built on our different -’
‘Were these pictures he had found religious pictures?’
‘I doubt it. Very little modern art, good modern paintings, are religious works. There are a few of course but -’
‘I have reason to believe the pictures are religious pictures.’
‘And that reason would be?’
‘I can’t tell you at this time.’
‘For can’t, shall I read won’t?’
‘If you like.’
Tollover didn’t like the answer.
‘I see. In that case can we get to how you’re so sure Thurlow is dead?’
Jimmy ignored the question. He had got the measure of Tollover now. One good punch in the middle of his fancy silk shirt and he would fold. He was soft on the inside as well as the outside.
‘What else did he tell you?’
Tollover picked up his glass but didn’t take a drink. Instead he held it up and looked coyly at Jimmy over the top of it.
‘You know, Mr Costello, I don’t think I trust you. I am inclined not to tell you any more.’
‘So get Cynthia to throw me out, or better still call the police. I don’t give a shit one way or the other because before you do anything else you’re going to tell me what you know.’ Jimmy could see Tollover believed him, and he was right to believe him because Jimmy couldn’t act. But in this case he didn’t need to because he meant every word he said.
Tollover finished his drink and made to get up. ‘You don’t need another yet, Mr Tollover. Sit down.’
Tollover sat back down.
‘If I called out, Cynthia would hear me.’
‘And if she was stupid enough to come, Cynthia would get a broken jaw to add to your broken ribs. Where would that get us?’
Tollover gave up. He was frightened and Jimmy didn’t blame him. He had beaten confessions out of too many people for his voice not to carry conviction.
‘There were fourteen pictures, a sequence of themed studies by a major artist of the later twentieth century. He said that whoever brought them to the art world would become the most important dealer in the world of modern art. It would be the equivalent of discovering a previously unknown series of paintings by Rembrandt.’
Jimmy noticed that his voice was losing its edge of fear as he talked about the paintings.
‘So they were valuable?’
‘Thurlow couldn’t think of how much they might make. Millions obviously, but he had no idea of how many millions.’
‘Could they have been stolen?’
‘Stolen?’
‘Yes, stolen. As in, taken without the owner’s permission. That kind of stolen.’
‘Of course not. What value would there be in obtaining and displaying stolen pictures? If they were as important as Thurlow seemed to think, they would be recognised, confiscated and we would probably go to prison. No, they were in someone’s possession who had no idea of their true value. Thurlow wouldn’t tell me who. He said he would make an offer for the paintings. For some reason he seemed to think his offer would be accepted. Then he disappeared. That is really all I know, Mr Costello.’
Yes, it probably is, thought Jimmy.
‘You’ve been frank with me, Mr Tollover, so I’ll be equally frank with you.’
‘Is this where we get to why you’re so sure Thurlow is dead?’
‘This is it. Marvin Brinkmeyer found the paintings and told Somerset. Brinkmeyer thought they were stolen, wartime loot. He was going to blow the whistle but before he could do that he conveniently blew his brains out by putting a shotgun in his mouth. Sr Gray, who runs the chaplaincy, thought Brinkmeyer was murdered. Through a mutual friend I was asked to look into it. Before I could get anywhere, Gray was strangled and the mutual friend killed by a hit-and-run driver. The only other living person who knew anything about the pictures was Thurlow Somerset and he went missing shortly after Brinkmeyer’s death. Being connected with those pictures, however distantly, seems to have fatal consequences, Mr Tollover. If Somerset let it be known that he was interested in them, maybe even made an offer to sell them, then I would guess he’s dead like the others, unless you know some good reason why he would disappear and stay disappeared.’ Jimmy stood up. There was nothing more for him here. ‘Get some more wine, Mr Tollover, get plenty, I reckon you need it. I’ll let myself out.’
Jimmy left the office. In the gallery he passed Cynthia. ‘Mr Tollover can be disturbed now, Cynthia. I’m finished with him.’
He could feel the look she was giving his back as he left the gallery. When he got back to the hotel he would have to check his jacket to see if she had left a scorch mark.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jimmy sat on the plane heading back to Vancouver. The visit to New York had been good and bad. Good because now he had some idea of what the pictures were, undiscovered masterpieces of modern art, but bad because he still didn’t know where they were. And what Tollover had told him was confusing. According to Tollover, the pictures Somerset was interested in were late twentieth century. But the ones Brinkmeyer had been interested in were wart
ime loot, so they all had to be from before 1945 and some of them must have been old stuff. And Somerset reckoned they were something new and exciting that Tollover could spring on the art world and make a big name for himself. But the stuff he’d been sent to find wasn’t new to the art world, the whole point was that the pictures were well-known and valuable.
Nothing seemed to fit, so Jimmy gave up that line of thought. What sort of pictures they were didn’t matter until he’d tracked them down. At least now he knew he was looking for a themed sequence of fourteen paintings, which were where they could be seen and studied by people like Brinkmeyer and Somerset but not where people who knew about art would normally go. Where would Brinkmeyer and Somerset go to look at art that other collectors and dealers wouldn’t go? Come on, Jimmy, he told himself, you’re the great detective. How hard can it be? But nothing came so he tried another tack. Why fourteen? Was fourteen important? Fourteen pictures in a private place but not so private that visits from…
Suddenly a light dawned. Fourteen stolen pictures in the possession of a Catholic diocese who didn’t know they had them. Fourteen pictures on display in a place where no one would take any special notice of them as art.
The Stations of the Cross.
It had to be. Every Catholic Church had a set of pictures or plaques representing the fourteen stages in the Passion of Christ, from his trial by Pilate to his crucifixion and burial. But they were devotional things, not looked at as pictures. People went from Station to Station, said their prayers and thought about Christ’s Passion. They weren’t art, they were the Stations of the Cross.
The Diocese of Vancouver had a set of paintings, modern Stations of the Cross, and under those modern Stations was the stolen art. That meant a church… no, not a church. If they were as important as Somerset thought and out where the public could look at them, their value would have been recognised before now and the stolen art under them discovered. They were in a church or chapel people didn’t normally have access to. It had to be a place where you could get permission to go if you had a good reason, but one that was, as a rule, closed to the general public.