by Thomas Swan
“It was the publisher’s advance that permitted Latcham to research and write your book. I assume you edited the manuscript to add touches of your style.”
Chamberlin nervously rubbed his hands. Jonas noticed how small they were and how precisely the nails were manicured and polished. “When did you learn about David?”
“He once worked for me. After Columbia and before Yale. He never liked New York, preferred London. Occasionally he wrote. In one of his letters he told me of his association with you. His last letter was postmarked from Reigate.”
“He used me to advance his career.”
“You’ve never forgiven him for walking out on you.”
Chamberlin finished his gin and bitters. “It’s over. Would you rake it all up?”
“David is out of your life, yet you continue to spend weekends in Chipping Camden. Is that because you discovered another young man of equal ability and promise?”
Chamberlin bit on his lips. “What do you want from me?”
“You are the senior member of the committee. You have considerable influence.”
“Gilsanon deals in scientific measurements. There are no abstractions to his findings. He will consider that your technical report is prejudiced, that it can serve only as a guide. But even should Gilsanon and Knowles grant a positive decision, Robin Mackworth-Young will insist on corroboration. For the money it’ll fetch, any buyer will.”
“I have no damned intention of selling the drawings to the Royal Library. They are free to bid along with everyone else, and if they want additional proof, that’s their prerogative.”
“What of Freebury?” Chamberlin asked. “I’ve seen him go mawkish over a new discovery, then waver and be indecisive.”
“He concerns me. Freebury will know it is genuine, but be opposed on the principle that it will have too great a value. He believes art is for the masses.”
“Edgar is idealistic, but he’s no fool. His professional integrity is at stake. My integrity is also on the line. If we authenticate it, your discovery will have a value I couldn’t begin to estimate.”
“And well deserved,” Jonas added firmly. “When it becomes known you have played a role in its authentication, your fortunes will greatly improve.”
“Are you suggesting I will receive financial reward for a favorable opinion?”
“I suggest the announcement will cause a vast amount of publicity and you will be a part of it. Your lecture fees will increase and more of your books will be sold.” Jonas allowed his words to sink in.
“If you believe the work is genuine, why are you taking this extraordinary measure to meet me in secret and threaten to expose my personal life?”
“For two reasons. Freebury must vote his professional opinion, and I want an early declaration. I must have a decision in days. Not months.”
“Why so impatient? Would a few weeks matter?”
“I’ve invested enough time, and the time has been costly. I want accreditation now.” Jonas added emphasis by rapping the table with the flat of his hand.
After an uncomfortable silence, Chamberlin got to his feet. “I’ll do what I can. My report will go to Pimm and you will hear directly from him. Now I must go.”
Jonas watched him make his way past the bar. He signaled for the waiter and ordered three fingers of brandy. Again he inhaled the rich fumes and sipped from the large bowl. He reviewed his brief encounter with Doan Chamberlin, asking himself if he had been forceful without provoking the proud art scholar into a vengeful attitude. He had been careful to solicit Chamberlin’s influence with Freebury and steer him away from a rash judgment based on misguided idealism. And he had asked for an early decision. He was pleased with his performance. He drained his glass and set off for his room.
As he passed through a square-shaped hall he was handed an envelope by the hotel manager. The paper was thick and expensive. The flap was engraved and when he drew the envelope close, he saw, represented in Korean characters, the unmistakable name of Madame Sun. The paper was scented and gave off the familiar spice and floral fragrance he recalled from their first meeting. He read the brief note:Dear Mr. Kalem:
There is great urgency in meeting with you. Please be so kind as to join me in Room 16.
Madame Sun’s signature was rendered in a single, bold Korean character.
“Wally, I’ve been trying to get you all afternoon. Have you heard from Oxby?”
“I’m happy to say I haven’t.”
“Don’t be too sure of that. He called to learn how to contact you. Told me that Kalem arrived in London on Thursday. Jack’s got his own information network, and when the fat man hit Heathrow, Jack knew in thirty minutes.”
“I know he’s in London. What’s he up to?”
“Oxby said he’d fill me in later . . . that it was important to make contact with you.”
“He doesn’t stand on ceremony. He knows where to find me. We’ve had another one of those unfortunate accidents.”
“Good Christ. Who this time?”
“Giorgio Burri.” Deats gave a brief accounting. “You’ll have a report in a couple of days.”
“You’re sure he was murdered?” Heston asked.
“It’s too much of a coincidence. First Sarah Evans, now Burri. Both accidents?”
“But what’s so damned important, Wally? Two people are dead.”
“We’ll find that out after we defuse Waters.”
“I think Oxby wants to be there when that happens.”
“Our plans are complete. We’re moving on Tuesday morning with or without Oxby.”
“Do me a favor, Wally? Don’t play the hero again. I’d like to catch some salmon with you this autumn.”
Jonas had carefully chosen an obscure site for his meeting with Chamberlin. He was baffled, but more angered, that Madame Sun had been able to follow him. His initial reaction was to ignore the note. But he relented and climbed the stairs and found his way to Room 16. He was admitted by a smiling James Sun.
“You’ve come early, Mr. Kalem.”
Madame Sun was dressed in a tailored suit and cream-colored silk blouse. She seemed taller than on their first meeting, but still diminutive. She greeted him graciously, saying, “It has been several weeks since we met. Much has happened.”
Jonas was determined to make the meeting brief and declined the invitation to sit. “Why have you followed me? You knew how to arrange for a meeting in London.”
“You must understand our determination. We made arrangements to learn when you were at Collyer’s to present the Leonardo. But you drove directly to the country and James followed you. I have just come from Brussels to meet you.”
“For what purpose?” Jonas demanded.
“The page from the manuscript contains a rendering of the Mona Lisa. It becomes the first-known study of the lady ever to be found. We want it.”
Among the members of the committee the logical source for a leak was Gilsanon & Knowles. Gilsanon said he would put his crew to work immediately and a crew might be a dozen workers. “How did you learn this?”
“It matters only that we know,” Madame Sun said with finality. “We have been able to put a value on your discovery.”
“The value will be determined by the auction. It will be entered at Collyer’s winter sale in February.”
Madame Sun did not respond immediately. She turned to her son and nodded. James handed her a folder and took up a position by her side. Slowly her fingers leafed through the half-dozen pages, then, her eyes wide and staring, she spoke in a reverential manner.
“We will pay eight million dollars. The money will be deposited to your bank within twenty-four hours of the signing of this agreement.”
Jonas sat. The reality that he would be paid so large a sum came with a sudden rush of exhilaration and fear. He had vainly tried to put a value on the manuscript, but couldn’t trust his judgment. Selling privately would attract little attention. Offering the pages one at a time at auction would create dema
nd, higher prices, and worldwide attention.
“I will need time to consider your offer. There are many advantages to the auction.”
“I have reviewed your astrological chart and it distresses me deeply. You, or someone close to you, remains in grave danger.”
“Damn your chart! You make an offer and tie it to warnings of danger. Is that really what your astrology is all about?” He had dismissed her ominous prophesy before, but in spite of his outburst he could not shrug off his new respect for the foretellings of Madame Sun’s Ming Shu.
“There is something more which is not part of your astrological chart,” Madam Sun intoned. ‘’You have stretched your financial resources to the limit. Your bank has refused further credit.”
“That’s absurd,” Jonas protested. He had assigned the balance of his assets, including his first editions and the Childe Hassam he had been so profoundly proud to loan the Museum of Modern Art. “Searching for lost treasures is not for the timid.”
“Il Diodario has been an expensive luxury. You must allow me to visit there.”
Jonas got to his feet. Madame Sun looked up to him, her face composed and smiling. James was behind her, a hand touching his mother’s shoulder. He, too, was smiling. They seemed poised for a portrait, but to Jonas they were a threat to everything he had worked so long to achieve.
“I’ll consider the offer,” he said.
“We are certain that you will.” Madame Sun handed him the folder. “The terms are most reasonable. You will also find a telephone number where you can reach me with your decision.”
Jonas took the folder. He scanned the first page, then walked to the door and turned to look back at the tableau of mother and son, smiles frozen to faces as if they were masks covering lifeless robots.
Chapter 31
A black sedan stopped in front of Torno’s municipio. From it emerged Bruno Brassi and his deputy assistant, Dario Zingoni. Two uniformed men remained in the car. Brassi had not called beforehand, aware that doing so might frighten Torno’s chief of police off to a quickly conceived “emergency.” Brassi brushed aside an indignant sergeant and strode directly into Pavasi’s office.
Seated behind a cluttered desk was a man in the full bloom of dissipation. Seeing the comandante, he began fussing with a black tie wrapped loosely around an unbuttoned shirt a size too small. A bulge of fat rimmed the collar. His eyes were swollen, his lips puffed. On his blue serge uniform was stuck a gold pin to one lapel, the other missing.
“This is a surprise, Bruno. You should have phoned.”
“Why? So you can make believe you are busy?” He picked up an empty wine bottle. “So you can hide these in the rifiuto?”
“You haven’t come to spit your insults at me.”
“Hardly that. It would be a waste of time. Tell me what you know of Il Diodario. Your men are posted on that property around the clock, and I find it difficult to understand how they can serve the people of Torno and guard the villa at the same time.”
“They volunteer for the extra pay, Bruno. You remember how it was to earn extra money?”
Bruno remembered and had done the same. “Who pays them?”
“The money is from Signore Kalem, the owner.”
“Who puts the money in their hand?”
Pavasi went to a mirror and finished knotting his tie. “Of what concern is it? The men get paid.”
“I’m authorizing Lieutenant Zingoni to review all records and interview your ‘volunteers.’”
“Bruno, please listen. The American pays me and I pay the men.” He waved his arms. “Isn’t that all you need to know?”
“How much for Pavasi? How much is lost at the tables in Campione? And last week you play the big shot in Monte Carlo.”
“I win and I lose. It’s no one’s business.”
“You gamble with your money? How much does Kalem pay you?”
“I made a contract with Signore Kalem. How much is for the guards and how much is for me is my affair.” Pavasi grew excited and the button at his neck popped loose.
“How many volunteers guard the old place?”
“I have a contract. I am honor bound to put men on the property.”
“Your honor is twisted. Your first obligation is to the people of Torno. But enough of honor and money, the investigation will speak for itself.” He sat across from Pavasi and signaled for Dario to close the door.
“You are aware that Signore Burri from Cernobbio was found dead on the lake Friday?”
“A terrible thing. Un attacco cuore,” Pavasi said somberly.
“You knew it was his heart?”
Pavasi looked surprised. “Doesn’t everyone know?”
“Everyone? Did you learn this from the people at Il Diodario?”
“I haven’t been there in a week.”
“Then by telephone?”
“I talk to Signore Kalem every day, but he was away this weekend. He came back on Sunday.”
“You met him at the airport,” Brassi said flatly.
“You knew?”
“It is my business to know. What did you talk about?”
Pavasi looked away. “Nothing of importance.”
“Perhaps not to you, Luciano, but however trivial, I want to know why he calls every day.”
“Usually about the guards. Yes, he asks about the guards.”
“What else?”
“He wants to know if I have heard from a certain Englishman.”
“The name?”
“I have it here someplace,” Pavasi said, trying to forestall the inevitable. He sifted through the litter of papers. “Here. The name is Deats.”
Brassi got to his feet.
“Everyone in Il Diodario must be interrogated regarding our investigation of Burri’s death. I want you to telephone Kalem and advise him that it’s urgent you meet him tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
“Tomorrow is not good. I have a meeting I must attend in Como,” he said importantly.
Brassi glared. “There’s no meeting in Como. You’ve been in Brissago on Lake Maggiore every Tuesday for the past two months. You spend the day with Anna Manucci.” Pavasi had been spending his new riches profligately, leaving a trail that Brassi’s staff could easily follow. “You must not tell Kalem we have met. Is that clear?”
Pavasi’s head was bowed. Brassi barely heard him reply. “Sì. It is clear.”
Brassi slammed the phone onto the desk with such force the bell inside rang, and Pavasi bolted halfway from his chair. “Get Kalem on the phone. Now!”
Pavasi dialed and, when he reached the last number, put the receiver down. “Bruno, in the name of the Holy Virgin, what do I say that won’t make him suspicious?”
“Tell him you’re having difficulties with the guards. That they want more money.”
Pavasi dialed all the numbers again and soon had Jonas on the line. He said as little as necessary, but an appointment was confirmed.
Brassi returned to Como. Dario Zingoni assured his superior that Torno’s police chief would not wander off and would be on duty when the comandante returned the next day.
Harold Pimm had arranged the Monday meeting long in advance. He had not anticipated the added pressures of the Leonardo and could only trust that his committee had made progress since their meeting with Jonas Kalem the previous Thursday. The committee had other paintings to consider in advance of the February auction. Deadlines were approaching for photographs for the catalog. The Old-Masters auction was a tradition, once an occasion for social mixing, now an important event in the art world. Old Masters were gaining in popularity and price. When word spread that a Leonardo was to be offered, the numbers of collectors, curators, and agents attending would require moving the auction to a hotel, where it would be covered by the media. A great, visual event for television. Of no little consequence, it would mean record profits for Collyer’s.
Doan Chamberlin was the last to show and the first to speak directly to the principal purpose of the meet
ing. “I trust we can present our opinions and arrive at an early decision.”
“I am in no rush,” Edgar Freebury protested. “If we affirm, that piece of paper becomes more valuable than it deserves to be.”
“Is that a reason to deny its authenticity?” Chamberlin challenged.
“Quite right,” Pimm chimed in. “All of you agreed to evaluate the authenticity of the Leonardo, not put a price tag on it or worry that when it is priced, it will bring too much or too little.” Pimm eyed each man in turn. “The opinion which will ultimately be expressed by Collyer’s will be unprejudiced.” He turned to Paul Gilsanon. “Have you had time to complete your technical findings?”
Gilsanon handed a folder to each man. “We worked round the clock,” he said proudly. “I’ve given you a summary of our findings, and if you’re confused by the technical jargon, I will answer questions. We’ve completed forty-six separate tests on the paper, inks, chalks, and intaglio impressions created by the writing instruments. The paper is of the period and indigenous to the vicinity of Florence ... probably from a cartiera along the Pescia River. Our chemical analyses show both inks and chalk to be similar to those found in other Leonardo manuscripts. The spectrographic examinations compare favorably with similar tests released by the Musée Français and the Ambrosiana. Titration tests were also made, as well as docimasy analysis indicating a familiar crude iron had been used in formulating the inks.
“Lately we have utilized a computer procedure pioneered by the Fogg Museum in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Tricky stuff but effective. We have programs that contain all that is known of the way an artist went about creating drawings or paintings. In the case of Leonardo, the computer knows he was left-handed, his brush strokes were more often left to right, and he achieved chiaroscuro effects in his unique fashion. Everything known about his handwriting, and his manner of spelling or use of abbreviations, is also in the computer. Then we entered similar information from the document under study and made a computer match. So far, so good. We’re greatly encouraged. I expect to find corroboration from Cambridge on my fax machine as early as this afternoon.