The Dorich House Mystery (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 3)

by P. J. Thurbin

  “Don’t talk to me about freedom, old chum. I lost mine years ago. But I still managed to get about a bit, if you remember,” he said with a chuckle. “But unfortunately you’re not too good at that sort of thing, are you? All you need to do is think something and it’s written all over your face. So for you, my friend, I would recommend just letting things continue as they are. If Katie wants anything to go to another level then believe you me you won’t have to look it up in a book. Front page only, that’s our Katie.” He chuckled again at the uncertainties that he knew his friend was experiencing. After years of trying to be both a playboy and a husband, he had realized just how important his marriage was when things came to a head a couple of years earlier when Marcia finally gave him an ultimatum. Since then he had kept to the straight and narrow and surprised himself at how well he had adjusted to life in the slow lane. Yes, marriage to Marcia suited him perfectly and he thanked his lucky stars that she had taken him back and given him another chance. He just hoped his old friend could see the forest for the trees before all the good ones were taken.

  An hour later Ralph was back in his apartment enjoying a small malt whiskey and listening to Beethoven on his new state of the art Bose CD player. The haunting music competed for attention amongst his jumbled thoughts: Rabinsky murdered, Olga desolate and lonely in St.Petersburg, Sarah possibly beaten up by her husband and mixed up with Paul Scott, a truck driver shot dead in a lay-by, Cynthia attacked, he and Katie threatened by the mafia, paintings being auctioned for millions, attempted break-ins at Dorich House, Sergei and Maria trying to save Russia’s culture; it all swirled around in his head. Maybe he should take up Buddhism, he mused. Perhaps he could learn to control his mind rather than having to deal with a continuous confusion of fragmented thoughts. Fortunately the music took control, reminding him that he and Katie would soon be on their way to Paris. Time to decide what to pack.

  _________________

  Chapter 8

  Eurostar is the number one choice for getting from London to Paris. At just under two hours from St Pancras station to the Gare du Nord, the door to door travel time is actually less than flying. The Kent countryside flashed by as the high speed train devoured the miles. In what seemed like only a few minutes, Ralph realized that they were nearly halfway through the twenty-two minute channel crossing. He reflected how differently it was viewed now, a quick link between England and the mainland, when for centuries since the Norman Conquest it had kept England safe from land invaders. In no time the bright sky of the French countryside poured through the windows as they surfaced on the other side. Small villages, winding country roads and acres of farm land all whizzed by, and soon they were pulling smoothly into Gare du Nord terminus.

  Finding their way through a distinctly cosmopolitan and slightly sordid terminus, they eventually boarded the Metro. Travelling Route B on the RER, like most lines on the Paris system, is always a bit of a shock for visitors to Paris; standing packed like sardines, wary of pick pockets and beggars, wondering how such a mix of people could live harmoniously in a big city. But at least it is quick, and soon they were walking alongside the green and tranquil Jardin du Luxembourg to their hotel in Le Quartier Latin. The area was so named because of its proximity to the Sorbonne and Diderot Universities where Latin was the language required of earlier students. The name just seemed to have stuck. Their hotel was in the Rue Soufflot alongside the Pantheon. Having checked in, they walked to a local café for a late lunch. Working their way through a delicious omlette avec frites, Katie was anxious to know what the agenda was for their stay.

  “So what’s the master plan, Ralph? Roger and I visited Paris a few times. We did all the usual touristy things, Eiffel Tower, The Rodin Museum, Versailles, and the compulsory visit to the Louvre. But mostly we just ate a lot of good food and drank a lot of great French wine. Now it seems a hundred years ago.” she smiled, although Ralph could tell that the memories were bittersweet. He knew that Katie still mourned the loss of her second husband after he was murdered by Somalian terrorists several years back. In fact, had Katie not been desperate to raise the ransom for his release she would never have wound up in Holloway.

  “Well, this trip is meant to be strictly business, so I doubt there’ll be much time for sight-seeing,” Ralph said. “But meetings don’t start until tomorrow and the weather is perfect for a dinner cruise on the Seine this evening, if you’re up for it; and I wouldn’t mind having a look at the Opera Garnier.”

  “Isn’t that the theatre where they got the inspiration for the Phantom of the Opera?” Katie asked.

  “That’s right. But I didn’t know you were in to all of that arty stuff.”

  “I have depths you never dreamed I possessed,” Katie teased.

  “What about you? Any favourites?”

  “Well, actually I’d just like to wander around the Champs Elysees and do a bit of people watching. And I’ve heard that the Galleries Lafayette has a fantastic Byzantine glass dome that I’d like to check out. They chatted on and agreed that business would start with the auction at Christie’s the next day, but for tonight they would take that boat ride and enjoy dinner while they admired the lights of Paris.

  They had arranged to meet Grant at the auction house at 10. Catching the Metro to Champs Elysees Clemenceau station and taking a short stroll along the Avenue Matignon, they were soon at Christies. The building is set in one of Paris’ most prestigious districts about halfway between the Champs Elysees and the Faubourg Saint Honore and surrounded by art galleries and antique stores. They were both slightly overawed as they were welcomed by an enthusiastic Grant Richardson.

  “Great to see you two. I hope the trip over was uneventful.”

  “We arrived via the channel tunnel yesterday,” Ralph said as they shook hands.

  “Nice to see you again Katie. I love your Australian accent.” Grant smiled at Katie.

  “I thought I’d left that behind in ‘stralia,” Katie responded, laying it on even thicker.

  “I must say that the area around the auction house is a bit posh,” Ralph observed. “The French do have style, I’ll give them that.”

  “Well, the only thing about them that will impress me is the price they fetch for my paintings,” Grant said as he led them into a packed gallery where they could see Boris Sarovsky and John Weston sitting at opposite ends of the front row.

  “It’s a relief to get my paintings in the sale. All that business with the valuation, what a bloody palaver – excuse my French, Katie – the whole thing’s been a mess. Well fingers crossed. My three are going through in the first three lots, so at least I get the good and bad news all in one go.”

  There was a hush as the auctioneer welcomed the bidders to Christie’s sale rooms in Paris. He made the introductions in French and then English, advising the audience that the currency to be used was US dollars and that there would also be bidding from the internet. Then he turned to the first lot.

  “The next three paintings are all copies of ones that form part of the Sir Hugh Walpole collection presently housed at The Hermitage in St Petersburg. As many of you are aware, the Walpole collection is to be put on exhibition later this year at Houghton Hall in Norfolk in England.

  “Perfect,” whispered Grant. Mentioning the exhibition should raise the profile and value of my paintings.”

  The auction began.

  “Number 170 – A fine, 193 by 133 cm. oil on canvas unattributed 18th century copy of Harmensz Rembrandt’s The Sacrifice of Isaac. The original was painted in 1635, when Rembrandt was 29 years old, and hangs in The Hermitage in St. Petersburg. Caravaggio had painted the same topic in 1603 and Pieter Lastman, whom Rembrandt knew, also painted this biblical scene in 1612.” The auctioneer summarised the provenance of the painting and the worldwide interest being shown that such a fine copy was coming onto the market for the first time. After a slow start the bidding quickly went over the million dollar mark. Boris Sarovsky seemed determined to acquire the painting and was at la
st triumphant with his bid of 1.8 million US Dollars.

  Grant leant over and whispered to Katie. “Well that’s one in the bag for us. Elizabeth will be delighted as that clears our outstanding tax and estate charges and sets us up for the next couple of years. Old Boris must be spending someone else’s money because I’ve never seen him this bullish.”

  Katie whispered in Ralph’s ear. “Do you think that bloke used to sell second hand cars? He’s very good.”

  The auctioneer continued his sales pitch.

  Number 171 – Another superb 18th century unattributed copy. This painting of Portrait of Sir Thomas Chaloner is oil on canvas, 104 by 81 cm. It shows the aged face of Sir Thomas. The painter has captured the confident turn of the head, flared nostrils, tight lips and the striking gaze of an active mind. The original was painted in 1638 by Anthony van Dyck and hangs in The Hermitage museum in St. Petersburg. Sir Thomas Chaloner was a member of the so called Long Parliament. In 1648 he was one of the judges who condemned Charles I to death. After the Restoration of the Stuart House he was sent in exile to Holland where he died.”

  Once again the auctioneer’s introduction sparked fierce bidding. John Weston seemed determined to fend off some sharp bidding from the internet as well as Boris Sarovsky. It looked as though he had it when the bidding reached two million nine hundred and fifty thousand. But just seconds before the hammer fell, Sarovsky raised his card and claimed the prize at 3 million dollars.

  Katie let out a gasp which sparked off a relieved round of laughter from the wealthy patrons.

  “I held my breath on that one,” Grant said as he leaned back in his chair, obviously pleased at the way things were going. “I know John Weston was keen to get his hands on that one. He comes from a long line of Royalists and no doubt was hoping to get it to hang in his rogue’s gallery in Cairo as a tribute to his ancestors. It’ll be a portrait of old Boris he’ll be getting for his gallery if Sarovsky keeps pipping him at the post.” They laughed as two hefty porters placed Number 172 on the dais.

  The audience shuffled in anticipation of further tussles between Sarovsky and John Weston. It looked to an outsider as if they were old enemies of the auction room, maybe working off old scores; or perhaps they knew something about the paintings that made them desperate to own them.

  “Number 172 – A large and magnificent 18th century unattributed copy of a painting by Salvator Rosa – simply titled Prodigal Son. The original was painted around 1652 and it too hangs in The Hermitage. It is a 253 by 201 cm. oil on canvas painting, part of the School Neapolitan. The unknown artist has captured the style and sensitivity that Salvator Rosa intended. This can be seen by the detail in the way that he depicts the boy kneeling before his father with one of his feet cut and bleeding.”

  Again the bidding was fierce, but once more Boris emerged triumphant. This time the bidding had reached 2.2 million dollars when the hammer fell. The crowd applauded loudly, which Grant later told them was usual when someone showed such tenacity. Sarovsky stood and accepted the applause with a theatrical bow to the auctioneer. No doubt with a 20 or more percentage of the sale price going to the auction house, the auctioneer must have been well satisfied with the way the bidding was going, and there was more yet to come.

  Taking advantage of a break in the proceedings, Grant led them into a small anteroom where they were soon joined by a smiling Boris and John Weston who sported a wry grin.

  “Once again you frustrated me, Boris, you old dog.”

  “My dear friend John, if it makes you feel better, I do not buy them for myself to enjoy. You know that sort of money is too much for me. I am buying for a syndicate, and as we speak the paintings are already on their way to where I do not know. But we are forgetting our manners in the excitement. Mademoiselle Katie, I am so glad to see you again. You must please all be my guests for dinner tonight?”

  “Hold on, Boris. I’m the one who just got paid a king’s ransom for my paintings. So you will all be my guests tonight. I have already made reservations at the Laperouse, so there will be no arguing.”

  “Okay, okay. But explain me first what means this king’s ransom. Must I pay you even more money?” They all laughed and after agreeing that they would meet at the restaurant at eight, Ralph and Katie made their excuses and left.

  ***

  “I need to meet with some of my contacts about support for the University,” Ralph explained once they were out on the pavement. “Would you mind if I left you to your own devices until this evening?”

  “No problem. I contacted an old friend who teaches at the Sorbonne when I knew we would be coming to Paris and told her I would give her a call if it looked like we could get together while I was here.” Katie fumbled around in her bag and retrieved her mobile phone. “Yes, I can meet you there at noon and we can have lunch at one of those little café on the Champs Elysees,” Ralph heard her say as he hailed a taxi to take them back to their hotel to freshen up before they headed off for their various lunchtime rendezvous.

  After catching up with each other’s lives for the past few years, Katie broached the real reason she had been so eager to meet with her friend.

  “You know, Maree, I won’t be able to get a University post again in the UK. They seem to have a bias against convicted felons,” she said with a wry smile. “Any chance the French are more liberal in their attitude?”

  “I doubt they would accept you as a member of faculty,” Maree agreed. “But they are less fussy about adjuncts, especially if they speak fluent French and have excellent academic credentials, which I know you do on both accounts. I know that the education department is looking for someone to step in while one of their professors is on maternity leave and I could put in a word for you, if you like.”

  “I saw the advert online. And at this point I would be grateful for anything.” She reached in her handbag and extracted a thick file. “I brought along my resume’ just in case,” She said as she handed it to her friend.

  “Even better than I realized,” Maree said as she glanced down the list of achievements. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best,” she assured her friend as they got up to leave the café. Katie decided not to mention anything about it to Ralph in case nothing came of it.

  ***

  Later that evening Ralph and Katie met the three men at Laperouse, a fashionable restaurant on the Quai des Grands Augustins just off the Boulevard St. Michel that was quite near to their hotel. Grant explained that it was the haunt of Emile Zola as well as George Sand and Victor Hugo and many other well known authors.

  “The scratch marks on the mirrors are from the days when ladies did not take jewels given to them by their male admirers at face value,” said Grant.

  “Well, that still holds true today,” Katie retorted.

  “Are you saying that one shouldn’t accept anything at face value?” interjected Ralph. “Does that apply to paintings and people as well, or am I being too cynical?”

  “Not at all. I think it’s a good policy to be slightly circumspect, especially when your own money is at stake,” replied Grant. “But let’s put cynicism aside for the moment and celebrate with some champagne.” An attentive but unobtrusive waiter served them as Katie took in the 17th century surroundings in what was once a townhouse on the banks of the Seine.

  “So all in all I would say you had a good day at the auction house,” Ralph observed as they all raised their glasses in a toast.

  “Well the morning was good, but this afternoon things all got a bit awkward,” said Boris. “Or at least, let us say, they were not too pleasant for me. And not so good for you either, Grant.”

  “It must have been all very embarrassing, Boris” said John Weston as he opened his menu. Grant gave a laugh.

  “Why? What happened?”Katie asked.

  “You know these things sometimes happen. Christies stopped the sale of some Russian icons that poor Boris here was selling for a client. It seems they found that the icons were on the list of stolen ite
ms that The Hermitage puts out each month on their web site.”

  “That sounds pretty serious,” said Katie. “But at least the place wasn’t stormed by the Chechen mafia. We saw some of their efforts to silence people when we were in St Petersburg recently.” She noticed that the group went silent for a minute and Boris looked stunned and stared at his menu. Grant finally broke what seemed to her like a long silence.

  “Yes and no. What the auction house does in cases like this is to inform the seller and send them back to him; or her. They are also required to inform the police, in this case Europol. Then it is up to the museum from whom they were stolen to decide what action they should take. Naturally it’s embarrassing for Boris, but he has done nothing wrong. He is only the agent. Am I right Boris? You were only acting for a client. My understanding is that many times an agent can represent someone without ever actually seeing or speaking to them.”

  “That’s right,” said Boris. “Many times the entire transaction is conducted by email and any cheques for services are wired directly to the agent’s bank, often located in Switzerland, likewise with the money for any purchases or sales.”

  “It all sounds very complicated,” Ralph said. “Quite a convoluted trail if anyone wanted to track people down.”

  “Yes. That is quite normal procedure. But even if you are just the agent it can spoil your day. And Grant here was caught up in the thing because it seems that his three paintings had been delivered to the auction house by the same firm that had shipped the stolen icons,” said Boris. Grant took up the story.

  “I told them I only knew that the shipper, Paul Scott, had taken good care of transporting my paintings to and from Rabinsky’s workshop and so I trusted him to handle the shipping from the UK to the auction house here in Paris. I’ve never actually met him myself, but I believe he was recommended by one of your colleagues, Ralph. A Sarah something or other?”