The Collector's Apprentice

by B. A. Shapiro

  Vivienne is furious at Edwin, and even more so at Henri, who flaunted rather than hid their attraction. She’s sure he believed he was amusing, and her only consolation is that now he’s kicking himself for his behavior. It’s not much of a consolation.

  Edwin is moody and bad tempered after Henri leaves, never acknowledging the source of his anger, striking out at her at random moments. There’s too much at stake to provoke him, so she falls back into their usual routine, holding her tongue as they make the final edits to the Matisse book, taking day trips to New York in search of art, and complimenting him at every opportunity.

  When she comes into work one morning, Edwin is fuming, and she wonders what she’s done now. But it isn’t her. “Bill Glackens just called and said a curator at the PMA told him Quinton and the district attorney’s office are cooking up another lawsuit. Some fancy new legal maneuver to force me to open the doors.”

  Vivienne sits down on the corner of his desk.

  “Three years ago he was denigrating my paintings to anyone who would listen,” Edwin rages. “And now he claims they’re so important that it’s a crime to withhold them from the public?”

  “It just goes to show how right you were. As you predicted, the art community in Philadelphia is becoming more accepting. Just like Schoenberg.” She smiles at him. “I told Gertrude you were a visionary, and you’ve proved me correct.”

  “That’s not it!” Edwin yells. “Quinton is unable to appreciate anything that isn’t at least three hundred years old—he just wants to jump on the bandwagon after the Paris show proved him wrong. The mealymouthed hypocrite!”

  “But the Painters of Paris show was—”

  “What he’s really after is me.”

  “So you think this is about Ada?”

  “Damn straight it is. A sore loser, if ever there was one. He knows the last thing I want is a bunch of uneducated strangers wandering through my house and gawking at what they don’t understand. And that’s exactly why he’s doing it! He’s still looking for his goddamned revenge.”

  “He’s got to be after more, don’t you think? What if these suits are about getting your collection for the PMA? He’s on the museum’s board.”

  “My collection is never going to the PMA,” Edwin declares. “The Bradley will never be a public museum!”

  “Think about it. Quinton gets his revenge on you and gets your collection for—”

  “It’s my property, and I have my own board, and we’re the only ones who decide what happens to it!”

  “Your board . . .” Vivienne repeats. “The board of trustees,” she adds slowly. “They have to give final approval on all your decisions, right?”

  “It doesn’t make any difference. I’m chairman, and the trustees will do exactly what I tell them to do.” Edwin begins to cough and smashes his cigarette into the ashtray.” Plus, they all have the best interests of the Bradley at heart.”

  Vivienne watches the smoldering butt. A board of trustees that will go along with Edwin unless they believe he doesn’t have the interests of the Bradley at heart. A board of trustees that, after his death, will never allow her to remove the colonnade seven or sell the peripheral pieces or open to the public.

  “Don’t look so worried,” Edwin snaps. “We’re going to win this thing—we did before and we will again. Even if Quinton has bigger plans, we’re going to crush him, along with the rest of them.”

  Vivienne tries to smile, but her face is as brittle as a mask. How did she miss this? She was aware that the Bradley was a foundation—which meant it was held in a trust—but she hadn’t followed this fact to its logical conclusion. She was also vaguely aware there was a board of trustees, but Edwin never mentioned them or seemed to consult them, so she hadn’t given it much thought. Neither the Bradley’s finances nor the intricacies of its management ever interested her.

  But now they do, and the facts are clear: as long as the collection is held within a trust, the artwork doesn’t actually belong to Edwin. And it won’t belong to her either.

  23

  Vivienne, 1925

  If you can create a trust, you have to be able to terminate one. A termination would make Edwin the true owner of the artwork, and then he could do whatever he wanted with it, no board of trustees to overrule him. The same would be true if the Bradley belonged to Vivienne.

  “You know,” she says to him the next morning, “this new lawsuit would fall apart if you owned the collection outright.” She keeps her tone light, as if she’s reflecting on something she’s given little thought to.

  Edwin grunts, only half listening as he peruses a stack of papers in front of him.

  “There’d be no basis for it,” she continues. “The suit is grounded in the fact that the Bradley is a charitable trust that doesn’t pay taxes. Without that argument, the state has no vested interest.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “So maybe you should just tear up the trust papers,” she suggests, again very casually. “Throw the case in the trash along with them.”

  “Terminate the trust agreement?” he asks, turning his full attention to her. “I’ll be damned if I’ll pay taxes I don’t have to pay.” Although Edwin is a wealthy man, he doesn’t like spending more money than he has to. As he always points out, this is how he’s managed to stay rich.

  “What about all that money you’re paying the lawyers?”

  “A pittance compared to the taxes. But it doesn’t matter. I’m looking forward to the court’s decision. Can’t wait for Quinton to lose a second time.”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  Edwin’s chin juts out in annoyance. “He will.”

  Over the next weeks, she mentions the termination a handful of times and gets the same response. Then Edwin develops a bad head cold, which makes him even more grouchy than usual, so she backs off until he recovers.

  “Can you imagine what would happen if Quinton did win?” she asks when he seems to be feeling better. “All those people in your house? Wandering through the galleries? They’ll clog the building, smother the artwork.” She shudders. “We might even have to close the school.”

  “Damn it, Vivienne. I’m sick and tired of your constant negativity.”

  “It’s not negativity, it’s planning for the future of the Bradley. I’m thinking through all the possibilities so we can figure out what to do if things don’t work out the way you expect.”

  He begins to cough, spits into his handkerchief, scowls at her. “I suppose you’re going to suggest your dim-witted termination idea again?” Apparently still sick, undeniably still grouchy.

  “I’m not suggesting you do it this very moment, I just think you should consider it a possible option. Among others,” she adds quickly.

  “No! No! No! The answer is still no and will always be no!”

  When Edwin gets this absolute, nothing will change his mind, so she goes back to her office, where her thoughts turn to George. If he were backed into this corner, he’d most likely convince himself that he was never interested in the collection in the first place, that he’d wanted something else all along. Perhaps just the colonnade seven? If so, then he’d steal them, declare victory, and get the hell out of town.

  Vivienne hits the back of her pen on the desk. She would actually be emancipating the paintings rather than stealing them, bringing them home to a place where they can breathe free. A small recompense for all she caused her father to lose, the least she can do. Granted, no one except Papa would be able to enjoy them, but only Edwin and a few students can enjoy them now. A rationalization, but an apt one.

  The thought of liberating her beloved paintings from their captivity, wresting them from Edwin’s confining ensembles, is appealing. He likes to believe both he and his collection are invincible, so there aren’t any guards or other safety precautions. And what are seven pieces of art to a man who owns thousands? Another rationalization, but also apt.

  Of course she’ll do nothing of the sort; that isn’t how she
was brought up, isn’t how she sees herself. Yet she finds herself asking people in the art community about security, citing her concern about the Bradley’s lack of it, as well as the fact that Edwin doesn’t believe it’s a problem. Do they agree with Edwin, or should she convince him that steps need to be taken? Do they know of any recent robberies? Instead of being given the names of nefarious criminals who brazenly commit well-plotted art heists, she’s told how much better guards are than any of the crazy, highfalutin alarms and gizmos that are coming on the market.

  There’s that slimy truck driver who’s always badgering her for a date when he makes his deliveries. A few months back, he said that if she were willing to turn a blind eye, he would be willing to “lose” one of the paintings in the back of his truck, and then they could “run off to South America together and live the high life.” On a lark, she calls the company where he works, Empire State Transport. They tell her he’s taken a leave of absence and have no idea when—or if—he’ll return.

  Once she thinks it over, she realizes she doesn’t need an actual art thief—or even an experienced thief. She’ll be taking care of unlocking the door and faking the forced entry, so he doesn’t have to possess any particular skills. He just needs to be willing to take a risk, have a fondness for money, and little regard for the law. She can’t believe she’s thinking this way, but she can’t let it go. It occurs to her that one place to find such an unsavory character is a speakeasy.

  Vivienne has never gone to a speakeasy; it isn’t something Edwin does or approves of, although he has no problem serving liquor at his own parties or accepting a fine bottle of wine from the owner of one of his prized restaurants. Obviously speakeasies aren’t necessary in Europe, where there’s no prohibition against alcohol.

  She’s been told there are hundreds of speakeasies all over Philadelphia, hidden in backrooms and basements, behind false facades and trick doors. A special password or secret hand signal are often necessary to get in, and these illegal saloons are a breeding ground for trouble. They’re called speakeasies because of the need to reduce noise to avoid detection, hence “speak easy,” but it seems they’re very loud and known to everyone, including the police.

  One, disguised as a tailor shop, was recently raided, and two prominent politicians were arrested along with all the other customers. Another, under the control of organized crime, was the site of a gangland-style shootout that resulted in three deaths. It’s too risky to visit one—and unlikely to be successful—but when she overhears one of her students talking about the Red Fedora and laughing over how foolish the secret password is, she decides to give it a shot.

  Armed with the password and address, she travels to South Philly, an area more destitute than the quarter where she lived during those awful months in Paris, also sadder. Flimsy, mud-splattered tents are scattered everywhere, filled with out-of-work men—and often their families. She takes a cab and asks the driver to come back for her in an hour. A girl cannot be out alone in this neighborhood.

  When the door of Upton’s Apothecary opens to her knock, she mumbles, “Rose,” and a man in the white jacket of a pharmacist points to a hallway with a sign that says stockroom. The corridor ends in a set of descending stairs. She follows them down toward the sounds of laughter and music, pushes the door open.

  It’s what she expected, but even more so. Noisier, more crowded, smokier, and more vivacious. Almost every girl in the house is decked out in flamboyant colors and an extremely short skirt, a powdered face and bright red lipstick. They’re all smoking cigarettes and drinking cocktails, dancing with great abandon. The musicians are Negroes, as are many of the patrons, and the saxophones and trumpets are forceful and full throated—far from speaking easy.

  It’s as if she’s standing on another planet, nothing and no one familiar.

  Then she sees George standing at a tall table, talking with two other men. Someone she knows. Someone who’ll help her navigate this alien world. But as she starts toward him, he turns and melts into the crowd, and she sees that, once again, it isn’t George. She needs a drink.

  Vivienne works her way to the bar and orders a sherry, as she doesn’t know what the cocktails are called. She lights a cigarette, unsure what to do, then takes a seat across from the bartender. She finishes the drink quickly and asks for a second.

  “New around here?” the bartender inquires. “You don’t look familiar.”

  She gazes up at him and smiles. “New to the city,” she says in an exaggerated Belgian accent.

  “From Germany?” he asks. “Looking for some fun?”

  She lifts her glass and takes a long sip. “Just a drink.” What the hell is she doing in this place? What the hell is she thinking?

  “You’ve come to the right spot for that, pretty German lady.” He pours her another glass of sherry and places it in front of her. “Finish up what you’ve got. This next one here is on the house.”

  By the time Vivienne finishes the third glass, she’s tipsy but no closer to finding her thief. If anything, she’s closer to admitting that this is not the way to find one. Or more precisely, that there probably isn’t a way, which is for the best. She might try to act and think like George, but she isn’t George.

  She grows much more loquacious, and she and the bartender, whose name is Tim, are now fast friends. She learns about his little son, who’s a mama’s boy, and how when Prohibition ends—which Tim knows will be soon—he’s planning to buy himself a bar.

  “So are there really people here involved in organized crime?” she asks in a stage whisper.

  Tim nods to a table of five men. “Some of the biggest.”

  Vivienne tries not to stare. They’re almost caricatures: big and beefy and very Italian looking, smoking cigars and talking intently to one another.

  “Need someone knocked off?” Tim jokes.

  She lights another cigarette and says nonchalantly, “Nah. Just looking for someone to commit a robbery for me.”

  He laughs. “Not their usual type of crime. Killing and bootlegging and gambling—sometimes prostitution—but that’s about it.”

  Vivienne sweeps her arm grandly to indicate the whole crowd. “How about a petty thief who might need a few bucks? There’s got to be one of those here, right?”

  Tim’s smile disappears, and he throws her a piercing look. He grabs a rag and starts moving down the bar, wiping it as he goes. “Not that I know of,” he says over his shoulder.

  The Trial, 1928

  I have no idea what you would make of this morning’s session, Edwin. Obviously you would be surprised, as I never told you about Paulien Mertens or George Everard or the fact that I wasn’t born Vivienne Gregsby.

  Would you be horrified? Irate? Disappointed? Sympathetic? I really don’t know. And that’s probably why I kept the whole sad saga from you for all these years.

  When Ronald told me that a Mr. Terence S. Williamson was to be Pratt’s first witness of the day, I knew precisely what his testimony would comprise, as well as who informed the prosecution of the potential damage he could do to my status as an upstanding citizen without a single legal blemish on her record.

  Ada is the only person who knew about the conversation at the party. She clearly didn’t tell you, but she’s just as clearly been talking about it to her boyfriend—sorry, Edwin—and Quinton has clearly been talking to Pratt.

  I’m starting to think, as you always claimed, that this is more about Ada than about the collection. I don’t know whether Ada believes I had you murdered and wants justice or whether she just wants revenge. Either way, Quinton is doing everything he can to part the waters for her—and to acquire both your collection and your wife. It wouldn’t surprise me if they marry soon.

  I spent enough time with Scotty at the Slade to know that he actually was an upstanding citizen—and that he would tell all he knew, even if he wasn’t happy about telling it. He’d once tried to throw a surprise party for Bernice but ruined the whole thing because he couldn’t lie to he
r about where he was going to be that evening.

  When I explained to Ronald how disastrous Scotty could be to our case, he was unconcerned, assuring me that he would object based on relevancy. “The judge will have to exclude this Williamson’s testimony,” Ronald insisted. “The fact that you changed your name years ago has no bearing on the crime at hand.”

  The judge overruled his objection, and Scotty—excuse me, Terence S.—told his story. So much for Ronald’s assurances.

  Scotty explained, reluctantly, that we’d been in art school together and double-dated often, as he was courting a close friend of mine. I was a nice enough girl but had gotten mixed up with the wrong bloke, someone called Everhand or Evering or something like that. He wasn’t quite sure of the name.

  What he was sure of was that this guy and I had been part of a scam in which innocent people all over Europe lost millions of pounds. When everything broke open, the bloke and I both disappeared, along with all the money.

  Ronald did get an objection sustained at this point, but the damage was done.

  Scotty said he hadn’t seen me until about three years after it all happened. When he went to a party at the Bradley in 1925 and recognized me. Under prodding, he finally admitted that at that time, I said I’d never heard of Paulien Mertens, claiming that I wasn’t she and that my name was Vivienne Gregsby.

  Although I did acknowledge that I’d attended the Slade School in London at the same time he had. At the same time Paulien Mertens had. No, he hadn’t recognized me at first. No, he had believed what I’d told him.

  “What exactly was it that changed your mind, Mr. Williamson?” Pratt asked.