by Mark Forgy
Elmyr and Fernand flew back to New York together to talk to an intermediary about the passport. They discussed going to Europe to do business. Fernand had visions of conquering Paris as a returning Bonaparte, a striking contrast to his impoverished youth in the French capital. They discussed arrangements for Elmyr to become Canada’s newest citizen—for only a couple of thousand dollars. They just needed to work out the details and pay the money. They decided Fernand would travel to Ottawa to finalize the deal. In the meantime, they took separate rooms at the Winslow Hotel, on East Fifty-Fifth Street. Elmyr sequestered himself in his room and worked, producing drawings, Degas and Renoir pastels, and a Cezanne watercolor.
Again, details of this account are a bit fuzzy, but Elmyr thought there was a possible quick sale and easy money through an old friend from Europe. She was the Princess of Prussia, a granddaughter of Kaiser Wilhelm II. She was engaged to marry a rich Texan in San Antonio. Elmyr called her: “Yes, darling, do come down, I would love to see you…kiss, kiss,” or something like that. Elmyr flew down that evening. After checking into a hotel with his luggage and portfolio, he phoned her again. Only now he discovered something unexpected came up and she had to leave for Europe. As long as he was there, he decided to visit the city’s galleries. One gallery owner was particularly interested in seeing his collection and offered to do an exhibit on the spot. After a brief, feigned reluctance Elmyr said OK.
Elmyr arranged to have his collection of French impressionist art framed. The dealer then put together a private showing for some exclusive customers and sold a couple of the works immediately. One visitor was a rich cattleman. He and his wife asked if they could bring the Degas pastels and a Renoir to their ranch home. Their home was “palatial,” in Elmyr’s words. “They already had some fine original artwork, and they wanted to see how they would look on their walls. I must say, even I was impressed.” Two days later the gleeful dealer presented him with a check for $30,000. It was singularly the most money he had ever made at once and almost had him belting out “God Bless America” or the Halleluiah chorus from Handle’s Messiah on his way to the bank. There was nothing phony about the check. In order not to draw too much attention to himself, he told the bank officer he wanted to open a safe deposit box, which he did. The following day he returned with his portfolio, withdrew his box, and exchanged cut-up newspaper for the neatly banded bundles of cash, placing them in the portfolio. He then nervously exited the bank, perspiring and nauseous, feeling as though he had just committed a heist. A waiting taxi took him to the airport where he boarded a plane for Chicago. It was the last time he would see the land of the cowboys, oilmen, and unrestrained largesse of Texan hospitality.
Elmyr never told me why he went to Chicago from Texas. He did no business there other than indulge a whim to buy a car. He said he missed not having one, so he selected a blue Corvette convertible and thought he looked quite good in it, and of course paid cash for it. He then headed back to New York, crossing the Midwest and inaugurating his flashy new sports car. Once again lodging at the Winslow Hotel, this time he was alone. Fernand went ahead with arrangements to get Elmyr’s passport. What he didn’t know was that his new identity belonged to an actual living person. Fernand’s accomplice found a copy of the man’s birth certificate and used it in applying for the passport, an unoriginal if effective crime. He was a small-town clerk, a family man that they thought would never leave the country, named Joseph Boutin. Elmyr was about to assume his latest alias. It would not be without consequences.
In New York, Elmyr meticulously packed his suitcases. They, along with the Corvette, he would ship to Paris. He then demonstrated an uncharacteristic aberration in his normal behavior. He planned ahead—far ahead. One trunk containing several of his newest creations he placed in consignment at the hotel. If he ever needed to return for any reason, the artwork would be his insurance policy. “The Winslow Trunk” would later become the nexus of a battle royal between Elmyr and Fernand. When Fernand called his room, Elmyr picked up the phone. In oblique references any child’s mother could see through, Fernand informed his partner that Elmyr needed to visit scenic Ottawa. Traveling to Niagara Falls, Elmyr crossed the border as a day-tourist carrying nothing with him—but $20,000 in cash and airline tickets to France. Fernand wanted to spend a week in Quebec before joining him in Paris. This was a fine idea, Elmyr thought.
Elmyr Returns To Europe
It was an overcast fall day in 1959 when he boarded a Pan Am jet bound for France. Elmyr had stretched his three-month tourist visa into a twelve-year stay in the United States. He evaded the hand of the law but not detection. Constantly looking over his shoulder for someone flashing a gold badge and uttering those dreaded words you are under arrest was an anguishing reality. No more, he thought. Europe would now be the fresh start Rio de Janeiro was in 1947. While he traveled first-class across the Atlantic, Elmyr felt emotionally spent, exhausted. Visions of his past overwhelmed him like a near-death experience; they would not let him sleep. For the last six months, he associated with a man he normally would never have invited to his dinner table. A saying he picked up in America expressed his true feelings about that unfortunate alliance with Fernand—“Good riddance to bad rubbish.” The City of Light awaited him. It was his new beacon of hope, and there he intended to go it alone. Nothing felt strange about that. Elmyr, in all his various manifestations, was going home.
Elmyr wore a look of simultaneous disgust and surprise that by now had become instantly familiar when he relived any unpleasant remembrance of Fernand. While sharing this story, we sat comfortably in his living room, opposite one another in his matching leather easy chairs. His crossed legs rested atop the small table between us, parallel to mine. Some stories frequently lost me in a prologue sprinkled with unknown names and obscure facts. However, he kept them lively because they were meaningful to him and he told them with facial expressions a polished actor would envy. The accompanying pathos or humor in his voice compelled me to listen. I passed countless hours in this setting, absorbing his endless and captivating anecdotes. As a young man, I never thought my life would ever be interesting like his, although my association with him went a long way toward changing that assumption.
About Legros, he summed up again in his favorite understatement, “My curiosity was satisfied.” This was Elmyr-speak—downplaying strong sentiments that many people would more easily express in expletives. His feelings, however, were no less adamant. In any event, he no longer had to endure his erstwhile insufferable partner. He wanted nothing more to do with Fernand or to ever see him again once he was back in Paris. Elmyr thought it best to just lead Fernand on, letting him think that when they reunited, their association would continue as before. His expression turned bitter, conveying unmistakable displeasure in relaying this detail, as though reliving a recurring nightmare. Elmyr booked a room at a hotel far from the one where Legros was to stay. It would be hard to judge who would be happier about his return to Europe, Elmyr or the consortium of museum directors and art dealers in America. The vagabond Hungarian, delighted by the prospect of renewing his Parisian friendships, thought he would start phoning people immediately.
Rather than updating his little black address book periodically, he customarily used them until they disintegrated into dust. Entries, telephone numbers, addresses, were crossed out and scribbled in elsewhere on the impossibly cryptic pages only he could understand. Nevertheless, as soon as the bellhop brought his luggage to his room, he removed the book that contained names and numbers of people on three continents whom he knew and who knew him (but under many different aliases). For the police it was a veritable Rosetta stone, unlocking secrets and incriminating links to his illegal activities for the past thirteen years. In order to find it, though, they first needed to find him, a quest he had so far successfully stymied.
Elmyr sat on his bedside and phoned number after number, setting the handset aglow, announcing to surprised listeners that it was he, Elmyr! He preferred sitting upr
ight to lying down and talking. It just seemed easier to gesticulate that way with his free hand, and that enhanced communication—even by phone. Within an hour of initiating the calls, a friend invited Elmyr to join him in the south of France. Few spots were “as wonderful or as elegant as the Côte d’Azur,” he emphasized when telling me this story. Within ten days of his return to Europe, he was once again on the move, driving slowly south in his light-blue American sports car.
In Cap d’Antibes, he felt at home, in his comfort zone. After Budapest, France was the place he was most at ease. It was sophisticated, exactly where people of his background came to enjoy that rarified lifestyle only wealth could provide. His current appreciation was perhaps greater now than before, as he could contrast it with a day-today existence and vivid recollections of his monastic accommodations on Pershing Square in Los Angeles. He hoped never to go through those kinds of deprivations and humiliations again.
Much like the weather of southern California he liked so much, the Riviera along the Mediterranean in the autumn was warm and sunny, and it was a beautiful drive along the coastal roads. An urge to go to Rome found little resistance in him. It was also one of the world’s greatest cultural cities, he reasoned with himself as he crossed the French/Italian border with no worry. He had a fresh passport and spotless record as Joseph Boutin. By early October, he convinced himself that he should now call the Eternal City home. He found an apartment in a fashionable area of the city, off the Via Boncompagni near the American embassy. One room became his studio, where he resumed painting his own work, a luxury he was able to indulge because he still had money in his pockets from the sales in Texas. The illuminati of Roman society graced his parties, and Elmyr once more was a popular invitee of his old and new friends. He was a frequent guest of socialite Elsa Maxwell, perhaps the most celebrated party-giver of the twentieth century. Others included Crown Prince Constantine of Greece; the Borghesees; Count Esterhazy; Eva Bartók, wife of the Hungarian composer Béla Bartók; Ursula Andress; actor John Derek; and more. Between the cocktail parties, languorous luncheons, and dinners, Elmyr produced enough new work for an exhibition. He became acquainted with the owner of one of Italy’s top galleries in Milan devoted to contemporary figurative art, the Galeria Monte Napoleone. When Elmyr showed him some of his paintings he was instantly offered a one-man show.
It was another dazzling success, socially, but something less than a financial success. While he felt vindicated that there were buyers interested enough to purchase art in the style of Elmyr, it brought in nowhere near the kind of money his fakes earned. He now had that reality to ponder. Friends from Paris came to the opening and reveled in the gaiety of the parties in Milan and Rome. His longtime friend Jean Louis was one of his staunchest allies and supporters. He arrived for the event, informing him, “Fernand Legros has been asking everyone where you are.” Elmyr insisted that no one should tell Legros anything, let alone his whereabouts. “I would rather contract the black plague than see that man again,” he said, politely characterizing how repulsive that would be.
Although his show did not garner the response he hoped for, it kept him in the flow of an exciting art scene and whirlwind of social activities that became even more frenetic as the 1960 Rome summer Olympics neared. Elmyr opted to get away to Paris and escape the summer heat of southern Italy in July. Upon his return to Paris, he visited the cafés of his youth in Montparnasse and Montmartre. Little had changed, and he was enchanted with the city’s irresistible charm. “It truly is a jewel,” he thought to himself as he sat at a sidewalk café one morning near the Gare Saint-Lazare. Unlike the impenetrable crowds in Rome, there was practically no one around that early Sunday morning. It was astonishingly peaceful. As he ate his breakfast croissant and drank his café au lait, a frightening spectacle turned his Roman tan ashen gray. Emerging from a nearby Metro stop, like Lazarus rising from the dead, a figure appeared. It did no good to ignore the specter of Fernand Legros walking directly toward him, as he had already noticed Elmyr. Now, however, he resembled his former self, before Elmyr’s tutelage, unshaven and rather scruffy. Fernand held his arms open as if greeting his long-lost brother, which is about as elated as he felt when seeing his old business partner. The sight of him approaching immediately cast a pall over Elmyr’s good mood. It was like the unwelcome news a woman might receive of an unwanted pregnancy or as referred to in religious terms—the Unexpected Visitation. Yes, that is probably close to describing the sickening realization that he was found by the one man he wanted most to avoid.
Fernand did his best to draw Elmyr in with his flypaper charm. Smiling broadly, he leaned into Elmyr to greet him in the traditional French manner, a kiss to both cheeks. Elmyr abruptly and stiffly extended his right arm forward to halt his attempt. Fernand still gushed, “Mon cher Elmyr, is it really you? Where are you living now?” Elmyr said, “Madrid.” “Are you painting?” Fernand inquired. “Not at all,” he replied. What he wanted most to know was if Elmyr had any money. With his arms folded across his chest, he said in a voice the hearingimpaired would not need repeating, “no!” It resonated with all the believability of a child with a chocolate-smeared face and denying any knowledge of the missing cookies. “You’re such a liar,” Fernand calmly observed. Fernand went on to tell him he was disappointed that he disappeared without a word and that it was naughty of him to do that. His chiding did not move Elmyr. Fernand then tried a more persuasive appeal. Europe was not only a ripe art market, he claimed, but also people would be clamoring for Elmyr’s brilliant work. “We could still make a fortune together,” he insisted. The Hungarian remained uncharacteristically stoic and unimpressed with Fernand’s cajoling. He told his suitor that he had done nothing and sold nothing since leaving the States. Legros then asked Elmyr to entrust him with just a few drawings or watercolors to sell to demonstrate that he could do it. Elmyr shook his head no. Fernand persisted like someone with an obsessive-compulsive disorder struggling to get a recalcitrant lid off a pickle jar. “What did you do with the rest of the work that remained from the trip to Texas? There was that very nice Cézanne watercolor. What happened to that?” He continued to pry like the Grand Inquisitor. This line of questioning was making Elmyr recall his unpleasant experience with the Mexican police. Hoping to terminate their conversation, he told Fernand that he did not have them. He left them in a trunk at the Winslow in New York.
Making a face of sad resignation, Fernand shrugged and then changed the topic of conversation. They chatted a bit longer about nothing special that Elmyr could remember. Fernand then excused himself and bid his old associate au revoir. Elmyr hoped it would be their last encounter. Fernand apparently rushed back to his hotel and placed a call to New York, the Winslow Hotel. He identified himself as Elmyr and asked if his trunk was still in consignment there. The desk clerk assured him that it was. “I will be having a friend come to collect it, Mr. Fernand Legros, and he will have a letter of introduction and proper identification,” he informed him. He then promptly borrowed the airfare for a one-way ticket and $100 to fly to New York.
Arriving at the Winslow, Fernand presented a letter of introduction and instructions to hand over his treasure chest to the swarthy guy with the eye patch. Well, that’s what it amounted to. To the hotel director, I am sure the letter bore a reasonable facsimile of Elmyr’s signature and looked convincingly proper. This easy conquest was an epiphany to the scheming Legros. It signaled the beginning of a career of fabricating forged documents accompanying Elmyr’s fake art, thereby providing the missing ingredient in their chicanery. Fernand’s inclination toward larceny, according to Elmyr, offered little resistance such as scruples.
Fernand Legros – 1960’s
The concierge had the trunk sent to his room. It was locked, naturally. Oh my, what should he do? Let’s see, he just traveled three thousand miles to get something he wanted. He probably overlooked that small mechanical obstacle like a Yellowstone bear would, sniffing the scent of doughnuts in a camper’s tent. No one k
nows for sure how Legros choreographed his celebratory dance after opening the trunk and finding a trove of highly marketable French impressionist and postimpressionist art. What I know from Elmyr’s account is that Fernand sold the collection in North and South America and Europe, all very expensively. No information is available as to what Fernand sold in order to raise the money for the ticket home.
Elmyr said it was not until he made a trip to Hamburg in 1961, when visiting Arthur Pfannstiel, the expert on Modigliani who had already bought a number of Elmyr’s Modigliani drawings, that he was reminded of the Winslow trunk. By that time, Elmyr had morphed into Baron Herzog. The two men reputedly enjoyed the academic banter of intellectuals, exchanging thoughts on their particular focus of interest—i.e., Modigliani. With the childlike joy of showing a birthday present, Pfannstiel excused himself, returning with three drawings just sent him, done by Modigliani. A dealer wanted an expertise on them. You can imagine Elmyr’s response when he recognized them from the famous Winslow collection. “What do you think?” his host asked eagerly. This instantly triggered Elmyr’s sweat glands. He nervously offered a tepid note of approval, saying, “Well, they do look like his work…I think.”
Elmyr tried to find out who had sent him the drawings, but Pfannstiel never told him. Elmyr later insisted that he saw them reproduced in a catalog from the Galeria de Arte Solarium of Sao Palo in Brazil. This anecdote also provides insight into the lengths Fernand went to to obtain legitimate certificates of authenticity to accompany his sales, but when they could not easily be secured, he would have them manufactured. These measures included fabricating phony pedigrees, indicating the art had passed through prestigious collections of people who were all now conveniently dead and could not contradict such claims. By the mid sixties, Fernand had genuine customs stamps copied that he needed for the international transport of works of art deemed national treasures. These were coincidentally the only commodity he trafficked. When I knew Elmyr, he still thought that Fernand’s fortune and lavish lifestyle had to derive from something more than the monies made from his artwork. He believed that Fernand might have been involved with illegal drug trafficking. What ultimately surfaced was that he had worked his Svengali charm on an uncle who was allegedly an investment broker for retirees. Fernand swindled him out of two million dollars of their money, according to press reports.