The Forger's Apprentice: Life with the World's Most Notorious Artist

by Mark Forgy

  The first couple to receive a call was Philippe and Simone Vogue. They were among the many waves of visitors to lap up on the shores of La Falaise, buy artwork from Elmyr, and become friends as well. Philippe was an interesting man, a Belgian; supposedly not feeling bourgeois enough, he moved to Switzerland. There, he parlayed a small inheritance, the equivalent of about $5,000. He was not an engineer but had a good idea, so he hired a couple engineers to realize it for him. He invented the electric toothbrush, promptly sold the patent rights for about $35 million. Another $35 million followed his next little brainstorm, the Waterpik. His story doesn’t mean that all ideas are good or moneymakers. However, it suggests the importance of conviction and perseverance.

  Simone was an exquisite beauty with style, grace, and earthy charm. Warmly welcoming us to their luxurious flat overlooking Lake Geneva, we sat in comfort. She asked, “What would you like to drink?” Together we replied, “A glass of wine.” She called someone to bring up a bottle from their private cellar. It was something like a ’46 Chateau Margaux, probably the most delicious wine I have ever tasted. No, it was the most delicious. My mouth waters in longing memory of the occasion. Now what was remarkable about our afternoon with her was a bit of latebreaking news she had to share with us.

  An innocent, “Oh, by the way…” was about to smack us with the life-extinguishing force of those giant asteroids. “Legros,” Simone informed us, “was released last week. So you should be careful.” Although well intended, her words of caution weren’t necessary. Elmyr knew what Fernand was capable of but also expressed his doubt that he would do anything to risk incarceration again. Even he couldn’t be that stupid, he thought. For Elmyr, Geneva was the one stop of our journey about which he had misgivings. Fernand Legros found refuge there after returning from Brazil, where they had jailed him for various illegal activities. Interestingly, while behind bars he made friends with another prison mate of some repute, Ronald Biggs, a member of the British gang responsible for “The Great Train Robbery” in Britain. The only reason we made the trip to Switzerland was that Legros for many months had been an official guest of the Swiss government—at a hospital for the criminally insane, finally living up to his potential, I thought. He apparently seduced, with some absence of forethought, the three male children of the mayor of a nearby town. For as odious an act, we felt certain that the conventional and humorless Swiss would not be setting him free anytime soon. Astonishingly, Legros’s battery of attorneys, psychiatrists, and constant refrain that he could not go to jail because he was “allergic to prison,” however, gained traction. While this ploy defies belief, I tend to think the Swiss realized Legros needed regular doses of Thorazine.

  When we retuned to the hotel around five o’clock, the concierge handed Elmyr a phone message. It was from a Swiss television station, requesting an interview. We were mystified how they knew Elmyr was in Geneva and our exact location. Six people in Geneva knew of our arrival: Philippe and Simone, Ian and Cynthia Major, and Elmyr’s longtime Hungarian friend, the investment banker Eugene Weinreb and his wife, Andruska. That’s all. Back in our room, we tried to penetrate the mystery without success. A phone number accompanied the message. Curiosity overwhelmed us. He made the call. Elmyr reached someone who said he was with Channel Three of Swiss TV and eager to have an interview with him. They would pay him the equivalent of $3,000. It wouldn’t take more than a couple of hours of his time. When Elmyr asked how they were aware of his arrival, he said someone recognized him at the airport. He told the man that he needed some time to think it over.

  We discussed the proposition at length, weighing the pros and cons. Elmyr was not one to dismiss the prospect of so lucrative an offer for so little work. Besides, he had become accustomed to the public spotlight and enjoyed his new star status. What applied the brakes to his inclination to accept the offer was my insistence that it would be tantamount to a personal invitation to Legros to stir up whatever trouble he could conceive. It would be, in fact, completely opposite of our mission, which was to make our presence as unobtrusive as possible. Reluctantly, he called the fellow back from Channel 3 and declined the invitation. Their conversation continued. I could tell from Elmyr’s silence, punctuated with the periodic oui, he was exerting some pressure. In pantomime I was gesticulating not to relent. When he hung up, I could tell he was not entirely convinced that he did the right thing.

  The next morning, after our tea and continental breakfast, we dressed to go out. We would do some sightseeing. Elmyr had a typical European constitution and enjoyed walking. It really allowed one to have that upclose and personal relationship with the city, its life, and the people. By contrast, I’d gone to college in Los Angeles, a city where, if you walk, you were immediately considered “queer or criminal.” Around noon we returned to the hotel. We had a luncheon engagement with Ian and Cynthia. Upon entering the lobby, a group of plainclothes police approached us, displaying their badges. My heart began to pound as though it wanted to burst. Questions came in a flurry. As I was fluent in French by this time, I responded instinctively. Elmyr and I were divided; three people were questioning him, two detectives focused on me: What was my name? What was my relationship to Elmyr? Why was I in Geneva? Where were we going? etc. By the time the questioning ended, one of my interrogators referred to me as “the American gentleman.” I somewhat suspected at that moment that I wasn’t heading to jail. Elmyr, on the other hand, had neatly vanished. In an instant, I stood alone. The police and Elmyr were gone like a flock of birds responding to a shotgun blast.

  I collected my wits and asked the desk clerk where they had gone. With the same nonchalance, as if by any other normally departing guest, he said they’d gone through the revolving doors. Fine, but where? I returned to our room alone, called Ian and Cynthia, told them what had happened and that I had no knowledge of his whereabouts. They urged me to come to their home.

  The leaves, in their autumnal zenith, fell like confectionary sprinkles covering a green frosting, reminding me of a fauve landscape. Mornings and evenings were crisp, the days warmed by residual summer sunlight. The serenity and beauty of the scenery all along the lakeshore drive could not distract me from the disturbing mystery surrounding the stealthy abduction of my friend.

  Ian and Cynthia warmly greeted me and understandably sensed my alarm. Wealth has its perquisites, and social connections are one of them. Ian assured me that he knew a lawyer who could find the answers to my questions. He phoned him, explaining our dilemma. The attorney promised to investigate immediately. Together, we sat down to lunch, all with a substantially subdued appetite. This crisis revealed Ian and Cynthia’s deep concern for their absent friend. The same heartfelt sensitivity would have mirrored Elmyr’s response if one of his friends were in jeopardy.

  Within an hour, the lawyer called back. He informed Ian the police detained Elmyr at the city courthouse and were questioning him. Ian asked him to represent Elmyr as his legal counsel and to keep us apprised of the situation. We waited several more hours for more details. Shadowy fingers crawled across the lawn as daylight waned behind a row of poplars. Ian lit some kindling, hoping the growing flames under the dried birch logs in the fireplace would displace our feelings of apprehension with comforting warmth. Their home imparted the casual elegance that the British not just easily display, but seem to have this cultured sensibility indelibly stamped on their DNA. A long high tea and candid conversation transported us past the early evening hours. As we talked I admired how superbly framed Elmyr’s artwork looked on their walls. Once again the lawyer phoned, this time with good news. Elmyr would be back at the hotel about nine o’clock.

  Ian drove me back about 8 p.m. We waited for Elmyr in the hotel lobby. About twenty minutes to nine he came through the front door. Looking exhausted, he said he needed a drink. We went to the bar and all ordered a cognac. He proceeded to recount his ordeal, vividly demonstrating the comic but menacing element that characterized his relationship with Legros. Lamentably, a more insidious a
spect underscored the uneasy laughter. Legros’s latest scheme once more revealed his megalomania, vengeful nature, and flair for the bizarre. My first direct exposure to his antics made me think of him in movie parlance as Darth Vader meets Liberace.

  The morning of our luncheon engagement with Ian and Cynthia, Legros phoned the Geneva police headquarters to lodge a complaint against Elmyr, accusing him of having made “death threats” against him. Elmyr, he claimed, made several phone calls to his home and told him if he didn’t bring $100,000 (in small bills) to the lobby of the Hôtel du Rhône that very morning, he would be killed.

  Despite Legros’s local notoriety and reputation, the police were compelled to investigate the charges. Knowing it was Friday, Legros counted on the police arresting Elmyr and keeping him in jail over the weekend and then arraigning him on Monday. Instead, the magistrate convened a hearing for that Friday evening, which was highly unusual. The judge unexpectedly summoned Legros to appear that evening.

  Fernand knew the benefit of good legal counsel, but none of his three lawyers showed up for the hearing. Ian’s friend sent an associate to represent Elmyr. Immediately, according to Elmyr, Legros stood up in the courtroom, pointed an accusatory finger at Elmyr, and asked the judge, “Why does he have an attorney and I don’t have mine?” The judge replied, “That’s a good question, Monsieur Legros. I don’t usually see you when you’re not surrounded by lawyers.” Then the magistrate asked him, “These death threats M. de Hory allegedly made…how do you know they were from him?” “I recognized his Austro Hungarian voice!” he responded. “When did he make these calls?” the judge then asked.

  Legros: “I am not able to specify the hour when I received a phone call last night, for, under medical order, I sleep, thanks to three Vesper. It is true that I often have nightmares, but as soon as I became aware of it, I changed my psychiatrist! The telephone calls I received in the afternoon were made between two p.m. and six p.m.

  Judge: Between two and six is a long time. Don’t you ever look at your watch?

  Legros (Now this, I am sure, went over very well, especially in Switzerland): I never look at my watch. If I want to know the time, I hold out my arm and have my servants read me the time. Why else should one have servants?

  Judge: M. Legros, we have M. de Hory’s phone records from the hotel. He made no calls that night or between two and six p.m. We also know that he did not leave the hotel during those times.

  Judge: M. Legros, what exactly were you planning to do with those people you hired and the house you rented where you intended to lure M. de Hory?

  Legros: Nothing. I just wanted to frighten him, so he would leave me alone—and stop harassing me.

  Judge: We know those people you hired are thugs and criminals. M. Legros, if you give me the slightest reason to have you arrested again, it is you who will go to jail. You have already wasted this court’s time and mine. Get out! (This exchange is an official translation of the court transcript.) (Italics are mine.)

  The judge then accompanied Elmyr to a private egress from the courthouse. Before leaving, the judge cautioned him, “Legros is a dangerous man, and you should be extremely careful.” He then proceeded to explain that Elmyr’s detention had been a precautionary measure for his own safety. It turns out that Legros knew our every move since we got off the plane—and so did the police. He, in fact, knew our whole itinerary of the trip, which most likely he came by via some monetary payoff to the travel agent in Ibiza. In a singular but mystifying moment of inspiration, (like the kind that gave us the cuckoo clock), Legros hired a private detective to follow us everywhere we went. He, like Legros, had a checkered past. A once-important functionary—chief of police of Geneva no less—he fell from grace like Icarus in flames for the slight faux pas of putting bugs (listening devices) in the phones of people in high places. The Swiss press enthusiastically covered this succulent scandal, calling it, “L’Histoire des Longues Oreilles” or “the story of the long ears.” It sounds better in French. The Swiss, being a sober lot, were not amused. After a stint in prison for his transgressions, he thought it appropriate to open a private detective agency. Therefore, in a kind of human chain like one of those Chinese New Year’s dragons, he followed us and the police followed him in a scene à la a Pink Panther movie. The offer from the television channel was a ruse that might well have proved dangerous if Elmyr let ego or greed supersede prudence.

  We stayed only long enough to fulfill our luncheon date with Ian and Cynthia and pay a social call to our other friends the Weinrebs. The following day I returned to the Majors’ lakeside home with Elmyr. They asked another friend to join us, the Austrian actor Oskar Homolka. His roles in films like The Seven Year Itch (with Marilyn Monroe) and A Farewell to Arms are less memorable than his hallmark bushy eyebrows that invited trimming with hedge shears. He, like fellow actors Vincent Price and Edward G. Robinson, began collecting impressionist art before it became a popular pastime and shrewd investment. He owned one or more paintings by Cézanne, which became a table topic for him and Elmyr. Elmyr was always curious and delighted to discuss authentic works of art and those artists whose lives he unavoidably came to know intimately. This time the lake’s surface was glass-smooth, substantially calmer than Elmyr. The previous day’s commotion still weighed on his mind. However, we enjoyed the reunion with Ian and Cynthia, and Elmyr was impressed with how good his paintings and drawings looked in their home. The next day we departed for London in the afternoon. Again, Elmyr expected, or hoped, his brush with Legros would be his last.

  LONDON

  London was Elmyr’s preferred destination in all of Europe. I had the good fortune to travel there with him on numerous occasions. He enjoyed the civility of the Brits, their genteel manners, and had an almost Victorian kind of respect for them as empire builders. It was home to polyglot cultures, and the cosmopolitan air was good to breathe. He loved going to a Hungarian restaurant in Soho with the exuberantly campy name, The Gay Hussar. By my first visit there, I had already received a primer in Central European history that answered more questions than I had ever conceived of asking. Now, Elmyr dressed to the nines in his signature black velvet jacket, tailored white shirt from Turnbull & Asser, silk tie, monocle at the end of a gold chain around his neck, and pinky rings in yellow and white gold, each bearing the three cut gems that denoted him as Hungarian. The music of gypsy violins filled the restaurant. He felt at home chattering away with the maitre d’hotel in his native tongue. One could almost infer from his animated gestures the context of their dialogue. We would have a specialty of the house, a variety of fish from Lake Baloton in Hungary. It would not have mattered what kind of wet fish it was. It was the allure of home cooking he found so appealing.

  It was compulsory to have a slice of “real” foie gras from his homeland. The difference between it and all other imitators was clear. It was goose liver in its entirety, not a minced up pâté like those French do in Strasbourg. Elmyr then explained the gruesome process that makes it taste so good. Now, this is enough to make PETA members dizzy with apoplexy: they simply crank back the neck of the poor goose and force-feed it until its liver enlarges to something the size of a football. So grab your knife and fork and eat up!

  Soho is an enclave of ethnic restaurants, shops, and strip clubs that make it aggressively entertaining and a human zoo for people-watching. As hospitable and naturally helpful as the British are, they commonly write out the names, numbers, and addresses of places to go and people to see on public restroom walls, in case you didn’t get a chance to stop at a tourist information booth. I personally witnessed an example of their alacrity to assist a stranger one evening when Elmyr and I had tickets for a West End theater performance. Standing on one side of Sloane Square in Chelsea, we tried without success to flag down an empty taxi. They ignored our arm flailing and drove to the opposite side of the square thirty meters away. There, a single line had formed. People queued up at a taxi stand like well-behaved penguins before a kiosk sign reading �
��Free Fish.” Fearing we would be late for the play, he voiced his upset amid the silent crowd. One man asked where we were going. Elmyr replied, “Piccadilly Circus.” He in turn suggested we take the Tube, as it was only two stops away and probably quicker. Elmyr snapped back that he hadn’t taken public transport in thirty years and was not about to start now. There you have it. He also enjoyed class distinctions so easily apparent in their culture. We waited our turn in the silent queue, eyes glaring as though he had farted loudly at a royal coronation.

  OK, so his overt snobbism was perhaps his least attractive feature. It was nevertheless a part of who he was, and he was not going to change. Strangely, this class prickliness ran contrary to his more humane instincts, and I often found these incompatible characteristics bewildering as they were housed in the same body. It was an adrenalin rush for him to have the simultaneous stimulation of culture and the company of people every time he went to London. The whirlwind social schedule would make one think he’d been some sensory-deprived creature like Robinson Crusoe, cut off from the civilized world. This was far from the case but illustrated his insatiable need for the company of others.

  One visit coincided with an annual theater junket by his New York friends Arnold Weissberger and Milton Goldman. Elmyr had rented a home near Sloane Square and enthusiastically hosted a cocktail party for them one night. Longtime friends of Arnold’s came, Douglas Fairbanks Jr. and his wife. For as unerring as he was with people’s titles, Elmyr sometimes goofed with their names. With button-popping pride he paraded his newly arrived guests, introducing the gracious couple as “Mr. and Mrs. Douglas.” After each intro I tugged on his jacket, whispering “Fairbanks.” My promptings apparently just on the wrong side of audibility, I spoke up. Recognizing his gaff, he apologized. Wholly unperturbed by the mistake, Fairbanks recounted a story about his father. During a transatlantic voyage, a small fellow approached him and said, “You probably don’t remember me…” Fairbanks Sr. pretended otherwise. When it became obvious that he had no recollection of him, he relented, saying, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember you. I meet so many people…” The unmemorable chap was Marconi, who as inventor of the radio left no small footprint in history. The point was that Fairbanks Jr. was not a stickler about protocol and understood human frailties like memory loss. (A condition I find increasingly forgivable with advancing age.)