by Alex Connor
FIVE
Professor Altman was whistling in the shower and thinking that his trip to London had been a wonderful success. His talks had all been well attended, and he had managed to seduce three women in the space of a week. Not bad going. As for the art world, he had friends in many galleries. In others, his notorious reputation made him an unpopular man. No one could take to someone who declared that their latest acquisition was a forgery, and there were a few who had declared open season on the muscular behind of Professor Altman. Graver Hirst was one of them. Having had a Turner exposed as a fake several years earlier, he loathed Altman.
*
Later that morning, Graver looked up to see Altman peering at him through the glass panel in his office door. Glowerig, Graver turned his back on the professor, hoping that he would take the hint and walk away, but instead the arrogant Altman came in.
“Good to see you again,” he lied. “I heard a little rumour this morning. About a Rubens portrait.”
Graver’s face was expressionless. This time the bastard wasn’t going to catch him out. “Really?”
“I heard you had found a sleeper at a sale.”
“Really?” He watched as the bearded man moved towards an Epstein bust on a plinth. “That happens to be genuine, with papers to prove it,” Graver said.
“I’m just admiring it,” Altman replied. “That business with the Turner was a long time ago. Surely there’s no bad feeling between us?”
“I didn’t know it was a fake—”
“You dealers never do!” Altman laughed. “Just hope for the best, don’t you? Anyone with half a brain could see it was a forgery.”
Graver bridled. “I sold it in good faith.”
“What faith would that be? The divinity of money?”
Graver looked him up and down. He wasn’t the only dealer who wanted to bring Professor Altman down a peg or two, see how he would like to be humiliated for a change.
“Don’t preach to me. You get paid well enough for giving your bloody opinion,” Graver said sourly. “I heard you charged someone a quarter of a million for your services.”
Altman shrugged. “There’s money in the Emirates. I saved the Sheikh millions.”
“Are you’re never wrong?” Graver asked, dumbfounded.
“No,” Altman replied. “Never.”
Graver was thinking quickly. Altman had been an irritant for years, not only by exposing the Turner as a fake but by his constant needling. Teasing, he called it, but Graver knew such ‘teasing’ could gradually undermine a reputation and break a business. Which was the last thing he wanted, especially now.
*
The Turner had been a genuine mistake, but Altman had talked about it publicly in his speeches and Graver was nervous. Altman already knew about the Rubens. What if he exposed it? Proved it was School of Rubens, not by the Master? It was time the arrogant professor was taught a lesson.
If he was shown to be fallible, Graver would achieve three things: firstly, revenge; secondly, the toppling of the Oracle, and thirdly, the protection of his reputation.
It was a challenge he couldn’t resist.
SIX
Hubris is always a dangerous trait, and Graver Hirst was depending on Altman’s arrogance. But first he had to prepare the ground. So later that afternoon he phoned Martin Kemper.
“Altman’s interested in seeing the Rubens,” he said blithely.
“Are you out of your mind?” Martin retorted, fully aware that if the historian demoted the work he would lose out on a huge sale between two already competing brokers. “Why don’t you just send it over to me now? I’ll pay you. You don’t have to bring that shit Altman into this.”
“But it looks suspicious if I don’t,” Graver replied reasonably. “Anyway, I’m getting the frame restored for you and I was going to have the picture delivered on Thursday.”
“You can’t risk showing it to Altman.”
Graver was unmoved. “What’s his weakness?”
“What?”
“Altman. What’s his biggest weakness?”
“Arrogance,” Martin replied. “The bastard’s never wrong and if he was, he’d die rather than admit it.”
“Exactly.” Graver replied. “Come to the gallery at five, can you? I want us to put our Rubens before Altman—”
“Why risk it? He got you for that Turner before.”
“He won’t get me this time,” Graver replied smoothly. “See you at five.”
*
There is a theory that inside every respectable man there is a criminal trying to get out. It may well be true. It certainly was of Graver Hirst. For decades he had traded as an honest man and revelled in his reputation, but suddenly the pressure of the indecently rich Lamberts and his daughter’s forthcoming nuptials shifted his brain into sixth gear – the gear reserved for settling scores and avoiding death by humiliation.
Of course it’s useful in the art world to be aware of forgers and their methods. This way a dealer avoids being caught out – most of the time. Over a few decades catching up with – or falling foul of – the tricks of the trade, Graver had learned a great deal, and walking down into the storage room he began to search. It took him almost an hour to find the right canvas, of the right size and age, before he moved back into his office, and locked the door behind him.
*
At ten to five Martin Kemper arrived, flustered, rushing in with his coat flapping open, his face flushed ruby red. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked.
Graver shrugged, blithely calm. “I think it’s an excellent idea. Have you spoken to your would-be clients yet?”
“Yes. And have you thought what will happen if Altman says it’s not by Rubens?” Martin asked, closing the office door and sitting down. “It could be a big fucking mistake. I might not want to buy it from you if he damns it—”
“Of course you want the painting!”
Martin shrugged. “OK, I do. But not as much as you want that fat fee you need for your daughter’s wedding.”
“Stop panicking. Think how much more money you’ll be able to get when the portrait has Professor Altman’s seal of approval.”
They both paused, thinking. If Altman approved a work, he wrote a note confirming his – never mistaken – opinion and signed the back of the painting. Using indelible ink, Altman would put his signature at the very edge of the back of the canvas, with a cross beside it. An affectation of sorts. A blessing known around the art world. If Altman had marked and approved a work, it was kosher.
“I know what I’m doing,” Graver continued. “Altman won’t discredit the Rubens. Believe me, this is not just about the painting. I want to get my own back on that pompous bastard and stop the bloody Lamberts patronising my family at the wedding.” He breathed in steadily. “It’s fine, trust me.”
Graver waited for the professor, knowing he would be late. And he was. Smiling smugly as he walked in, he took a good look at Graver’s receptionist, who was stunning. She ignored him, just as she had been told to do. Altman was surprised: women never ignored him. He gave a shrug and heard Graver call out to him and invite him into the office. Martin Kemper was no longer there. He had left for his own gallery, his nerves jangling like unstrung piano keys.
“Michael,” Graver said, using Altman’s first name and smiling expansively. “You wanted to see the Rubens, and I want you to see it, but before you do could you have a quick look at a Corot for me? I’m pretty sure of it, but I would appreciate your opinion.”
Altman’s face lit up. “Of course. Mind you, I’d charge anyone else for my time. But, as we’re friends…”
Graver placed the landscape on the easel and Altman beamed. “This is a beauty. I would stake my reputation on this being genuine.” Examining it thoroughly, he asked for its provenance and stared at it for about three minutes,
until finally nodding his head. “Yes, it’s genuine.”
Graver sighed, watching as Altman signed the back of the painting and made his cross on it. Then, with a flourish, he scribbled a handwritten note declaring the work genuine and signed it.
“Now, may I see the so-called ‘Rubens’?”
“Of course,” Graver replied, moving towards his desk and pressing his intercom. “Melissa, can you come in for a moment? And a bring sheet of paper, will you?”
As Graver knew he would, Altman stared at the beautiful receptionist, his attention fixed on her. She handed him a sheet of paper and he took out his pen. Graver glanced over at him.
“Could you just say, ‘I authenticate this work as being genuine,’ and sign it?” he asked. Melissa retuned Altman’s gaze, distracting him so much that he scribbled the note and handed it back to her absent-mindedly, while trying to start up a conversation with her.
And while she commanded his interest Graver pushed two unfastened canvases out from the back of the frame. Then, with one deft movement, he swapped them around and pushed them both back into the frame, sliding the holding clips in place. The Rubens was now on show, the Corot behind it.
Having no luck with the receptionist, Altman was reluctant to be drawn back to work.
“This is the painting I wanted you to see,” Graver said as Altman stared after the retreating woman. Melissa had timed it to perfection, Graver thought. He really must give her a rise. “This is the Rubens.”
The professor looked stern. “You know that if it’s inferior or a fake – and I can always spot a fake, my reputation relies on the fact –I am duty bound to tell you so.”
“I understand.”
“I must say, you’re being very magnanimous about this, Graver. I know you took it badly when I discredited that Turner of yours—”
“It was a mistake. The past is the past,” Graver said grandly. “Today is all that matters. We must bury the hatchet, Michael.” He moved towards the easel and lifted the cover off the portrait.
In all her slick prettiness, the female sitter looked back at them. Intrigued, Altman moved closer. He had to admit that it was a good painting, very Rubenesque, but that didn’t make it a genuine work by the Master.
“Where did you find it?”
“It was a sleeper. I spotted it in a sale.”
“So you have no provenance?”
“No,” Graver admitted. “But then, as you and I both know, some works by the Old Masters lack provenances. How genuine they are comes down to experience and opinion. Your opinion.” He could see Altman scrutinising the work, holding a magnifying glass to it and tilting his head from side to side. Grunting, he picked it up and moved it under the light.
Graver held his breath, praying that Altman wouldn’t turn it over and look at the back.
“I think it’s genuine,”
Irritated, Altman was quick to crush Graver’s suggestion. “It’s a dud.”
“What!” Graver said, shocked. “But I had it dated. It’s from Rubens’ time. Paints and canvas correct. I was sure it was a work by the Master.”
“It’s a very good portrait, but not a genuine Rubens. It’s either been done by one of his students, or by a copyist of that period. Rubens’ work was in such high demand, they were faking it in his own lifetime.” He looked smug as he said it. “Sorry, old boy. Looks like you got caught out again.”
Graver flushed. “How can you be so sure?”
“I am paid to be sure. My reputation depends on my certainty. Across the world, dealers and galleries have repeatedly relied on my opinion. This,” he said pompously, pointing to the portrait, “is not a genuine Rubens.”
“And you’re positive?”
“One hundred per cent certain,” Altman replied, moving towards the door. “I hate to disappoint you, but I stand by my word.” He couldn’t resist one a parting shot. “You’re not as good as you used to be, Graver. Don’t worry, everyone loses their edge eventually. Perhaps its time to think about retiring?”
SEVEN
Martin Kemper could not believe what he was seeing. In the Professor’s luxuriant hand was written:
I authenticate this work as being genuine.
Michael Altman
“My God!” he said, delighted. “This is staggering!”
“Should help you to get a big deal, Martin.”
Kemper narrowed his eyes. “But Altman’s opinion makes the portrait much more valuable. My offer—”
“Let’s raise it to five hundred thousand,” Graver replied, smiling. “I’m not greedy, I never have been. But that will do nicely for the wedding and keep our end up with the Lamberts.”
“That’s more than generous of you,” Martin said, taken aback and thinking that the dealer was beginning to lose his touch. Poor man, not as sharp as he used to be. “You are sure?”
“Oh yes,” Graver replied. “More than sure.”
EIGHT
Exactly one month later Antonia Hirst married Benny Lambert. The wedding was a plush affair, no expense spared. Pam was more than a little proud of her husband. She didn’t know how Graver had managed to pull off such a coup and she didn’t want to know. All that mattered was that their daughter had a spectacular wedding.
The Hirsts cheapskates? No way.
Merry on champagne, Graver stole off into the garden away from the reception. His plan had worked. And yet up until the last moment he wondered if he would manage to pull it off, or if something – or someone – would throw a spanner in the works. But no one did.
In fact Martin Kemper managed to sell the Rubens portrait for a remarkable amount, pitting the two brokers against each other in a financial bloodbath. Kemper didn’t know who they were bidding for – the identity of their employers always remained a secret – but the outcome was a delight for him. He pocketed a fortune – after giving Graver his paltry half million.
Believing he had cheated Graver once again, he felt no remorse. And Graver, in his turn, felt no guilt either. Of course the sale had been greatly assisted by Professor Altman’s declaration that the Rubens was genuine. After all, he’d never been wrong. Had he?
Smiling to himself, Graver thought back to the moment when Professor Michael Altman had arrived at his studio, apoplectic with fury.
“I told you that painting was a fake! And yet you’re saying I said it was genuine—”
“But you signed the back of the work, Michael. And you gave us your written confirmation.”
“For the Corot!”
“Oh dear,” Graver said with mock sympathy. “Then you’ll have to make an announcement to say you were mistaken. People will understand. You made an error, momentarily lost your edge…” The barb hit home like a returning boomerang. “It’s simple – just admit you were wrong.”
Just admit you were wrong. Just cut off your head would have been an easier option for Altman. He knew he had been tricked, but not how. The dealer of whom he had been so dismissive had duped him – but how had he done it?
Graver smiled at him. Altman had been so easy to set up: he loved giving his own opinion and he loved seducing women. In the time Melissa had so perfectly managed to distract him, Graver had swapped the two canvases inside the frame. The canvas that Altman marked and signed was the genuine Corot. While he was busy staring at Melissa, Graver had put the Corot into the frame first, the Rubens behind it. The historian never realised there had been two paintings. He had been right about the Corot, it was genuine. But he had signed and authenticated the Rubens.
The sheer joy of the plot was threefold: Graver duped Michael Altman and got his revenge for the Turner affair, repaid Martin Kemper for his previous trickery, and last, but very much not least, made his family proud.
*
Oh yes, he was a happy man, Graver thought, making his way back into the Lamberts’ palatia
l home and mingling with the throng of wedding guests. He was perfectly safe: Altman would never admit his mistake, and no one would ever know that the Rubens was merely the work of one of the Master’s students. Worth millions? Never. Fifteen thousand at best.
“Happy?” Graver asked his wife, kissing her cheek and watching as Gordon Lambert clinked his glass and called for silence.
It was good to feel that he was on a par with the Lamberts, if only for the wedding. Oh yes, Graver thought, no one would think he was a klutz now. No more patronising comments from the despicable Josephine; no more put-downs from the King of Plastic, Gordon Lambert. He had done his daughter proud.
The burly Gordon clinked his champagne glass again and everyone finally quietened down. Sentimentally, he gazed at his son and daughter-in-law. “I’m so happy to welcome you to our family, Antonia,” he began. “My sweet and beautiful daughter-in-law, my son’s lovely new bride…” Everyone beamed. “I had hoped for some time that Benny would find the right woman, and he has…” Everyone beamed a bit more. “I’m so happy, so happy…” The beaming took on stratospheric proportions. “And I want to give you kids something to start off your married life…”
Pam clenched Graver’s arm. Money, maybe. A boat. A sports car. A little pad next to the Lamberts’ home in the Bahamas…
“This is for you two,” Gordon said, throwing back his arm as a servant entered, carrying something carefully. Then, with a flourish from Gordon, the man lifted a painting above his head. “It’s a Rubens!” Gordon said as a gasp went up around the room. He was showing off, bragging in front of the assembled guests. Throwing his money and power around. “A genuine Rubens…” Gordon repeated, beaming at the newly-weds, who were astonished. “It’s to start off your own collection…” His big flushed face was smug as he continued to boast. “A Rubens. Worth millions. How many other newly-weds get a present like that?”