by Cathy Ace
Ebba raised her hand. “I’m sorry to disagree, but I must. This cannot happen. I work in restoration, which means I have also studied attribution and the examination of works of art. When a painting is attributed to an artist, it is only done when it’s been accepted as authentic by an entire group of experts. That’s especially the case when something’s been outside the controlled environment of a gallery or a museum. When pieces are recovered, they are reassessed by the experts who already know them well; they test the pigments, the canvas, the paints. They are rarely fooled.”
All eyes turned to me. “This raises two issues, as you correctly identified, Ebba. The first is attribution—the agreement by the art community that a piece is definitely the work of a certain artist. The second—the assessment of the age of a piece—can help with that process. The scientific tests of which you speak can only prove a piece isn’t a modern fake. Although some key tests have existed for decades, many of them required the use of quite large samples, so those tests weren’t often used. However, they were sophisticated enough to prove that Han van Meegeren painted fakes in 1947. You yourself told me one of his most famous was a version of this very piece, The Laughing Cavalier, which has disappeared.”
“You cannot be saying this is a Van Meegeren?” cried Ebba.
“No, I’m not saying that, but I am saying a young man—a talented artist like Jonas—arriving in Amsterdam in 1947, when a world-class forger was a national hero, could have seen a way to make some money. He might have plied his trade at local flea markets, selling good fakes, building up income as he spent little, sleeping on Willem’s floor for years.”
“There’s a leap from that to forming an international art-smuggling ring,” said Willem Weenix’s granddaughter angrily.
“You’re right. However, I am suggesting the operation began in earnest back in the early fifties, when the Group first formed, but before Greta joined. Dirk van der Hoeven was a fledgling importer and exporter of antiques, who could have acquired original, poor-quality works executed on the right age of canvas needed for the fakes. Pigments mixed from original compounds, and glazes that looked just like the real thing, could be sourced by your grandfather, through his art-supply connections. By then, it was common knowledge that Van Meegeren had cooked his canvases in an oven to age them, and his techniques were more than adequate, if used by the right artist, to fool even avid collectors. I believe, as the years passed, Johannes’s expertise in logistics planning, Pieter’s ability to hide the money being made, and eventually Greta’s family connections all played their part. It was a well-formed group—fit for purpose. The purpose being the enjoyment of art, yes, but not in the way you have all portrayed.”
“Is she saying my Dirk was a bad man?” asked Marlene vaguely.
“Be quiet, Mama,” snapped Menno. “She’s talking nothing but rubbish. Everyone knows you cannot fool the experts.”
A general sense of unease was growing. “Ah, but you don’t always have to. Sometimes you only have to fool the questionable collectors who are prepared to pay huge sums for works of art. And, if you understand their psychology well enough, they can be pretty easy to hoodwink. They are people whose desire to own a piece is so intense, not only will they pay almost anything, but they will also keep it just for themselves, never allowing anyone else to see it. Special rooms are built, and huge safes are installed, just so the owner can enjoy their very own priceless masterpiece. Would a passionate collector scrape the paint off a Van Gogh to check that it’s real when that very piece has been ‘stolen to order’ and then ‘recovered’ by the police? No. Their hubris means they know they have the real piece, and the great unwashed public is paying to shuffle past an excellent fake. Jonas had ample opportunity to study the real pieces when he worked in the museums and galleries here. His work could have convinced many collectors that way.”
Once again Ebba raised her voice. “You can always tell a fake. There’s always something that gives it away. Just a simple X-ray would show enough to give cause for concern, and it wouldn’t damage the painting at all. Most well-known pieces have at least been studied this way and are known about, so you’d have to replicate everything under the paint too.”
“I agree, but where are those ‘known X-rays’ kept? In the secure offices of the museums where Jonas was a guard. And don’t forget, sometimes collectors are also happy to buy a ‘newly discovered’ piece too—one that has never been studied, x-rayed, or pored over by anyone. It’s thought there are hundreds of lost Rembrandt sketches, for example. Who’s to say if Van Gogh’s comments in his letters to his brother that refer to ‘several studies’ of a certain subject mean just the three we know of so far, or ten more that might be adorning the walls of various homes in the regions where he lived. Jonas travelled the world, following in his idol’s footsteps. He could have ‘found’ works in many places. He’d have intimate knowledge about locations, and all he had to do was magic up a couple of undiscovered canvases upon his return to his attic. I am guessing you all heard about the excitement at the Van Gogh Museum yesterday morning when a ‘new Van Gogh’ was delivered to their front doorstep? We’re able to tell you the piece everyone is in such a furor about is a portrait of Hannah, painted by Jonas. He didn’t sign it, but you only have to look at it to see that it’s Hannah.”
“My picture,” said Hannah gleefully. “They’ve found my picture? How did it get there?”
“I expect there’s an Irish rugby player or two who could answer that one for you, Hannah,” I replied. “I believe your guests from the other night thought it would be a great prank—little realizing what they were about to unleash in terms of an art-world frenzy.”
“Will they give it back to me?” asked Hannah hopefully.
“I should think they’d be only too glad to give it back. We’ll help you out.”
“So you’re saying the Group helped Jonas to fake paintings, and sell them to people who thought they were buying stolen, or newly discovered, works of art?” pressed Els. “My father did this?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know as much as my daughter does, but wouldn’t even these greedy people get experts to look at what they were buying?”
“Indeed they would. Of course, they’d be using the services of only those few who were prepared to authenticate such illegal purchases, but even the world’s best can be taken in. Indeed, Van Meegeren proved that, didn’t he? Let’s think about it for a moment. Who are these people who say ‘Yes, this is a Van Gogh,’ or ‘Yes, this is a Vermeer?’ Men—and they usually are men, sorry Ebba—who have studied, examined, and built their reputations upon verifying dozens of other pieces by the same artists. There were, and still are, no exams to pass, and there are no definitive qualifications for the job; those who verify art, even today, have only their reputations, built over years, to hold up as proof of their abilities. The very people who said ‘Yes, it is by x’ are the ones who could never, ever afford to change their opinion in the light of new techniques to ‘No, it’s not by x.’ Remember the kerfuffle when the ‘experts’ changed their minds about the authenticity of a Van Gogh at the museum? Entire careers were called into question.”
The people in the room I knew to be involved were all looking decidedly anxious. Even the innocent were beginning to understand that my points held weight.
“And the Group did this over many years?” asked Els weakly.
“I believe so. It was of particular interest to me that Bernard mentioned that Jonas visited at least England and Wales around 1974. That year, nineteen paintings, including works by Vermeer, were stolen from the Beit collection at Russborough House, just outside Dublin. It was a well-publicized theft, and the world breathed a sigh of relief when all the works were found, safe and sound, in a cottage in County Cork less than two weeks later. The same place was robbed again in 1986 and 2001. It seems some people never learn.”
“I
can see what you mean,” said Ebba grudgingly. “You don’t have to go on. I understand that a scam could have worked in the way you describe.”
I answered gently, “Thank you. Having got away with it for so long, and knowing he was dying, Jonas decided to blow the whistle on the art world, and you.” I allowed my gaze to sweep the room. “He even wrote a book about it all, and brought Bud into the picture.”
“There’s a book about all this? Our names will be published?” squealed Johannes.
“Not if Menno has anything to do with it,” I replied. “You took Jonas’s laptop with the manuscript on it when you visited his home after his death, didn’t you? Had he asked you to arrange for publication—not thinking you’d read his words before you followed his wishes? I know you went to his home. I know you removed a laptop. Did the content of his book terrify you? Show you the man your late father had really been? Did it set you off on a frenzy of activity, trying to ensure he hadn’t secreted any copies of his words anywhere in his home?” I watched the lawyer carefully as I spoke to him.
He feigned nonchalance. “Jonas left me instructions to destroy his laptop, and to get rid of any copies of the book he had made. I simply did as my client requested.”
“Oh, I see. You’re going with that, are you? Jonas had a change of heart and asked you to clean up after him? His fridge was empty, I’ll give you that, and he might well have instructed you to clear out his rubbish and so forth. I’m guessing he did not tell you to get rid of the manuscript, nor to read the instructions he’d written on a card pinned to his bedroom wall, giving the details of something he’d hidden. You saw the note, couldn’t resist, followed the details, and discovered a box hidden in the wall of his attic, didn’t you?” Menno shifted in his seat. “We saw evidence that someone had removed the bricks before we happened upon them. When we found it, it was obvious the box was meant for Bud. Jonas would have left some instructions for him about it.”
“How do you know it was meant for Bud? It was just an empty box.”
“And you’d only know that if you’d found it and opened it.” Menno’s eyes flashed with annoyance as I spoke, telling me my assumptions were correct. “So, what did you hope to find in Jonas’s secret hiding place?”
Menno slumped. “I did not know. I read the note he pinned to his wall for Bud and decided to find out for myself. How did you find it? I realized when you arrived I’d forgotten to replace the instructions. They were in my coat pocket.”
“A trick of the light, Menno—just a trick of the light. Like so much of this case, it was all about things not being what they seemed. An empty box with a false bottom that could only be opened by a key too big for the keyhole. A letter written in red ink, made to look like blood, confessing to bad judgment and poor choices. That on top of too many letters, clues, hints, and requests. Too much complexity—all hiding a simple truth. Jonas’s travels were a cover for smuggling fake art to buyers, and to allow him to demonstrably be on the spot when art thefts were undertaken—a little ‘convincer’ for any buyers who wanted to be even more sure he really had arranged for works to be stolen to order for them. For quite some time the Group managed to do that job well, because, as I said, all you need to be able to successfully run such a scam is an astonishingly good artist and a group of people who could provide supplies, grease palms, smooth travel plans—oh, and a chemist. That’s where you came in, wasn’t it, Bernard?”
“Bernard is a draftsman,” said his smiling wife confidently, “not a chemist.”
“He studied chemistry at university before he offered himself up for conscription, as you know,” I replied with equal confidence. “It was only after his service that he began his training as a draftsman. He’d been a member of the Group when he was still planning on following his father’s footsteps to become a chemist. When he returned to Amsterdam after his military service, he was an even more popular addition because the times were changing. The sixties saw the beginning of much more widespread chemical analysis of art, and that’s where Bernard’s background came in handy; if curious and insistent buyers wanted tests done, Bernard’s superior chemical compounds and the canvases supplied by Dirk allowed for at least age tests to turn out well.”
Bernard blanched. Ana stared at him as though for the first time.
“You’ve all lived very well off it, haven’t you? I was puzzled by how Jonas had enough money to be able to afford his own house and studio. How could he loan Willem the funds to buy this store—or should I say supply shop? And when Hannah was well established as the manager of a brown café, why not lend her the money to buy it outright? It gave Jonas a public place where he could easily agree to meet buyers, people who would carry out robberies, and even sellers of art that had already been stolen. In bars, one is used to seeing people coming and going carrying unusual packages. Jonas was the artist without whom none of it could work. He was the one who held the moral high ground over you all. When a new type of science came along, and you all had good, solid careers that could explain away your income levels, you all began to spend. Houses, genuine and expensive artworks, good clothes, family holidays, even second homes—they could all be accounted for because of your careers. I expect you did an excellent job of hiding it for people, Pieter, using your accountancy skills. Jonas was the only one who spent the income early on, and that was only to set up the system, which allowed the ring to work effectively. No one has mentioned it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a hand in setting up your father’s business as well, Menno.”
“He did,” said Marlene, taking everyone by surprise. “Jonas gave Dirk the money for our wedding, our house, and the business. Dirk didn’t like it. But Jonas said he would tell if we didn’t do what he said. He made Dirk take the money, like he made Dirk marry me. He was a wonderful dancer, but Dirk never loved me, and he hated you, Menno.”
Menno turned to his mother. “Don’t say that, Mama. He loved me, and he loved you. He was your husband, my father. Why wouldn’t he love us? I told you, don’t say anything.”
“He wasn’t your father. We just said he was,” said Marlene placidly. Menno’s mouth fell open.
“Was it Marlene that you and Jonas fought over, Pieter? Was she the woman you ‘wronged?’” I asked, knowing the answer.
Pieter stared hard at Menno, his mouth wide open too. He sagged. “I never knew,” he said quietly. “No one said anything.”
“Dirk was a good man,” said Marlene, smiling. “He took me and the baby on. You didn’t. You dumped me, Pieter. I loved it when I danced with Dirk.” She closed her eyes and began to hum.
Menno buried his face in his hands, shaking his head. “You’re saying Pieter’s my father? I can’t take it,” he said quietly.
“I’m afraid you have to, Menno,” I said. “You made a choice to remove items from Jonas’s house that could have incriminated the man you always believed to be your father in covering up the deaths of two men. You let it slip that Jonas was writing a book. You tried to cover up by suggesting it was a book about art—but I believe it was about a group of people with a secret or two.”
Greta van Burken stood up. “I have listened enough. Nothing has anything to do with me. I am leaving.” She sneered at me. “You are horrible and think you are so clever. You have no idea who I am. I am above this. This will not touch me. Go back to wherever you came from, and stay there. I leave now.”
“Stop where you are, Greta,” snarled a no-longer-sobbing Johannes. “You’re not getting away with it. You’re the one who made it all run more smoothly. A signature here, a blind eye turned there—your contacts allowed Jonas to work where he wanted, for as long as he needed to. He could plan how to steal the pieces, take the time to study them to be able to make the copies we could sell, and even gain access to any records, or photographs and X-rays, that could also be ‘amended.’ If I’m going down, you’re coming too.”
“And
there you have it,” I observed. “Exactly the attitude Jonas had when he found out he was dying. He knew it was over for him. And he wanted all of you to suffer. He also double-crossed each of you out of a great deal of money. There are many more valuable works in his attic, disguised more ironically.”
“There’s nothing there but his obvious copies, some of his portraits all with the same face in them, and those double-artist things,” said Menno. “I looked.”
“And there’s the irony. You’ve all looked, but you haven’t seen. He bequeathed each of you one of those inventive two-artist pieces, alongside your portraits. I must say his sense of humor hit the mark with his choice of pieces every time. Even more so because each of those wonderful, if thickly painted, acrylic works of art is hiding a secret. If you peel back the acrylic, there’s a covering of masking fluid, then, beneath that, a masterpiece. Yours might be a sketch by Rembrandt, a small portrait by Hals, or…who knows? The art fraud squad has been clearing out Jonas’s attic for the last hour. They’ve also been executing search warrants on all your homes to collect the stolen pieces Bud and I unwittingly distributed to you, and to search for other obvious ‘missing’ artworks. I know for a fact that I saw a lovely painting that looks exactly like Vermeer’s The Concert on the wall of your sitting room, Marlene.”
Marlene smiled at me. “The one with the women and the piano and that big man’s back?” she asked. I agreed. “Jonas said he painted it for Dirk. I don’t like it. I thought I might take it down and put up the nice picture of my lovely man instead. Would you like it? It’s not very…colorful.”
“Thanks, Marlene, but I think it will be gone when you get home. It was stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston in 1990, and has never been seen since. I’m sure the experts will have fun deciding if what you have is a genuine Vermeer, or a genuine Jonas.”