by Mark Hebden
Sulking, Nosjean thought bitterly. ‘Busy,’ he said. ‘Look, I’m free tonight. I’m on an art enquiry and it leaves the evenings free. It isn’t one of those cases when you have to be on duty all hours. How about a meal together?’
There was a long silence. ‘Oh, merde,’ she said. ‘I can’t. I have this man to see.’
‘Which man?’
‘He’s from Paris. He’s interested in one of our properties. It’s a big deal. I have to have dinner with him.’
‘To sell him a house?’
He heard her laugh. ‘I’m what’s known as an asset to the office. They say I’m attractive enough to sell houses that people don’t want to buy. It’s something the Old Man fixed up. He thinks I’ll sell the house just by putting on my best smile.’
Nosjean sighed. She could have sold him a house with her best smile, he had to admit.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘How about tomorrow?’
There was another long silence. ‘My mother’s coming over from Bordeaux.’
‘Can’t you put her off?’
‘Have you ever tried putting your mother off?’
Nosjean had to admit he hadn’t and wouldn’t like to. He had a mother who thought the world of him, and three sisters who thought because he was a policeman he was James Bond or someone, and kept buying him what they liked to think was suitable equipment or clothing for a secret agent – thermal underwear for the long winter nights when he was trailing Russian spies, a compass for his car in case he got lost and had to find his way home by the stars. Any time now they’d be buying him a laser gun or a heat-seeking rocket.
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I haven’t tried to put my mother off.’
‘I can’t even get in touch with her. She left Bordeaux to spend the night with an old friend who lives in the country and doesn’t believe in telephones. She’s a poetess or something. I can’t contact her until I face her on the station when she arrives.’
‘When will you be free?’
‘When she goes home.’
‘When will that be?’
‘I wish I knew.’
It sounded like the usual brush-off. I’m seeing mother. I have to see a client. Any day now she’d be telling him she had to wash her hair.
‘Oh, well,’ he said. ‘Never mind. I’ll try again later.’
He put the telephone down, deciding it wasn’t worth the effort and that he’d better do as Pel suggested and try Mijo Lehmann and get her to go to Avignon with him to have a look at the Rumanian, Cubescu, who’d sold Chevrier his dud painting. He knew she would. Though he’d stood her up more than once she always seemed willing to come back for more. It was one of the aspects of Nosjean’s life, he decided. The women he wanted to see didn’t want to see him; and the ones he didn’t particularly want to see were always more than willing to wait. There had been one who’d waited for him for three years until she’d suddenly grown tired and decided it was easier to marry someone with a nine-to-five job who was better paid and wasn’t in danger of getting shot at by some criminal type, and had got herself hitched to a tax inspector.
It was hard to say whether Nosjean’s trip to Avignon was a success or not. It had not been hard to find Cubescu, a small man with bright black eyes whose house was full of paintings. He said he was actually a volcanologist, a student of volcanoes, and one room was full from floor to ceiling of pictures of volcanoes erupting. To Nosjean it was like being in Hell.
He was cheerful, friendly and willing to answer questions, but when Nosjean asked him about the disputed Soldier With Helmet, the property of Jacques Chevrier, he shook his head. ‘It’s no longer in my possession,’ he insisted. ‘I sold it.’
‘I know,’ Nosjean said. ‘To a man called Chevrier. For what sum?’
‘Three hundred thousand francs.’
‘Have you a valuation or documents to say it’s worth that much?’
Cubescu’s eyes lit up. ‘I have a photocopy. Chevrier has the original, of course. He asked for it because he wanted to raise a loan on the picture.’
‘He did.’
‘I’m pleased.’
‘Unfortunately, it now seems the bank thinks it made a mistake. It’s not genuine.’
Cubescu’s jaw dropped. ‘But it must be genuine. I only sold it because I was making a good profit and Chevrier was very keen to have it. I had a valuation on it from a professor of Fine Art.’
‘Can I see it?’
‘But of course.
The letter had an embossed heading ‘Professor Yves-Pol Solecin, formerly curator of the Fervier Museum of Art, Lyons.’ It stated, ‘This painting is full of the magnificent energy and character of Rembrandt van Rijn (1606-1669), the great Dutch master of the 17th century. Rembrandt felt in nature the expressive qualities of a subject and had the mental power to give him dominion over nature, something which enabled him to isolate and extract the inmost essence of his subject. The outstanding characteristic of oil paint is the texture and the force of the modelling, and Rembrandt set out to make full use of them. After many years he became the supreme master.’
‘It says a lot about Rembrandt,’ Nosjean pointed out. ‘But not a lot about the painting.’
A slightly agitated Cubescu produced another document which stated that the work had previously been verified by one Jerôme Sède, Professor of Fine Art, of Metz. The authentication of Professor Solecin, dated seven months before, valued the painting at 200,000 francs.
‘It seemed a reasonable figure,’ Cubescu said. ‘I had no reason to assume it was anything but genuine.’
‘How did you get this authentication?’
‘I was told about this Professor Solecin. I was told he would give an authentication on works of art at a very reasonable price.’
‘Is that usual? The cheapness?’
‘Well, he was pretty old.’
‘Who told you about him?’
‘I heard of a man called Riault and telephoned him. He recommended him.’
‘And the painting? Where did you get that?’
‘Jean-Philippe Roth. He has galleries in your city. Just behind the Rue de la Liberté.’
Nosjean seemed to be getting somewhere at last, especially that night when Mijo Lehmann, who had been checking the galleries, met him at the hotel where they were staying. They ate at a good restaurant, exchanged ideas and discoveries, held hands over the table and drank a little too much wine.
As Nosjean undressed in his room he wondered if Mijo Lehmann was expecting him to make a foray down the corridor after the lights went out. Was it possible, he wondered. Nosjean was a well-brought up young man with a great respect for the opposite sex because of his three older sisters who had made sure he didn’t go off the straight and narrow. It was different these days, through, and he accepted that girls seemed to expect that sort of thing. Yet, if Mijo Lehmann didn’t, it could ruin a beautiful friendship. It seemed to call for courage and a touch of élan. On the other hand, Nosjean’s mind was full of the dire warnings of his sisters.
Though the situation seemed to demand a show of spirit, Nosjean reluctantly came to the conclusion that the spirit of Jean-Luc Nosjean wasn’t quite the spirit that had made France great. He thought about it a lot, feeling the situation required a considerable amount of delicacy, and was just on the point of falling asleep when he suddenly decided to gird up his loins and have a bash. Heading down the corridor, he scratched at Mijo Lehmann’s door.
There was no reply and, deciding he was making a fool of himself, he was just about to turn away when he heard the bolt withdrawn. His heart thumped and as the door opened he saw Mijo’s face staring sleepily at him.
‘I thought you were never coming,’ she said.
It had been a long night and, feeling twice the man he had been, Nosjean drove back at his usual lunatic speed, Mijo Lehmann asleep beside him with her head on his shoulder. His chest swelled with pride. Nosjean wasn’t a promiscuous young man but he also wasn’t a virgin and he was feeling proud of himself. H
e had always thought of Mijo Lehmann, with her brains, her skill with antiques, the salary she commanded at the gallery where she worked, as being quite beyond him, but she had fallen into his arms, all warm with the scent of perfume and soft flesh, and stumbled with him to the bed. He could see it leading to better and more wonderful occasions.
Then he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Did she expect marriage? Nosjean wasn’t sure he wanted wedlock. He was too young to die and he had an uncle whose wife had always been held up in the family as an example of what could happen to a marriage. She had gone for the bottle, had men friends and had eventually hit her husband over the head with a kitchen stool and kicked him out of the house. She might well even have been the reason why Nosjean’s sisters had never married.
On the other hand, he couldn’t imagine Mijo Lehmann going for the bottle or hitting him with the kitchen stool. Especially after last night when she’d been all softness and warmth and murmured endearments. As they turned off the motorway into the city, he decided to take a chance and let things follow their own course. Mijo Lehmann had an apartment and he enjoyed her company. Whatever happened, it surely couldn’t be too bad.
Jean-Philippe Roth was in his gallery talking to a customer when Nosjean arrived. He had dropped Mijo at the end of the street where her apartment was situated. ‘I’ll expect you,’ she had said quietly.
Roth was contemplating a single painting set on an easel below a strong light. Nosjean was not an expert but he had learned a lot about art and the painting seemed to be an interior in the manner of Jan Steen.
‘We have only the picture to go on,’ Roth was saying. ‘And, of course, there are always doubts. But there are little touches’ – a limp hand fluttered over the painting – ‘here and here – which you as an expert must recognise. That figure there on the right, for instance. It could well be Steen himself and we know a lot of artists went in for self-portraiture when they were short of models. It came into my hands from Lombards’ in Paris. I paid 25,000 for it, though there was no proof, so I examined it carefully and decided to take a chance. But I can’t tell you if it’s a genuine Steen.’ Roth stared at the canvas. ‘Of course, there is this little group here. Very interesting, that.’
The plump pink-faced man who was examining the picture with him smiled. ‘You were always on the cautious side, Roth,’ he said. ‘The brushwork round those trees very much suggests Steen to me.’
‘Or a pupil, of course.’
‘A pupil?’ The plump man stared at the canvas and shook his head. ‘Not a chance!’
‘I can find no mention in the catalogues of any picture at all like this.’ Roth shrugged. ‘But, let’s face it, in those days people were never very accurate.’
‘I think I’m going to back my own judgement.’ The plump man made up his mind. ‘Put it aside for me.’
When the business was finished and the pink-faced man had gone, Roth turned to Nosjean who had been waiting quietly in the background. When Nosjean produced his identity card with its red, white and blue strip, Roth stepped back and Nosjean noticed he looked nervous.
As Nosjean knew, Roth was careful never to sell fakes as authenticated works of art, but he was also not averse to encouraging buyers to believe they were genuine by suggestion. As Nosjean had just seen, his line was always ‘Well, this isn’t authenticated, but it looks sound to me.’
‘Surely you don’t think –?’ he began.
Nosjean smiled and gestured at the painting. ‘That? I’m not interested in that. I’m interested in a painting called Soldier With Helmet. A Rembrandt. I believe you sold it to a man called Cubescu. Can you tell me about it?’
Roth looked relieved. ‘Of course. Perhaps you’ve seen a photo of it. No? Well, no matter. It’s a handsome picture. Not to be confused with another I’ve seen like it, called Farmer with Sickle.’
‘Oh? Where?’
‘At the home of a man called Riault. It was very similar. In fact, I suspected it was a copy, with the soldier’s helmet changed to a hat, and the sword to a sickle. That sort of thing’s done sometimes by copyists. So they can put them out as originals.’
‘And this one we’re talking about? The helmet one.’
‘I sold it to this type called Cubescu. For 150,000.’
‘Was that its value?’
Roth shrugged. ‘I thought it was fair. I didn’t say it was a Rembrandt.’
‘But, like the Steen, you suggested it might be?’
‘In this case, not even that.’
‘Have you seen it since?’
‘As a matter of fact, I have – or one like it. That was in Riault’s home, too. He valued it at 1,800,000 francs. He’d had it verified as a genuine Rembrandt.’
‘Was it?’
Roth pulled a face and shrugged again.
‘Who’d verified it?’
‘An expert. I’m not involved, of course. I’m a straightforward dealer. I don’t deal in fakes. I buy paintings, have them cleaned and restored and sell them again. If people choose to think they’ve found a bargain, that’s their affair. You could see Charles Vacchi. He’s bought from me and he’ll verify what I say. He’s Vacchi et Bonet. Actually the firm’s just Vacchi nowadays. Bonet’s retired. Vacchi has a large collection. You won’t find it easy, of course. He’s busy and a very wealthy man and he doesn’t give interviews all that easily.’ Roth smiled. ‘Models himself on something out of Dallas, I think. Tough. Very macho. He has the paintings in his office to impress his customers.’
‘And?’
‘I believe he bought a painting called Farmer with Sickle.’
‘What was the name of this expert who verified Riault’s picture?’
‘Professor Solecin. Curator of the Fervier Museum at Lyons.’
Same Professor Solecin, Nosjean noticed. This was becoming interesting.
It was hard to arrange an interview with Vacchi. His secretary was all for putting Nosjean off but Nosjean was insistent.
‘Tell Monsieur Vacchi that I’m making a police enquiry and that refusal to assist the police can be interpreted as an unwillingness to assist, and that can be assumed to be caused by a variety of reasons, none of which would seem good.’
There was a long silence and the secretary looked nervous. ‘I’m supposed to protect him,’ she said.
‘Not from the police,’ Nosjean snapped.
There was a long silence while the secretary disappeared.
‘Monsieur Vacchi will see you now,’ she said as she returned.
Vacchi was waiting by his desk as Nosjean opened the door. He was a tall, grey-haired, hard-faced man in a suit that looked as if it had been built round him. He clearly didn’t like having to give an interview and was obviously used to having his own way.
‘I understand you’ve been bullying my secretary,’ he snapped.
‘Hardly bullying,’ Nosjean said calmly. ‘Just pointing out that I’m a policeman investigating a fraud and that I have reason to believe you can help me sort it out.’
‘I don’t go in for frauds. Sit down. What do you want?’
The room, Nosjean noticed, was full of paintings. He recognised none of them but he noticed the style of Van Gogh, Picasso and several others.
‘I’m making enquiries into a series of art sales,’ he said.
‘I can’t help you. I don’t sell paintings.’
Nosjean gestured at the walls. ‘You buy them, Monsieur Vacchi.’
Vacchi frowned. ‘So how does that help you?’
‘I believe you buy these paintings to improve your office.’
‘It’s necessary to make it look important and cheerful. Clients judge a businessman by his taste. They also judge his success by his possessions. That’s why I run an English Rolls Royce.’
‘I see. Where do you buy your paintings?’
‘Through a man called Riault. He’s a lawyer really and does it as a sideline. He’s cheaper than the galleries and he seems able to make more finds. Paintings of value that interest
me. Claude Barclay, the Deputy for Yorinne – you’ll know of him; he’s a great collector – is a friend of mine and recommended him.’
‘Does Riault provide provenances, verifications and authentications?’
‘Always. He has a man called Solecin. He’s a professor of Fine Art who was formerly a curator of the Fervier Museum of Art near Lyons.’
‘Do you buy originals?’
Vacchi looked indignant. ‘My paintings are all originals,’ he snapped. ‘I pick them up here and there and have them restored. I get them through Riault who finds them in all sorts of weird places. They’re all verified by an expert, of course, but they usually need work on them to give them back their original beauty because they’re often dirty, scratched or faded through neglect.’ Vacchi gestured at the paintings on the wall. ‘These, as you can see, look at their best.’
‘Indeed they do. Who did the restoration work? Do you know?’
‘I leave it with Riault to arrange it. He uses a man called Ugo Luca. He’s an Italian, I think.’ Vacchi was looking at his watch impatiently. ‘These are trivial questions. Do they affect my paintings?’
‘They might,’ Nosjean admitted.
‘Is there anything else?’
‘Nothing, Monsieur,’ Nosjean said. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’
Vacchi grunted. ‘A waste of my time,’ he growled. ‘Your questions could have been answered for you by Riault or Luca.’
Nosjean smiled. ‘I prefer’, he said, ‘to have them answered by you, Monsieur Vacchi, because I have reason to suspect that there is something very odd about this man Solecin whom Riault uses for the verification of the paintings he sells.’
Vacchi gave a sour smile. ‘I think, young man,’ he said, ‘that you’ll find you’re very wrong so I should be very careful of any accusations you might make. Deputy Barclay has a name for honesty and straightforwardness and, as a junior minister in the government, he would hardly recommend someone dubious to an old friend.’
No, Nosjean thought as he headed for the door. But, on the other hand, Barclay might also have been taken in by friend Riault, whoever he was. He had clearly been taken in by somebody over a Vlaminck and he might well have been taken in over other things, too.