I was hoping he would be able to help me out.
When Martin opened the front door, he cried out in surprise and gave me a manly hug, before noticing the truck.
We had a beer together and talked of former times. He had been demobbed four months earlier, and was now teaching at the Port Regis School, on the outskirts of the town.
Finally, we got round to why I had parked an army truck outside his front door. I told him, for the moment it was best he did not know, but I was anxious to store some of the contents of the vehicle where they could not be found. He nodded, then abruptly left the room. I heard the main door slam. I sat there for nearly half an hour before he returned.
“It`s all fixed,” he said smiling. “Though I`d better come with you to show you the way.”
We drove south for a few miles before pulling into a yard at the rear of which was a hangar–like building, with large double entrance doors. Martin jumped out, unlocked several padlocks, and threw open the doors. I drove the Bedford into the store. Martin closed up behind me. I mentioned that I did not want him involved, for his own safety. – but he dismissed the comment by saying, “Let`s unload whatever it is you want to hide.”
When we had removed the thirty containers, Martin remarked dryly, “I`ll wager what you`ve got in these are not tank spares.”
I retraced my steps along the A303 to the Tidworth Army Garrison, where they signed for the safe delivery of the vehicle and its contents. I returned to Germany after my leave, and a few months later drove over to Aschbach to meet with Hildebrand Gurlitt. He and his family had settled into the castle, and the paintings and works of art he brought with him from Dresden were now proclaimed to be his property.
Mrs Dimmock interrupted me again.
“Your mother is out at the moment, Alan, and Mr Lowry is on the phone. Can you speak to him. He says it`s urgent.”
I walked into the hall.
“Maurice, it`s Alan. Can I help you?”
“Alan, an issue has come up over the shareholding of the transport company in Blandford Forum. It would seem one of the directors is, or was, a Mr Martin McKenna. I presume he was a relative of McKenna, your grandfather`s factotum. If that`s the case, and McKenna is his sole beneficiary, he has a rightful share of the company`s market value.”
“I believe Martin was McKenna`s father, Maurice. But I have no idea if he left a will, or that there might be other beneficiaries. Frankly, I would be delighted if McKenna is a shareholder, he virtually runs the haulage company with John Fielding, anyway.”
“Right. Well I`ll find out if there were a will. Perhaps you could have a word with McKenna about the situation.”
“Well, that should come from my mother. I`ll pass on all the details to her, and no doubt she`ll be in touch, Maurice.”
*
In the conservatory I picked up the remaining pages of grandfather`s revelations. Although as I read the last three pages it was almost a confession.
A year later I was demobbed and returned to England. I spent several weeks with my family in Peckham, before catching a train to Gillingham and a taxi to Shaftesbury. Martin had kept watch on the storage unit, and I now wanted to find out if all the risks had been worthwhile.
They were.
The thirty containers held paintings seemingly by Picasso, Chagall, Matisse, Degas, van Gogh, Cézanne, Roger Fry, Gauguin, and a clutch of renaissance, Flemish and Dutch artists.
I stood back in amazement.
Alan, I`m sure you have wondered – or perhaps suspended belief when walking through the long gallery. Now you know. I am not certain how many are truly, original works. Several, I know, are. That`s why, for safety, I have been at pains all these years to convince on-lookers they were merely copies.
I needed to be near the paintings, so I sold one, a genuine one, a Degas pastel of a ballet dancer. No one questioned the provenance in the days after the war. It was enough to buy Mead Court, the warehouse and the haulage company.
Sadly, Martin McKenna died in a road accident; and I took young McKenna under my wing. As you know I came to rely on him in so many ways. He is a first-class chap. Remember this, he has long been loyal to this family, and I want that relationship to continue.
So… now you know. What happens is up to you. If you want to return them to their rightful owners, think very carefully how it might be done. I would not wish for the family to be pilloried or thought ill of in the future because of my actions.
One other thing, Alan. You may encounter a fellow called Horst Schendler. He became the bane of my life, and may well intrude upon yours. It`s a long story.
I kept in close touch with Hildebrand Gurlitt, and over the years we did a lot of business together. I had developed a discreet means of supplying works of art to private collectors who were not overly concerned about their origin. Conrad, one of Gurlitt`s nephews, took over the arrangements when Hildebrand died. Based in Munich, he drew regularly upon a large cache of works hidden in the salt mines at Berchtesgaden, in the Bavarian Alps. He was always guarded. He never took me to see the hoard. Though I once saw an extensive list of items to which he had access.
I was in Munich with Conrad on one occasion, when this fellow Schendler turned up. He had a brusque, demanding manner and appeared to have something of a hold on the younger Gurlitt. I didn`t like the fellow even then.
When he had gone, Conrad explained that Schendler was a trader in antiques, artefacts and art, and provided a service to collectors who wanted to acquire certain pieces. Be they in museums, galleries, or other people`s collections.
A year or so later, Schendler came to Mead Court.
How, I do not know; but he had discovered that a Picasso, requested by one of his clients, was hanging in the long gallery.
I showed him the painting; and as the label declared, it was merely a fake, not a genuine Picasso. I had to admire his expertise. He was not fooled for a moment.
At first, he offered increasing sums of money to acquire the painting. I was not inclined to sell, until he began to issue threats. If we did not come to an agreement over the work, he would be forced to reveal to the authorities that I was in possession of a wealth of stolen artwork.
He paid an acceptable price, and I hung another picture in its place. But now I was vulnerable, and Schendler knew he could manipulate me. He didn`t come here often, but when he did that threat hung over any discussions we had. That`s why I was forced, at times, to ferry his acquisitions across Europe in our vehicles. So, Alan, be aware, he might also try to take advantage of you.
You must think of ways to counter his demands.
Your Loving Grandfather, Michael Johns
Chapter 6
“I`m not sure I can help you, Mr Cleverden,” said Maurice Lowry, removing a handkerchief from his sleeve, removing his glasses, polishing the lenses, then holding them to the light to judge if fit for purpose.
I`d seen this little act before, when he wanted a moment to reflect on what was being asked of him. He had often visited my grandfather at Mead Court, and I had witnessed his handkerchief and glasses routine. It had been observed from a distance. I never overheard their conversations. However, having served him for some years, Lowry must have had an inkling that Grandpa Johns sailed close to the wind in his business ventures.
“Come off it, Maurice. In a practice such as yours, you must frequently call upon investigators to uncover morsels you can use in legal wrangles.”
Maurice Lowry, BA, LPC had worked his way up at Martin, Thomas and Goodbody of Shaftesbury, to reach the company pinnacle - senior partner. Although, in his early forties, in addition to his qualifications, he must have acquired discreet contacts over the years that made his life simpler and easier.
I grinned. “You can`t tell me you do all the legwork, the research, looking under stones on behalf of your clients. Just give me a few names. You`ve no need to be involved.”
The glasses came off, the handkerchief applied.
“Well… I could perh
aps suggest a few names. If you don`t mention I recommended them to you. I use these contacts sparingly. I have to be careful on my clients` behalves, Alan.”
Time to acknowledge the legal niceties he observed.
“I totally accept, and applaud the regard given to your clients, Maurice. I promise I shall not mention Martin, Thomas and Goodbody, nor you personally. You have my word.”
Lowry nodded, then hesitantly edged open a drawer of his desk. He removed and scanned a sheet of paper, before unscrewing a fountain pen, and writing three names on a notepad.
He tore off the top sheet and handed it to me.
“Here you are. One of these should be able to help you.”
*
I drove to Southampton first.
The offices of two of the investigators were close to the docks in the Oxford Street area. They were in walking distance of each other, but neither were suitable for the purpose I had in mind. Somewhat disheartened, I turned the car and headed for Salisbury, the mediaeval cathedral city twenty miles to the north.
Eventually, I came across the premises of Tamworth Associates above a hairdressing salon in the High Street. Climbing stairs that boasted carpeting in much need of renewal, there was a choice of entrance. I knocked on the glass-panelled door to my right. It was frosted, and I could vaguely make out the shape of a desk and filing cabinets. But no movement from within.
The other door jerked open and as a tall figure went to pass by, he muttered, “I don`t think anyone is there.”
“Is this the right door for Tamworth Associates?”
“I believe so. Can I help you at all?”
I studied the fellow on the narrow landing. He was younger than I first thought. Perhaps in his forties, and several inches taller than me.
“Kind of you. But I particularly wanted Tamworth Associates.”
“Well, if they`ve gone to lunch, they should be back shortly. Give them half an hour. If they`re not here then, that`s it for the day.”
I followed him down the narrow staircase, and watched him stride away in the direction of the cathedral.
*
I found a pub nearby, and passed half an hour munching a sandwich and drinking a passable glass of beer. Wandering back to the doorway beside the salon, I mounted the stairs. Knocking on the door again elicited no response. I was turning away in annoyance, when the other door opened and I was beckoned to enter.
This time, the fellow to whom I had spoken earlier was now about my age, early thirties, and about my height. Moreover, the room was L-shaped and led off to the area served by the frosted glass door.
“Sorry about earlier,” said the fellow, now perched on the side of a desk. “I had just perfected a new disguise, and I wanted to see if I could move freely in elevated shoes, and the padding giving me a slight stoop would stay secure.”
He grinned, and added. “Would you like some tea?”
I found it hard to hold on to the slight irritation.
“Actually, your make-up worked well. I would have said you were in your late forties, perhaps early fifties.”
“That`s the easy part. Adopting physical changes are more difficult. What I want is for people to note more the way I stand, walk, and particular mannerisms. So, Mr. ..er?”
“Cleverden, Alan Cleverden.”
Do you live locally, Mr Cleverden?”
“No, Melbury Abbas… three or four miles south of Shaftesbury.”
“Oh, then I suppose Maurice sent you.”
“I cannot possibly comment, Mr Tamworth. You must believe what you will.”
“Good old Maurice.” He grinned again, then mimicked Lowry`s voice, even the slight hesitation and pauses. “Look, if I… er… give you a name… er… you must promise not to say I… er… sent you. We have a business arrangement, but I… er… .rarely use his services, you understand, and no one must find out. Is that clear?”
I burst out laughing.
“I`m afraid it was exactly like that. At times he appears to be scared of his own shadow.”
Tamworth – if that were his name – swung off the desk and dropped into the chair behind it.
“So, Mr Cleverden, how can I help you?”
“First of all, I should let you know the background to my request. My grandfather died recently, and left a number of paintings to me in his will. According to one of his business associates, four paintings were loaned to grandfather before he died, and he wants them back.
“I`m not sure he is telling the truth, Mr Tamworth, and I`d like to know more about the man. My gut instinct tells me he is lying. But before I reject his claim out of hand, I want to know more about the fellow.”
“Could he make life difficult if you do not accede to his demands, you mean?”
I nodded.
“Interesting… how accessible is he? Does he live in this country, or abroad? Is there a time limit on providing the information? How far do you want me to go? Do you want to know his business activities? His private life, habits? Does he have a partner in tow? Is he heterosexual, homosexual, or assexual?”
“I`ve got four days to learn more about this man who lives in Switzerland and appears to travel a great deal.”
“Mr Cleverden, I can`t take on the case. If I`ve only got four days, I must say here and now, that`s an impossible task.”
I chewed at my lip.
“All I want to find out are his business dealings, if there are any jinks in his armour. Does he have a police record, are the police watching him and his movements?”
“Mm… that alone would take at least two weeks. Especially, as he lives abroad.”
“OK, I`ll stall him. Take two weeks, and find out what you can. I`m looking for a way to get him off my back. Now, let`s talk about money. What do you charge per day, and I suppose there will be expenses involved if you have to fly off to Switzerland?”
Chapter 7
“That is just not good enough, Mr Cleverden! I expected you to bring the paintings to me today! Now you tell me you have discovered your grandfather loaned them to a gallery, and they will not be available for another month. I suggest, most strongly, you get them back now! Otherwise, certain authorities will learn of Michael Johns` cavalier enrichment at the expense of many who lost their prized possessions to the Nazis. Imagine what that would entail. How would your journalist colleagues accept you then, eh? You would certainly become a pariah at the BBC… you could even go to prison.
“I`ll be a little tolerant. You have until the end of the month, two and a half weeks to deliver the paintings to me in person, at my home in Vitznau. Do you understand me, Mr Cleverden. Seventeen days… or you will find yourself in the gutter! Now, get out!”
Chapter 8
It was a bad connection. Wherever Tamworth was, the mobile signal was fugitive. I said I would phone him back, but it was little improved when I did so.
“Mr Tamworth, I can`t catch what you are saying. Phone me when you have a better signal, then we can have a proper conversation.”
He rang back three hours later.
“Where are you?” was my first question.
“Lucerne Airport. I`m just about to catch the flight to London Heathrow. That`s where my car is. I`ll be late home, so can we meet in my office first thing tomorrow morning? I`ve got to go!”
The connection was abruptly broken.
*
I arrived at his office just after nine o`clock.
Perhaps it was a bit too early. There was no one in either office above the hairdressing salon, except for an elderly cleaner vacuuming the carpet. He was a portly fellow, wearing brown overalls. Grey hair sprouted from under his baseball cap. I thought, probably doing an early morning job to top up his pension.
“Is Mr Tamworth here yet?” I called over the sound of the machine.
“Eh?”
I raised my voice. “Mr Tamworth… not here yet?”
“Oh, aye,” came the reply, and he carried on with his work.
The old chap didn`t hear
me I realised. With a sigh I dropped into a seat to await Tamworth`s arrival.
The vacuum cleaner droned to a halt. The fellow unplugged it from the socket and went to push it away. Then he halted and retraced his steps.
“Shall we go out for coffee, or do you fancy instant?”
As he put the question to me he pulled off his cap and wig.
“Never mind. Give me a minute to restore my age, and we`ll go out.”
Just as well Tamworth answered for me, I couldn`t believe it was he. The man had completely altered.
⋆
Most customers were buying plastic beakers to take away.
We sat at a table at the rear of the coffee house, where no one could overhear our conversation against the spluttering noise of the coffee machine constantly rising to a crescendo.
“Why the disguise in the office? Was it for my benefit?”
“No, not really. There are a number of personalities I adopt. To make sure they are believable I have to practise their mannerisms and little quirks of behaviour. It`s surprising how quickly you can forget.”
“And you were trying out your cleaner act on me, were you?”
“Yes, an ideal opportunity. You didn`t recognise me, did you?”
I laughed. “No, I didn`t. It was very convincing.”
“I was going to use my disguise as a female cleaner, but I got home late last night, and didn`t have time to shave my legs.”
A waitress brought our coffees.
“So, how did it go in Switzerland? Was it a successful trip?” I was getting a little anxious. Ten of the seventeen days had already elapsed.
“Yes, I would say it was a most worthwhile trip. Your friend, Horst Schendler, is a canny fellow. The Swiss police would love to get their hands on him. Did you know he is an international art thief? He moved to Switzerland before the country signed the Convention banning the import of illegal cultural artefacts. He created a network that panders to the obsessive desires of wealthy collectors. Procuring their wants in exchange for exorbitant sums of money. The nature of these undertakings means little is known to the outside world, other than to the specialised services that bring such criminals to justice.
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