by Rose Edmunds
‘No, but in certain ways she’s so smart—a good judge of character—susses out a poseur in double quick time.’
‘In certain ways she’s smart? You mean on the whole she’s pretty dim?’
‘Not dim, but let’s put it this way—she’s not as academic as me.’
‘Few are,’ George replied, with a trace of sarcasm. ‘Except Beresford. I take it he’s the poseur you want to suss out.’
He’d read my mind, and I tried to avoid a debate by making for the buffet table. But George wasn’t minded to let the matter drop.
‘What worries you, apart from the fact you dislike him?’ he asked, as I returned with a calorific assortment of food on my plate.
George’s fruit and muesli put my selections to shame, but I couldn’t help myself. My hormones were such a mess that I was still feeding a small person who no longer needed nourishment. Along with having the appetite of an elephant, I still suffered from night sweats, stomach cramps and sore boobs. It was too soon to regulate my food intake, even though I was five pounds over my fighting weight.
Back to Beresford, it was hard to separate out my aversion to him from my mistrust, but I tried.
‘It’s such a coincidence that he pops up in the same hotel, just in time to piggyback off our enquiries for his own ends—a bit too convenient even. Might he have a hidden agenda?’
‘I can’t imagine what. He’s a harmless academic, and he must be legitimate because the wretched Globe article quoted him, although I guess you already checked him out online.’
‘Naturally.’
‘He told us why he’s here and to my mind, his agenda is perfectly simple. He’s keen to find the other painting and he believes Stanislav Novak may have it. He’s got nowhere with Novak and he’s pinning his hopes on you, and your superb social skills.’
‘You may be right, but even so, I guess I’d value Mel’s views on him before we share too much information.’
‘Let’s worry about that when we’ve learned something of value,’ George countered. ‘But as matters stand, I’d say he’s been more helpful to us than he needs to be.’
Which in itself looked suspicious.
***
Stanislav Novak’s apartment was located in a leafy avenue ten minutes’ walk from a Metro station with an unpronounceable name beginning with Z.
The Metro was a stimulating experience, with escalators moving at least twice as fast as those on the London Underground, and no allowance made for age or infirmity. I watched in awe and terror as an old woman walking on two sticks hopped onto the moving staircase in a remarkably nimble and well-practised manoeuvre.
Over the past few months, I’d frequently described events as Kafkaesque, so it was pleasing if not ironic to find Kafka’s grave on my route to the apartment. I made a short detour to take a selfie and salute the man who’d given his name to my suffering. If Kafka hadn’t existed, what other word could adequately describe my experiences?
Novak’s apartment complex was more aesthetically pleasing than the identikit Communist-built monoliths we’d passed en route from the airport, though it undoubtedly dated from the same era. Still, by no stretch of the imagination was it a fitting residence for an art billionaire. I reckoned if and when he left his apartment, Novak would most likely turn right and head towards the Metro, so I positioned myself tactically on a convenient bench. In mid-February, the Prague winter was in full swing, and despite the clear blue sky, the wind was bitter. But at least the fur coat would keep hypothermia at bay.
I had no idea what Stanislav Novak looked like and despite extensive efforts, I’d found no trace of him online, let alone an image. He’d been described in the press reports as unkempt, unlike my mother, whose flawless public façade was carefully crafted to bamboozle everyone. It was a moot point as to whether anyone was fooled, or whether they pretended to have been duped to justify their inaction. I keep coming back to this, I know, but her friends’ policy of benign non-intervention ruined my life, so I’m entitled to moan. Anyway, with no kids to “protect”, presumably Stanislav had no need for such deception.
After two long hours, during which the cold had penetrated through my gloves and hat, though not the coat, I saw a distant figure coming out of the building. As predicted he turned right, and advanced up the road towards me, walking with a shambling gait. As he drew closer, I saw he wore a stained brown overcoat and his hair was dishevelled. Without a doubt, this was my man.
I stepped forward, caught his eye, and suppressed a gasp as I scrutinised his face. He was a good fifteen years older, with the bulbous crimson nose of a hardened alcoholic. But I instantly recognised the puffy, oily face and lizard-like eyes.
Stanislav Novak was Ed Smithies’ double.
8
Never mind the shock, I must act now, or else I’d lose him. I called out, ‘Sir!’ a title I would never have used to address his doppelgänger.
‘Bloody press. Get away from me, woman.’ His English was flawless and his accent cultured, even with the cursing.
‘Are you Stanislav Novak?’ I asked, although there was little doubt in my mind.
‘Get lost. I hate reporters—reptiles the lot of you.’
‘I’m not a reporter, I’ve come to help you.’
‘I need no help—now shove off.’
The wonderful stranger ploy was failing dismally—evidently Novak didn’t buy into the concept. So the only remaining option was to fire my entire arsenal in the opening salvo.
‘Do you want to know about the Picasso self-portrait?’
I’d hit the bull’s-eye, because he hesitated, before eying me up and down.
‘Not from a rich bitch in a fur coat.’
He began moving away. I saw now that the coat had been a mistake, conveying entirely the wrong image.
‘OK—I’ll fetch it myself and be even richer.’
He looked back over his shoulder, glowering at me.
‘How would a dumb cow like you find something stolen more than twenty years ago?’
This was Ed Smithies on steroids, unconstrained by corporate etiquette, or even basic politeness. But nevertheless, he was still talking, and I’d ascertained that the more valuable artwork had been stolen. Given his hostility, I’d made an impressive start.
‘If you’ll let me buy you a drink, I’ll tell you.’
His red nose implied he’d be amenable to the offer. I often wondered how much alcohol people had to consume before the signs were writ large on their faces. While my face lacked the unlined perfection of women who’d led blameless, stress-free lives, I still looked darned good for thirty-eight. Would I be able to stop drinking if it affected my appearance? I hoped so because, as I kept telling myself, I wasn’t an alcoholic.
‘No thanks—I’m choosy about the company I keep.’
‘Fine,’ I said, calling his bluff. ‘I guess you’ll never find out what happened to the painting.’
I started walking in the other direction.
‘Wait,’ he called out after me. ‘Prove you aren’t a reporter.’
I stopped and turned to face him.
‘How can I prove I’m not something?’
‘So prove what you are then.’
I spotted a trace of Ed’s incisive logic there—could the two men somehow be related?
‘Look, it’s difficult. Best discussed over a beer or a glass of wine.’
He cast around him warily, as though fearing I’d brought reinforcements and was planning to lure him into a trap.
‘There’s a wine bar over there,’ he said, pointing to an unlikely looking building on the corner.
‘Fine with me.’
The bar’s owner was a ruddy-faced man with a handlebar moustache, who greeted Novak as a regular customer. Perhaps he was less reclusive than the press reports made out. The two men then exchanged some banter in rapid Czech, followed by raucous laughter—possibly joking about me being Novak’s girlfriend. Ah well, at least he had enough self-knowledge to find th
e suggestion hilarious. For not only did he look even more repulsive than Ed Smithies but he also stank, like tramps on the Underground who pollute the carriage even after they’ve disembarked. He smelt—to someone familiar with the distinctive odour—of a hoard.
We sat at a table by the stove and I let him pick out his favourite wine.
‘I’m Amy Robinson,’ I said. ‘Private investigator.’
I did not offer to shake hands, having noted the grubbiness of his and the dirt under his fingernails.
‘You have a card?’
‘No—unfortunately, I’ve run out. But a card wouldn’t prove anything. It’s easy to knock out a business card these days.’
He appraised me with a gimlet eye.
‘But the absence of a card doesn’t help your case.’
The wine bar owner returned with the bottle and pulled out the cork with a flourish. Novak made much of swirling the wine round in his glass and sniffing it, although it beat me how he could smell anything above his own ghastly odour.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s drink. I’ll watch you sip at it like a girlie.’ He chortled with laughter at the notion.
‘I can assure you no one has ever accused me of that.’
Stung by his comments, I took a generous swig. Whatever else happened, I intended to prove my bona fides as a proper drinker.
‘So where is the Picasso?’
‘Not so fast,’ I said. ‘Let me tell you the whole story.’
Now my subterfuge would unravel in short order. The instant Novak had even an inkling that I planned to deprive him of a treasured possession, I’d be out on my ear. Yet I couldn’t easily avoid the primary purpose of the meeting.
‘Ha—I knew it all along,’ he said when I’d done explaining. ‘This isn’t about the self-portrait—that was a ruse to cover up your real intentions. Funny how suddenly everyone wants to buy me a drink—worthless nobodies wanting a slice of the action. My collection is mine and mine alone. End of discussion.’
Significantly, he didn’t get up to leave.
‘My client has a legal case for restitution,’ I lied.
‘I doubt that,’ he replied, meaning either he was better versed on the law than your average guy, or was bluffing—hard to tell which.
‘But he may not pursue it if we can do a deal with the other Picasso.’
‘What kind of a deal?’
Now I had his interest again.
‘If we can help you find it, will you hand over the picture of Fernande Olivier?’
‘Ha—and why should I? How do I know your client is bona fide? You might be a con woman.’
‘My client will prove his credentials to your satisfaction, and so will I.’
‘But they took all the art away from my apartment.’
I was unsure whether he was advancing this as a reason not to negotiate or merely whingeing.
‘How did you feel about that?’
This open-ended empathetic question designed to build rapport did not impress him, and he regarded me as though I was a complete idiot.
‘What a bloody stupid thing to ask. How do you expect me to feel?’
Wow—if only I’d had the guts to treat the Priory therapists with the same disdain. In a strange way, I was warming to Novak— surely it was preferable to say what’s on your mind, no matter how nasty, than hide it behind political correctness and good manners.
‘You’ll get them back,’ I said, ‘if you can prove they belong to you.’
‘I don’t have to prove it, they’re mine—I inherited them from my father.’
‘The copy portrait of Fernande Olivier was owned my client’s father, Josef Dušek.’
‘Not anymore—maybe he sold it to my father. Who can say?’
‘Tell me this,’ I said. ‘Are you related to Jan Novak, who owned an art gallery with Josef Dušek in the 1930s?’
The likeness between Stanislav and Ed must shorten the odds considerably. Was George the result of an affair between Josef’s wife, Eva, and Jan Novak? In arty, avant-garde circles, anything might be possible.
‘My father’s name was Jan Novak,’ he admitted. ‘But it’s equivalent to being called John Smith in England.’
‘And how did he come by the copy portrait of Fernande Olivier?’
‘In his younger years, he was a collector—that’s all I know, so I guess he bought it fair and square.’
‘George’s mother wrote in a letter that Josef and your father had been killed by the Gestapo, after the gallery and their apartment had been stripped of the artworks.’
Stanislav shrugged.
‘So that proves my point—it’s not the same Jan Novak.’
‘How much do you know about your father’s wartime activities?’ I asked, trying to approach the matter more obliquely.
Again, Novak was curiously reticent.
‘How familiar is any man with his father? It was years before I was born. He didn’t talk much about those times.’
‘And before the war?’
‘I know nothing.’
I felt sure he was hiding something, but calculated any more probing would be counterproductive at this stage.
‘And when the Communists took over?’
‘He fled to England, leaving his art behind. Including the missing painting.’
Novak seemed more comfortable with this part of the story, and he drained the remaining wine into his glass as though to fortify himself before continuing.
‘I think we need a refill,’ I said, sensing an imminent breakthrough.
I caught the owner’s eye and held up the empty bottle.
‘I admire a woman who can drink,’ he observed. ‘Especially one who doesn’t look like a drinker. Had you down as a prissy little bitch—you know the type.’
I did—there were gazillions of them in my old firm Pearson Malone.
‘The fur doesn’t help the image, I guess. Shall I get rid of it?’
‘Never throw anything away,’ he said, aghast, in the way of a true hoarder.
‘My mother’s motto—you should meet her sometime.’
To the best of my knowledge, before Stanislav, my mother was the only hoarder I’d encountered. I tried to imagine the two of them together in Novak’s squalid apartment. My mother would treat him politely, but behind his back she’d be hypercritical, not only of his unkempt appearance, but of the pigsty he lived in—self-awareness never was her strong suit. In certain respects, Novak was the polar opposite of my mother—in particular he felt no need to conceal his hoarding habit. Yet at heart, the two were similar, fearful of discarding and fearful of others.
‘So where is the painting?’
I didn’t want to base any agreement on a lie, so breathed deeply and psyched myself up for the big confession.
‘I don’t actually know.’
He banged the table with his fist.
‘You lying little bitch—I was right not to trust you. I was going to agree to your proposal, but now…’
‘To be fair, I didn’t lie. I promised to find it and if I can’t, you lose nothing.’
‘But how did you know it was stolen?’ he asked, calming down as he evaluated the proposition.
‘I didn’t until you told me.’
His eyes widened as it dawned on him that I’d tricked him into disclosing vital information.
‘Clever—aren’t you? Or at least you believe you are. I spent years trying to trace that painting. Did you know, the other one in the pair, the original of the Fernande Olivier portrait, sold for a hundred million dollars?’
‘Yes—incredible isn’t it? So are we agreed?’
I was chivvying him on, but he still vacillated, disinclined to surrender any of his belongings even in exchange for much richer pickings. And as he contemplated the proposal he reminded me of Ed, gauging the best way to maximise his position and screw everyone else. Surely nothing less than a genetic connection could account for these uncanny similarities?
‘You know,’ he said, a
fter a minute’s reflection, ‘I’m inclined to give you a crack at finding it. And if you succeed, I’ll hand over the other picture to your client on the following conditions.’
Ah, here we go, I thought — he’s setting the scene for weaselling out of the arrangement if it suits him—more Ed-like behaviour.
‘One—your client provides satisfactory proof of identity. Two, your client will not lodge any formal restitution claim. And three, in the unlikely event anyone else is determined to be the legal owner of either of the pieces, the agreement is null and void.’
I didn’t much care for the second and third conditions, but was reluctant to argue. After all, either side could renege on an informal agreement.
‘But you’ll have to help me by sharing any information you have.’
‘For sure.’
‘In that case, my client can agree to your proposals,’ I said. While I hadn’t consulted George, I figured he couldn’t very well object as he would lose nothing either.
In fact, the only loser was me. I’d locked myself into a task beyond the scope of my assignment and, as an unpleasant by-product, I’d committed to advancing Beresford’s self-serving ends. Worst of all, I had no means of assessing how difficult the mission I’d set myself might be.
Novak gulped down another mouthful of wine, and offered me his filthy hand. With great trepidation I took it.
‘Then we have a deal,’ he said.
‘Great, so where should I begin my search?’
‘It’s a long story,’ he warned me.
‘OK—I have time, and wine. Fire away.’
According to Novak, his father revealed the existence of his art collection on his deathbed in 1986. Before fleeing Czechoslovakia in 1948 he’d secreted it in a maze of secret passages beneath a castle belonging to his friend, Prince Maxmilián Strnad. This surprised Stanislav, because although there were several works of art in his father’s Highgate house, they were stored away and not in public view. Moreover, he had never heard of his father’s former art dealing profession—he’d been in the jewellery business all Stanislav’s life.
Because the Communists had appropriated the castle, it was uncertain whether the artworks would still be in situ. On the other hand, none of them had come to light at that stage, and the secret passages were notoriously convoluted.