by Rose Edmunds
‘He left a detailed list of the pieces, together with a map,’ said Novak. ‘And he apologised for having been a bad father, but said my inheritance would make up for his failings.’
I was curious to know if Stanislav agreed that a billion dollar legacy was adequate recompense for poor parenting, but was loath to digress.
‘When did you go after your inheritance?’ I asked instead.
‘Not straight away, but in the early nineties, when the castle was restored to Rudolf Strnad, Maxmilián’s grandson, I was in a position to make an approach.’
‘And they were still there?’
‘Most yes, but two were missing—the Picasso self-portrait and a Chagall, which my father had told me were of particular sentimental value to him. The little shit Rudolf denied it, but I’m certain he robbed me. He sold those two pictures to Russian oligarchs to raise money for refurbishments.’
‘But weren’t they supposedly destroyed in 1942—along with many other paintings in your collection?’
‘Were they really?’ His enigmatic smile implied that he knew full well what had or hadn’t happened, but he volunteered no additional details.
‘And you searched for the two missing paintings?’
‘I tried, yes. And the Chagall popped up in Russia a few years ago, but the Picasso has vanished.’
‘So did you try to recover the Chagall?’
‘Oh no,’ he replied, and without him explaining I understood why. He’d have no wish to draw attention to the rest of his collection, which should have been declared as part of his father’s estate.
As I was thinking what a slippery customer Stanislav was, I grasped why he’d agreed so readily to my proposal.
‘You don’t expect me to find it, do you?’
‘You worked that out fast—maybe you’re smarter than you look.’
He grinned, exposing a crooked array of hideous brown teeth, far removed from Ed’s expensive pearly smile. Yet his cunning bore the hallmarks of his doppelgänger’s machinations, as he’d set me up to fail.
Like everything I touched, this project had become fiendishly complicated. But I still didn’t believe it was dangerous.
***
Despite my irritation at Stanislav’s manipulative ploys, I agreed to share a bite to eat with him—just sausage, cheese and bread, to go with the wine. Before eating, I excused myself to wash in the ladies’ room, dreading to think what germs I’d picked up from our handshake.
As I sat back down again the door was flung open without warning and a fortyish man burst in, ranting in rapid French. My knowledge of the language had not only stalled at GCSE level, but had regressed to practically zero, so I failed to understand what he was saying. His extreme anger needed no interpretation though.
My heart pounded. Although Stanislav appeared to be the target for the man’s wrath, his deranged air made me fear he could switch his focus at any moment.
Stanislav shouted back, again in French, at which the intruder thumped the table so hard the wine bottle tipped over. He then left as abruptly as he had arrived.
Slowly, my racing pulse subsided. Novak, however, appeared unruffled, as though these altercations occurred on a regular basis.
‘What the heck was that?’
‘How much did you understand?’ he asked, as though his explanation might vary according to my answer.
‘Next to nothing—except he was threatening to kill you.’
‘Don’t worry—he’s harmless.’
He seemed unduly confident of this.
‘You know him then?’
‘Vaguely. He’s a French Canadian called Lavigueur, who used to work in corporate finance until he had a breakdown. The guy’s crazy—totally nuts.’ Stanislav showed no sign he was aware of the irony. ‘He’s got this obsession with an alien invasion.’
‘What’s he doing in Prague?’
‘No idea. Nor why he latched onto me.’
It sounded lunatic enough to be true. Crazy attracts crazy, as I was rapidly learning. Novak surveyed the now empty wine bottle and the pool of liquid on the table.
‘Let’s get another,’ he suggested. ‘You look as if you need it.’
As he stood at the bar, I snapped a surreptitious picture of him with my phone. Nobody would believe me otherwise.
9
Although I was back in time to attend George’s legal appointment, I decided to pass in view of all the wine I’d drunk. I doubted if he’d learn anything new in any case. So instead, I sat on a bench by the river, admiring Prague Castle and assessing the success of the meeting.
Little Amy plonked herself beside me, wearing an Afghan coat and long black boots.
‘Boy,’ she said. ‘You screwed that up.’
While I didn’t entirely agree with her trenchant analysis, there was no doubt that Novak had me in a bind. I’d volunteered for an apparently impossible task, but couldn’t back out because it represented the best strategy to reunite George with his painting.
‘If I was you, I’d let the douchebag Beresford sort it out, since he’s so keen to get his mitts on the other picture.’
‘Ah, so you don’t rate him either.’ As I’d predicted. ‘Why not?’
‘Oh I hardly know where to begin. Still, you play right into his hands, letting him wind you up.’
She had a point, and subcontracting out the whole wild goose chase to Beresford might constitute a fitting revenge. Let him chase his tail following up on the clues provided by Novak. But he was certain to fail, which wouldn’t help George and although tempted, I refused to slither out of my responsibilities.
As I ruminated on the problem, a possible plan B now occurred to me, which would not require me to track down the missing painting. Suppose George was a blood relation of Jan Novak, his son, say. Then George might be joint heir to Jan’s collection, which could pave the way towards a different deal. Would George be prepared to waive his rights if Novak gave him the portrait he coveted?
I was getting ahead of myself, though. A DNA test was the only way to prove kinship, which Stanislav would refuse. On balance, it would be much easier to prove Stanislav’s father and Dušek’s partner were one and the same, yielding the proof of identity which Stanislav had requested. I hoped George had already asked the Czech lawyer to pursue this angle.
All this presented new challenges. How should I break it to George that I’d encountered a double of his dead son? And that he might have rights not only to a $10 million picture, but a billion’s worth?
Parking these conundrums for the moment, I googled “Lavigueur Corporate Finance” out of curiosity and was astounded by the newspaper article that came up. First off, Claude Lavigueur had been a Pearson Malone partner in the Toronto office—coincidence or what? And second, his career had come to an ignominious but spectacular end. He’d been arrested waving a gun around the office and raving about—yes, you guessed—an imminent alien invasion. Although the staff were terrified, no one was injured, and no charges were brought. But of course, Lavigueur resigned—that was the Pearson Malone way. A picture showing the ranting lunatic in calmer days, looking as professional as the next corporate finance guy, completed the piece.
‘See—if there was a competition for the most unstable partner in Pearson Malone, Crazy Amy is no longer a contender,’ came Little Amy’s voice from afar.
The search also yielded a later piece in which Claude spoke of his “recovery” and his plans to travel to Europe to trace his family history. His father had committed suicide when Claude was fifteen, and he wanted to understand the background.
I glanced at my watch. Mel’s flight should have landed and if I returned to the hotel, I might sneak half an hour of quiet time before she arrived. She’d informed me that the Alcron had no spare rooms—seemed unlikely in February—and therefore she’d have to share mine. It had two king beds, so in principle there was plenty of space, but I relished my privacy. Besides, the tangled sequence of events tying us together fell far short of the req
uisite closeness for sharing a bedroom. Cynical as ever, I checked and found, to my astonishment, that they were indeed fully booked. A large toy manufacturers’ convention was due in town and most of their delegates were staying in the Alcron.
As it happened, I was denied those last moments of solitude. For on my return, reception informed me that my friend was waiting in the bar.
I did a quick skim round and thought at first they’d made a mistake. There were two middle-aged men whose shiny suits screamed out “toy salesmen” and a haughty blonde wearing tight leather trousers, no more than size eight, perched on a barstool.
I almost walked out, but something stopped me. The blonde was drinking what was almost certainly a Long Island iced tea, one of Mel’s favourite cocktails. Plus the way this girl held her head seemed familiar.
She’d lost a good twenty pounds, and a choppy blond bob replaced the mousy pudding-basin hair. Her clothes and makeup were immaculate, plus she radiated a newfound poise. In short, she looked sensational.
‘Mel?’ I said, still amazed by the change she’d effected in a few months.
She turned.
‘Don’t be so shocked,’ she said with a laugh. ‘What did you expect?’
Not this, for sure.
‘You look fab,’ I said finally, unable to conceal my envy, and estimating she weighed even less than I had before the pregnancy.
‘Drink?’
Although I’d had a skinful with Novak, a Margarita might hit the spot.
‘It’s funny,’ she said, as the bartender shook my drink. ‘I was invisible before, but now I’m in hiding everyone notices me.’
‘How did you lose the weight?’
‘Easy peasy. Everyone kept telling me when I was fat, thinking I was too stupid to understand, but it’s so simple—you just eat less.’
Which was all fine and dandy, until eating less became too difficult. She peered closely at me.
‘Talking of which, am I imagining it, or have you put on a few pounds?’
Bitch.
‘No way,’ I lied.
‘Oh, silly me,’ she said. ‘Everyone seems fat now I’m thin—amazing how it changes your perspective.’
‘Yes, it must be.’
‘Anyway, even if you have gained a little it suits you,’ she said, backtracking on the bitchiness. ‘And loving the hair,’ she added, taking a fraction too long to come up with a plausible compliment.
‘Thanks—short hair is wonderful—you should give it a go. I’m glad I got rid of the blonde though.’
‘Yes, that was so fake.’
Like hers wasn’t. But fake or not, my blonde hadn’t worked, because every morning, I peered at a stranger in the mirror. Now I was back to my usual chestnut brown and thankful for it.
My mind buzzed with questions, not least how she could afford to pay back the money she stole. But launching into an interrogation so soon after reconnecting seemed impolite, particularly as I sensed a reticence on her part to disclose much.
‘Anyway, enough about me. What have you been up to?’ The way she asked sounded as if she’d given a full account of her activities rather than merely revealing—shock, horror—she’d lost weight by eating less.
I found it difficult to answer—so much had happened, and yet so little. Should I even bother to mention Zowie? It was painful to revisit it, none of her business and she’d never find out if I glossed over it. I decided silence was the wiser option—if she could be reticent, then so could I.
‘Oh, nothing much. I was shaken up after what happened, so it’s taken me a while to come out of my shell.’
‘I did try to warn you,’ she said, wagging a flawlessly manicured forefinger at me, ‘but you wouldn’t listen.’
‘Yes—I made a mistake. And I’m sorry I landed you in trouble.’
‘You landed the old Mel in trouble. No hard feelings, because she needed to disappear anyway.’
‘I wish I’d disappeared,’ I added sourly. Instead, I was tethered by the tatters of my old life to an octogenarian and an assignment becoming thornier by the minute. ‘But how about you—you haven’t told me much so far?’
‘Oh it’s boring. I’ve been with a guy, a guy with money.’
Which saved me asking where the cash had come from, I guess. And from what I knew of Mel, I wouldn’t mind betting she’d cleaned out his savings account before legging it.
‘It’s so easy to wheedle money out of men,’ she went on, as if reading my mind. ‘You should try it—I mean what about the old geezer you’re travelling with now? It’d be a doddle.’
‘He’s smarter than you imagine. And don’t you try anything either.’
At which point the subject of our discussion walked into the bar, dejected and deflated.
‘You look as if you could use a drink,’ I said. ‘This is Mel, by the way.’
To my immense irritation, George perked up visibly at the sight of her.
‘Lovely to meet you, George,’ she said, with sickening charm.
‘And likewise. A small beer would be nice, Amy.’
‘How did the meeting go?’
‘Not terribly well. I’ll tell you later, rather than bore Mel with all the legal intricacies.’
Mel interpreted this as a cue to exit.
‘I’d better go and unpack. I’ll see you later.’
‘She seems nice,’ George said as Mel swanned off in a cloud of Coco Chanel. Little bitch had copied my favourite perfume, as well.
‘Yes, isn’t she,’ I replied, now bitterly regretting inviting her over.
George settled down with his beer. Here in Prague, beer wasn’t regarded as a proper alcoholic drink, and people drank it like Americans swill down soda, even on their lunch breaks. And oddly enough, no one seemed to get intoxicated. I’d drunk two large ones the night before, to sample the local cuisine, but I didn’t see myself switching from gin and wine anytime soon.
‘So—what’s the score?’
‘As we predicted, the restitution legislation is a minefield. Unless I can prove Josef Dušek lost the painting due to racial prejudice, it’s a non-starter. How did it go with Novak?’
‘He’s a strange man for sure. But I broke the ice.’
‘Well done.’
‘And I’m positive his father was Dušek’s partner.’
‘Did he say so?’
‘No.’
‘So what’s your evidence?’
I hesitated. A bolt from the blue about his true parentage might be inadvisable while George was sitting on a high bar stool.
‘Oh, mainly his evasiveness,’ I said, conscious that I was being evasive myself. ‘But it should be relatively easy to prove.’
‘The lawyer’s already on it,’ said George. ‘Although there was much pursing of lips about how tricky it would be.’
‘Big bill coming your way then.’
He laughed hollowly.
‘I swear, lawyers, accountants and plumbers are the same everywhere.’
‘And estate agents?’
‘Hey—be careful what you say. I found a buyer for your house.’
‘And your chum charged me a big fee,’ I retorted.
I was sorely tempted to skirt round Stanislav’s striking resemblance to Ed. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t relevant to the deal I’d struck, and the revelation was bound to be distressing for George. But there were important repercussions, and in all conscience, I couldn’t leave George in the dark.
‘To be honest, there’s a more concrete reason I suspect Stanislav’s father was Dušek’s partner.’
‘What?’
‘Shall we sit over there?’ I suggested, pointing at a sofa. ‘This might come as a shock.’
***
People are unpredictable, but even so George’s reaction stunned me. When I showed him the picture I’d secretly taken, he roared with laughter.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘I always ribbed Esther about Ed taking after her side of the family—she’d have love
d this.’
‘Aren’t you even a little bit shocked?’
‘What difference does it make who my father is? I mean, your genetic origins don’t change who you are.’
‘No, but they may change the legal position.’
I outlined the agreement I’d made with Novak, and waited for George’s reaction. In retrospect, it seemed incredibly dumb to have traded George’s rights for something worth a fraction of them.
‘In a nutshell,’ I confessed, ‘I may have given away your inheritance. Although I doubt whether a handshake deal in a bar is legally enforceable.’
‘Who cares? Look—all I want is the picture I remember—I don’t care about the rest. I have no need for vast sums of money at my age, and the litigation involved…’
He visibly shuddered.
‘You could leave the money to the grandchildren.’
‘And ruin their lives even more? I think not. You did a great job—this must be the best hope of prising the picture from Novak. Ed always said you had good judgement.’
It was amazing to discover the extent to which Ed had sung my praises to his father. Regardless of his son’s efforts to destroy me, it now appeared that Ed had been somewhat in awe of me, even a little obsessed. If only I’d been aware of this at the time, events might have taken a different course.
‘Thanks,’ I said, weak with relief. ‘Your faith in me is touching.’
George likely didn’t appreciate how satisfying it felt to have my judgement trusted again, after being labelled Crazy Amy. Sometimes, my past professional success seemed like a mirage, but now, for the first time in ages, I began to believe I might soon rise from the ashes.
‘I wouldn’t have asked for your help if I didn’t have faith in you. And I imagine our friend Beresford will be pleased with you too.’ George gave me a wry smile.
‘That’s the only fly in the ointment. I must admit, at one point I was wondering whether to delegate the whole search to him, but thought better of it. I’m much better equipped than him to get to the bottom of it.’
‘I’m sure you are.’
Unknown to George, a desire to help him was not my only motivation. One of Ed’s sneakiest management techniques was asking his subordinates to undertake impossible tasks and then slating them for failing to deliver. Stanislav Novak, cut from the same cloth, was playing essentially the same game. It would give me great pleasure to confound his expectations.