The Wild Beasts of Wuhan

by Ian Hamilton

  “Can you give me a moment alone with these?”

  She hesitated.

  “I’m not going to do a runner out the back door,” he said.

  Ava stepped into the hallway, trying to focus on the art that was hung haphazardly on every wall. But she couldn’t get her mind off the fact that it was Edwin Hughes she was speaking to and not Glen.

  “You can come back in now,” Edwin said after a few minutes.

  When she sat down, he put his feet up on the desk and pushed back, his hands clasped behind his neck. She noticed the shoes — gorgeous brown leather wingtips. “First of all, Ms. Lee, if this correspondence is in any way genuine, and if the charges you’re making have any substance to them at all, then you need to be talking to my brother and not me.”

  “The correspondence is on gallery stationery.”

  “So you’ve said. And what does that mean? Someone stole or copied our stationery?”

  “Your brother’s signature is on those letters.”

  “So you claim,” he said. “And if it is, so what? He was commissioning work on his behalf, not the gallery’s.”

  “He was representing the gallery, the business,” she said.

  “Don’t dare to presume that you understand the nature of our business,” Hughes said, his tone rising just slightly. “My brother and I each had our own arrangements. Not everything we did was in tandem.”

  “He was representing the gallery,” she insisted.

  “I won’t acknowledge that because it is completely untrue.”

  “The letters —”

  “The letters are utter rubbish,” he said. “They don’t make any mention of fakes or forgeries. The last one, in fact, makes it very clear that he was commissioning copies for a client who knew what he was buying.” He paused. “Now here I am defending my brother, when that really isn’t my intent.”

  “Then what is your intent?”

  “To tell you that neither I nor this gallery had anything to do with whatever this is.”

  “My client may think otherwise.”

  “And what? Sue? Based on those letters? Go ahead.”

  “A lot of money was spent on those forgeries.”

  “And where is that money? I assure you, it isn’t in our bank account.”

  “No, it’s in a numbered account in Liechtenstein.”

  He paused, and Ava saw the first flicker of something other than confidence in his eyes.

  “I know of no such account.”

  “Who would?”

  “Talk to my brother.”

  “I’d love to. Where can I find him?”

  “In New York.”

  “You have a gallery in New York?”

  “No, he has an office in New York. A few years ago we restructured the business and he opted to go to North America.”

  Ava thought of the Google entries that were all more than two years old. “Two years ago?”

  “Yes, about then.”

  “There was no mention of his leaving the business in the research I did.”

  “We saw no reason to make a fuss about it. We did it quietly.”

  “And I didn’t see any reference to him in any new business.”

  “He’s set himself up as a private art consultant, and he’s arrogant enough to believe that he doesn’t need to advertise his wares. He thinks those who need him will find him.”

  “And how would I find him?”

  “Ms. Lee, you surely don’t need my help to do that.”

  “I imagine not.”

  “But I have to tell you that when you do find him, you’ll get a very similar reaction to mine, though perhaps less polite. My brother has never been afraid to use lawyers, and if you even suggest any impropriety on his part he’ll have them down your neck.”

  “What about unwanted publicity?”

  “He couldn’t care less.”

  “And you?”

  He put his foot on the letters on the desk and slid them back to her with the heel of his shoe. “Good luck with my brother,” he said.

  ( 19 )

  Ava was led to the Church Street entrance, where Lisa returned her umbrella. She felt as if she were being deposited on the street like trash.

  The rain had let up, easing into a whippy drizzle. She walked back to the hotel, returned the umbrella to the concierge, and went directly to her room. The maid had been there already. The bathroom was sparkling, the bed was made, and a package of bonbons was resting on her pillow. There was still almost half a bottle of wine from the night before. Ava poured herself a glass and sat by the window.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so incompetent. At the very least, she should have been prepared for the possibility of meeting Edwin Hughes instead of, or even with, Glen Hughes. Ava took pride in being organized for meetings, prepared for any eventuality. How could I have made such a mess of this one? she thought. I didn’t do enough research. She should have confirmed which Hughes she was going to meet. She should have known the brothers had split. She should have known enough about their characters to know how to squeeze them. Instead she went in ill-prepared, with no discernible strategy other than waving around letters she already knew were open to too many interpretations.

  Ava then thought about Edwin Hughes. He had been so calm, so sure of himself, that she found herself believing almost everything he had said, including the fact that her threat to sue him or his brother or the gallery didn’t concern him. She hadn’t intimidated him; she hadn’t even mildly rattled him. The only time he seemed interested in what she was saying was when she mentioned the bank account, and then he had basically thrown her out of his office. She thought of him shoving her letters across the desk to her with his foot.

  The real question was whether or not Edwin had anything to do with the Fauvist scam. On balance, she thought that he hadn’t. There had been only one signature on the letters sent to Sørensen, and that belonged to Glen Hughes.

  The bottom line was that she didn’t have any leverage, even in theory, if the Hughes brothers were prepared to withstand lawsuits and bad publicity. And that was assuming that May Ling and Changxing would agree to sue. She felt, despite May’s claim, that Wong never would. His face was worth more than $70 million.

  So what do I have? she thought. “Sweet bugger all,” she said softly to herself.

  She was close to packing it in. But she also knew she couldn’t give up until she had exhausted every lead. She decided to find out more about the brothers, something she should have done before. She phoned Frederick Locke.

  “This case I’ve been working on, it’s led me into some complicated areas. I was hoping you could help,” she said.

  “Where are you?”

  “London.”

  “You do get about.”

  “I came here to see a man named Glen Hughes and instead found myself talking to his brother, Edwin.”

  The line went silent. “Holy fuck,” he said finally.

  “Is that good?”

  “Are you telling me you think the Hughes brothers might be involved in this scam?”

  “One of them anyway, maybe both.”

  “You don’t know who they are, do you.”

  “Only what I read online about Glen.”

  “They’re huge. In our business they don’t come much bigger, outside of museums and national art galleries and leading international auction houses. Are you sure about all this?”

  “No, I’m not, Frederick. That’s why I’m calling you. I thought you could tell me a bit more about them. For example, when I met with Edwin this morning, he said he and his brother had parted company.”

  “Yes, that’s true. It was all hush-hush when it happened but it eventually leaked out. By the time it did, n
o one thought twice about it.”

  “What was the cause?”

  “No one actually said.”

  “Were there rumours?”

  “Some. There was talk of a financial falling-out. One of the brothers — I think it was Glen — was supposedly playing outside the sandbox, so to speak.”

  “What is he doing now?”

  “Running a business in New York as a private consultant to collectors,” Locke said, confirming Edwin Hughes’ claim.

  She was writing while he spoke. Almost unconsciously she found herself underlining the words two years. “Frederick, it was that Jan Sørensen, the Sandman, who pointed me in the direction of Hughes.”

  “So you found him?”

  “Obviously.”

  “And?”

  “He painted a good number of the fake Fauvists.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I have a signed statement from him.”

  “Good God.”

  “And he told me that Maurice O’Toole did the others.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Locke said. “I did some more research after our last chat and the boy did have that reputation. I spoke to someone who told me that Mr. O’Toole was a whiz with Matisse and did very passable Monets and Manets.”

  Manet wasn’t on her list. She added the name.

  “So, Ava, where does this leave you?” Locke asked.

  “I’m not quite sure. I don’t have what you would call hard proof of anything. Even Sørensen’s statement isn’t supported in any concrete way other than that the paintings exist, and Edwin Hughes seems immune to threats of lawsuits or bad publicity. He tells me his brother will be an even tougher case.”

  “Remember what I told you about our business being filled with hard men? Well, they don’t come much harder than the Hughes brothers.”

  “I sense that.”

  “So what to do?”

  “I don’t know, I really don’t know,” she said. “I need to do some more thinking. But look, thank you for the information. You’ve been very helpful. If I have any more questions I hope you won’t mind me calling.”

  “Not at all. My days are quite repetitive and can be a bit of a bore. Call me whenever you wish.”

  Ava closed her phone and looked out the window, down at the High Street and across to Kensington Gardens. The sky was clearing and people were walking without umbrellas. She decided to try to get in a run before the weather changed one more time. She quickly changed into her tracksuit and left the hotel.

  Ava crossed the street, entered the Gardens at Exhibition Road, and then loped across the Serpentine to West Carriage Drive. She ran north from there until she reached the jogging path. Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens ran seamlessly into each other, separated only by the Serpentine. The total area was more than six hundred acres, just smaller than Central Park in New York, and the jogging path was five kilometres long. She normally would have done one full lap after the initial two kilometres or so she had run to the starting point. Today she needed to burn off frustration, and one lap wouldn’t cut it.

  As she ran, she replayed the past few days. She told herself it was time to call Uncle, May Ling Wong, and her travel agent and head on home. Ava was halfway through the second lap when a scrap of conversation she’d had with Helga Sørensen came to mind, along with something Frederick Locke had just said to her. She headed back to the hotel.

  When she got back to her room, she wrapped a towel around her shoulders, pulled out the Chelsea–Kensington phone-book, and looked up George McIntyre, the lawyer she had dealt with on her last trip to London.

  The receptionist put her on hold. Ava hoped he remembered her and would take the call.

  “Well, well. Is this the Ms. Lee who gets phone calls from the Prime Minister’s Office?” McIntyre said.

  “Yes, Mr. McIntyre. Thank you for remembering me, and thank you for taking my call.”

  “Would you believe me if I told you I was afraid not to?”

  “No.”

  “Well, rightly so. I’m just surprised to hear from you and curious as to why.”

  “I’m calling on business.”

  “Roger Simmons again, or has Jeremy Ashton been acting up?”

  “No, different. I’d like you to do something for me, for a fee, of course.”

  “And what is that?”

  “There is — was, rather — an Irish painter by the name of Maurice O’Toole. He died about five years ago. He was married to a woman named Nancy, who died about three years ago. They had no children but there had to be an estate. Could you possibly find out for me if there was one, and if so, who inherited it?”

  “That’s all the information you have?”

  “That’s it.”

  “What part of Ireland? That does matter.”

  “Dublin.”

  “It may take a little time.”

  “Can you get back to me today?”

  “Ms. Lee, you are always in such a rush. The last time you were here we papered an agreement in a matter of hours when it normally takes days.”

  “I’ll double your fee if you can get me the information today.”

  “You don’t know what my fee is.”

  “I don’t care. I know it will be fair.”

  “All right, let me work on it.”

  “Thank you so much. You can call me on my cellphone or at my room at the Fletcher Hotel.”

  Ava jumped into the shower and took her time washing her hair. She spent another ten minutes drying it. When she came out of the bathroom, her room phone was blinking. It was George McIntyre, asking her to call him back.

  “The person you want to talk to is Helen Byrne,” McIntyre said. “She inherited everything Nancy O’Toole had. She lives in Donabate, a large village or small town — whichever you prefer — on the Irish coast about twenty kilometres northeast of Dublin.”

  “That is remarkably fast work.”

  “Not really. They’re very well organized over there; all it took was one phone call. A colleague in a Dublin firm, an old schoolmate of mine, found Nancy O’Toole in the death register and the law firm that handled her estate, all while I was still on the line.”

  “Do you have an actual address for her, a phone number?”

  “Write this down,” McIntyre said, giving her the information.

  “Is she a relative?”

  “I wasn’t told.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. McIntyre. How much do I owe you?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Please, I insist on paying you.”

  “No, I would rather have you owing me a favour.”

  “And I would rather pay.”

  “Your owing me a favour is worth more to me.”

  “Done,” she said.

  Ava hung up the phone and threw on a clean black Giordano T-shirt. She picked up her cellphone, checked the incoming call list, and saw a Chinese area code. May Ling Wong.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and dialled Helen Byrne’s number. If this didn’t work out, then Ava’s next calls would most certainly be to Uncle and May Ling.

  “Ms. Byrne, my name is Ava Lee. I’m calling you about Nancy O’Toole and Maurice O’Toole.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “No, you most certainly don’t, and I apologize for calling out of the blue like this.”

  “What kind of name is Lee?”

  “Chinese.”

  “You don’t sound Chinese.”

  “I’m Canadian.”

  “I have a brother who lives in Canada, in Hamilton.”

  “Hamilton is quite close to the city I live in.”

  “What is it you want with Nancy?” Helen said with some force.

 
; “I understand you inherited her estate.”

  “I’m her sister. We were close all our lives.”

  “It must have been difficult, her dying so young and so soon after Maurice.”

  “Cancer is a terrible thing.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Now you still haven’t told me what you want with Nancy.”

  “It’s actually Maurice I’m more interested in.”

  “That useless piece of shit?”

  “Yes, him.”

  “I never understood what my sister saw in him, never. He didn’t work a day in his life, just painting, smoking, and drinking. He didn’t womanize, thank God, but I always said that was because no other woman wanted anything to do with him.”

  “Still, your sister obviously loved him.”

  “She did that.”

  “And he did make some money.”

  “Oh, the last few years weren’t so bad for that. He left her comfortable, though a lot of good it did her. She died of lung cancer, poor girl, and she never smoked a day in her life. It was second-hand smoke, the doctor said, that killed her. I always thought it was Maurice’s way of reaching out to her from the grave.”

  “I’m not fond of smokers myself,” Ava said, trying to find some common ground.

  “Well, they’ve passed all these new laws here. You can hardly smoke anywhere outside your own house.”

  “Canada is the same.”

  Helen paused. “What is it you want with Maurice, then?” she finally asked.

  “I’m trying to trace some paintings he did for a client of mine. I was wondering if he left any records behind and if Nancy kept any of them, maybe passed them down to you.”

  “I’ve got a shed full of it.”

  “Pardon?”

  “My garden shed is stuffed with his boxes and things.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Nancy couldn’t bear to part with his things after he died. She hung on to it all. She lived here with me and kept it in the shed. I just haven’t bothered getting rid of it.”

  “Do you know what’s in those boxes?”

  “Paper.”

  “What kind of paper?”