Frame-Up

by John F. Dobbyn

  “I never thought otherwise.”

  “Then what have you to offer me, Mr. Knight?”

  The air between us cooled, and we were back to business.

  “A second harvest from this same painting in the vault. I meant what I said about having a buyer. Mr. Qian is a very private man. The extent of his wealth is staggering, and his greatest pleasure is indulging his taste in art. He has no scruples about the source of it. How I found him is my business. I’m sure you’ll do your research on him. You’ll find nothing. He can afford to keep it that way.”

  “And exactly how do we convince this sophisticated buyer that our little painting is genuine?”

  “Unquestionable authentication. I’ll produce the expert. Mr. Qian has already agreed that if my authenticator says it’s genuine, we’ll have a deal.”

  “And who might that be?”

  I could understand the question since I had apparently been successful in convincing Markov his assassins had killed Denisovitch in his hotel in London.

  “That’s my concern. I’ve said that Qian has agreed to the authenticator. That’s all you need to know.”

  He hesitated on that one, but stayed in the game.

  “And how do we arrange the authentication?”

  “That’s your part. Mr. Qian insists on being present. I’ll have him and the authenticator at the bank where the vault is at two tomorrow. Your job will be to have the two Vans there with their code number. Can you arrange that?”

  “Of course. And now, Mr. Knight, to the essentials. What price have you discussed?”

  “Eighty million as a base. More depending on the condition of the painting. Of course my authenticator will rave about the fine condition and preservation of the painting. He may get the price over a hundred million. The Vans will be repaid their debt, and you and I will split everything over that.”

  “And what of your client in Boston? This Aiello person.”

  “He’ll be satisfied to have the debt repaid. He left this in my hands. There’s no reason why he should know what the painting actually sells for, is there?”

  That brought a quiet smile.

  “There is one problem, Mr. Knight. Why should the “Vans” as you call them place any trust in this mysterious Oriental? The painting is supposed to be stolen property. They won’t open the vault to just anyone.”

  “Of course not. Mr. Qian and I have discussed it. I told him we need some assurance of his seriousness. He’s willing to write a check for three million dollars jointly to the Vans and myself. I’ll have the check in the hands of the Vans by tomorrow at the vault. They can hold it in escrow. If the painting is authenticated, and it will be, and Mr. Qian fails to go through with the purchase, I’ll sign the check and they can cash it. Mr. Qian knows the value of what he thinks he’s buying.”

  Markov took a breath and turned back to look at the nearly life-size figures in the Night Watch. I did the same.

  “Astounding how he used light to breathe life into the figures. You can almost see them move.”

  “You’re an art connoisseur after all, Mr. Markov.”

  “Perhaps.”

  He looked back at me and our eyes met.

  “But I am most certainly a man who would be very disappointed if my confidence were betrayed. And, Mr. Knight, I would express my disappointment in ways that are by no means subtle. Cards on the table, as you say.”

  I gave him my most dejected look.

  He smiled and just shook his head.

  “Always the joker. But you take my meaning. Again, the time?”

  “Mr. Qian wants his authenticator to be able to examine the painting. There are tests he’ll pretend to perform. Mr. Qian wants to be there as well. We’ll meet at the bank vault tomorrow afternoon at two. You’ll have the Vans there with their part of the code. Satisfactory?”

  “Quite.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  My wake-up call the next morning pulled me right out of a bass fishing boat on a crystal clear lake in New Hampshire. The cheerful sparkle of the hotel wake-up voice did nothing to relieve the incipient terror of awakening in Amsterdam with the day I had ahead.

  After fortification at the world’s premier breakfast buffet at the hotel, I launched the plan that finally came together just before sleep the night before.

  Mr. Devlin called to say that he had gotten Mr. Santangelo’s very tentative approval of my three million dollar idea. I took it the sell was hard, since the only thing Mr. D. had to back it up was his blind faith in me.

  The first step was to rent a bicycle — no great feat in Amsterdam. Years ago, the city fathers took a shot at the intolerable automobile traffic by providing hundreds of white bicycles on the streets around the city. The Dutch took to bike riding like the Swedes to pickled herring, and the automobile traffic abated. Only two problems remained — theft of the bicycles, and the menace of hundreds of kamikaze cyclists.

  The city next turned the free bicycles into cheaply rentable bicycles. It was on one of these that I started crisscrossing an erratic path along the canals and through the cross streets that make up the area called the Ring — a series of concentric semicircles of canals that fan out from the harbor.

  My purpose was to eliminate a tail, in case Markov decided to play dirty pool. Within twenty minutes, I felt as secure as I would in the Back Bay of Boston.

  The second purpose of my cycling odyssey was to accomplish two errands before meeting Harry and the professor back at the hotel. The first was to find a specialty art shop in the museum district in the center of the city.

  The second was to find the particular bank that rented the private vault now containing the fake Vermeer painted by Professor Denisovitch. Markov had given me the address, and the concierge found it for me on a map.

  I did a bit of business at both the art shop and the bank. I gave the manager at the bank a tip sizable enough to insure that he would accommodate, first by not recognizing me when I returned with the group at two, and equally importantly, by doing a small favor that afternoon that did not compromise him, but was a key element in pulling off a bit of magic.

  That done, I cycled back to the hotel and welcomed any tail that Markov wanted to put on me.

  At exactly two o’clock, Mr. Qian, aka Harry Wong, and I stepped out of a hired limousine in front of the bank. Harry was in his finest suit — in fact his only suit, but cleaned and pressed for the occasion. The third member of our little trio was Harry’s traveling companion from London. Professor Denisovitch was dressed in the style of any number of Harvard intellectuals, a la couture of Horace Rumpole — tweedy and somewhat ill-fitting. But that didn’t matter. It was Harry who had to make an impression.

  We strode into the bank and asked for the manager. He greeted us without a hint of recognition and led us to the vault room where the two Vans and Markov were waiting.

  Even the Vans dispensed with the Dutch custom of preliminary social bantering. We were there for a single purpose, and an unusually large sum of money was at stake.

  The Vans were pleasantly surprised to see Professor Denisovitch again. In fact, they seemed somewhat relieved, since the professor had been the original authenticator of the painting in their deal with Tony Aiello. They were obviously confident that he would not change his mind about the painting in the vault. In fact, based on the professor’s previous authentication, the Vans still believed the painting to be the genuine Vermeer.

  The true shock told on the face of Markov. He looked at the professor as if he had come back from the dead. I had been saving that little surprise for this meeting at the bank, hopefully to set Markov a bit off balance about his ability to control events.

  The bad news for Markov in seeing the professor alive was that his boys had flubbed it in London. The good news was that the professor would be capable of setting up another profitable scam for him. Until he could get his mind around the conflicting possibilities, he stayed in the background, which allowed me to play master of ceremonies.


  I introduced Harry — Mr. Qian — and got down to business.

  “Gentlemen, we know what we’re here for. Mr. Qian has a check for three million dollars made out jointly to Mr. Van Drusen and myself. The check will remain in the hands of the manager of the bank, Mr. Van Houten. If the painting is authenticated and for any reason Mr. Qian does not complete the transaction, Mr. Van Drusen and I will be free to cash the check. The three million dollars will go to Mr. Van Drusen and Mr. Van Arsdale, who made the loan for which the painting is the security. Acceptable?”

  I looked to the two Vans, each of whom nodded assent. Markov still looked a bit nonplused, but he nodded to keep the train rolling.

  “Then let’s get on with it. Mr. Van Drusen, if you’ll give your code number to Mr. Van Houten, I’ll give him mine.”

  Van Drusen wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to the bank manager. Since that seemed to be the routine, I did the same with the correct code I had memorized.

  The manager located the numbered vault and opened it. With almost silent reverence, he took a roll of canvas, a bit over two feet long, out of the vault and gently unfurled it on the table. If I didn’t know it was a fake, I’d have been awestruck in the presence of the masterpiece that the entire art world would give untold fortunes to locate.

  Even in the form of Professor Denisovitch’s copy, the painting was gripping enough to bring silence and a genuine moment of respect from this group of dealers and hustlers. I broke the spell.

  “Gentlemen, shall we do what we came to do. Professor Denisovitch wishes to examine the painting before giving his authentication. He requests that we leave him alone while he performs certain tests that he’s developed. I think we should respect his privacy.”

  That brought Markov out of his funk.

  “What do you mean alone? We’re to leave him alone with this?”

  I knew I had to quell Markov before he got the Vans in an uproar. “It’s perfectly normal, Mr. Markov. The professor says that he’s developed techniques of authentication that are not generally known. What are you afraid of?”

  Markov glared at me. He spit out the words. “Paintings can be switched, Mr. Knight.”

  “That’s not a problem, Mr. Markov. I’ve discussed this with the professor. He’ll agree to be thoroughly searched before examining the painting as well as afterward to guarantee that the actual painting never leaves this room. Would that satisfy you?”

  Markov ruminated over the possibilities. He was hesitant but not hesitant enough to derail a multimillion-dollar scam. He finally agreed, as long as he would be allowed to do the searching. The Vans also consented.

  It was an indignity to the professor, but the point of the precautionary search was obvious. Having survived an assassination attempt, this indignity seemed tolerable. I had warned the professor that a search might be a nonnegotiable condition of his examining the painting in private.

  The professor and Markov stepped into a side room of the vault. Five minutes later, they returned, and Markov assured the group that the professor had nothing on his person with which to switch or harm the painting.

  The Vans, Harry, and I, and even Markov left the vault to allow the professor to perform his “tests” in private. The bank manager, Mr. Van Houten, remained out of sight in the vault’s side room.

  The wait was shorter than expected. Within two minutes, the professor stormed out of the vault, red in the face and perspiring, waving the canvas over his head with considerably less care than one might show for a priceless masterpiece.

  “Is this a joke? You brought me here for this?”

  To say that the group was stunned doesn’t begin to describe the atmosphere. The jaws of Markov and the Vans were at half-mast. Even Harry — Mr. Qian — seemed genuinely shocked.

  Van Drusen, who was closest, tried to grab the arm of the professor to rescue the painting. The professor, seeing him coming, fairly threw the canvas at him.

  “Here! Take it! You insult me with this.”

  Markov recovered enough to seize the professor in mid-frenzy. He shrieked at him. “What are you talking about, old man?”

  The professor was flying in high gear. He pulled loose and grabbed the canvas out of the hand of Van Drusen. He held it up to the face of Markov and matched him in volume. “This — this insult!”

  Before the entire scene disintegrated into total panic, I stepped between the professor and Markov. “Quiet! Both of you! Professor, quietly, what are you saying?”

  The professor took his cue and lowered his tone. He held out the canvas so that we could all see it and practically whispered the words. “This is a common giclee print of the master’s painting on canvas. As copies go, it’s a good copy. But it’s a copy. Look here. There are no brush strokes. There is no elevation of the oil. You could buy this copy in any good art store in Amsterdam.”

  As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I had done that morning. The real trick was to substitute it for the painting that had been in the locked vault to which I had only half of the code. I let the professor in on the trick that morning so he’d know what to expect. He played his part to perfection.

  The total effect on the Vans and Markov was numbing shock, considering the amount of money that had suddenly vanished from their prospects. But the shock had a short shelf life. It was time to move to scene two before it dissipated.

  Harry picked up my signal. He took the canvas from the professor and looked closely at it for the first time. It was difficult to tell whether the facial expression he was registering was anger or frustration. When he spoke, it was in a heavy Chinese accent.

  “I don’t know what you people are up to. I find this deceit unpardonable. Do any of you have an explanation?”

  Since no one did, no one spoke.

  I picked up the ball in profound humility. “I sincerely apologize, Mr. Qian. I don’t know—”

  Now Harry turned on me. “Apparently you don’t, Mr. Knight. I misjudged you, I thought you were a sincere dealer of substance. You’re apparently no more than a common charlatan. You’ve abused my trust. I see now that you’re just — a buffoon.”

  The more he spoke, the heavier Harry’s Chinese accent grew. And out of what old movie he pulled the word “buffoon” I couldn’t even guess. But before he blew the entire scene with bad dialogue, I thought it best to find an exit line.

  “Mr. Qian, I’ll make this up to you in our other dealings.”

  “You will not, Mr. Knight. There will be no other dealings. Mr. Van Houten, I’ll thank you to return my check.”

  Van Houten, who had not closed his lower jaw since the professor’s tirade began, simply held out the three million dollar check. Harry snatched it out of his hand and stormed through the front door to fresh air and silence.

  Professor Denisovitch followed close on Harry’s heels in a huff. They summoned separate cabs and were out of sight by the time the rest of us reached the street.

  The Vans were holding the discredited canvas between them squinting at the surface lacking brush strokes. Markov was back in the vault room searching the empty vault for any trace of the actual painting by Professor Denisovitch that had apparently disappeared into thin air, while I went through the front door and hailed a third cab.

  Harry and Professor Denisovitch each directed their cabbies to travel a separate route to prevent anyone from following either of them. By different paths, they arrived at the airport and went straight to the Turkish Airlines counter. I had booked separate flights for each of them to Boston, one by way of Istanbul, and the other by way of Ankara, for no other reason than to frustrate followers.

  I took my cabbie on a roundabout ride to the Prinsenhof, a small hotel on the west side of the city on Prinsengracht, a short way up the canal from the house in which Anne Frank had found refuge from the Nazis. The symbolism was not lost, and I needed peaceful, obscure accommodations for one night.

  I called Mr. Devlin and told him that Mr. Santangelo’s three mi
llion dollars were intact, and he could cancel the line of credit with the bank.

  I was delighted to add that the mission had been accomplished. I’d be in Boston the following night with the Denisovitch painting that had been in the original vault, ready to do some serious business with Fat Tony Aiello.

  “Michael, how in hell did you get that painting out of the vault?”

  “Ah, a magician never divulges his secrets, Mr. Devlin.”

  “Michael, this is your senior partner speaking. How did you get the painting?”

  I was hoping he’d insist. I was dying to tell it anyway.

  “This morning I went to the bank where the vault is. I gave a tip to the bank manager that will probably bring an Italian curse out of Mr. Santangelo when he gets the bill. Anyway, he played along. I rented a small box in the same vault room as the vault that was holding the actual Denisovitch painting. The box I rented had just one code so I was the only one who had access to it. I bought a good giclee print on canvas of the Vermeer painting at an art shop for about a hundred dollars. It’s good enough so an amateur could be fooled if he weren’t suspicious. I put it in the vault box I rented.

  “That part was easy. It took a bit of acting to get them to leave the professor alone in the vault room with the actual painting. He let them search him for anything he could use to make a switch. Of course, they found nothing, so we all left him alone in the vault room. The last thing the bank manager did before he left the vault room was to leave open the box I had rented that morning. No one noticed because they were all focusing on the original vault box. When the professor was left alone in the vault room, he could just slip the painting he had done, the one he was supposed to be examining, into my rented box and close it. Then he took the giclee print that was in my rented box, and stormed out to berate us all for insulting his intelligence with the giclee print. He missed his calling. He could have been an actor. Now I just have to go back to the bank in the morning and get the Denisovitch painting out of my vault box. I should be back in Boston with the Denisovitch painting tomorrow night.”