2909_The_Forgotten_Painting__Smashwords

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by sarvar. bhat


  ‘I just took delivery of a mystery parcel, hand-delivered by special courier’, said Isis. ‘He had quite specific instructions and I had to sign for it myself.’

  ‘Oh? What is it?’

  ‘A surprise. You should really come over and see this for yourself.’

  ‘How intriguing.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I’ll catch the Eurostar in the morning’, said Jack, his curiosity aroused. ‘I need a break anyway. I’ve been working on my Fuchs interview notes for a couple of weeks now, trying to incorporate them into my book. It’s tedious, but potentially quite explosive stuff, especially now that he’s dead.’ Fuchs had passed away in his sleep two weeks earlier, after contracting pneumonia. ‘My editors are on my back, and my publicist is calling twice a day. I hate pressure!’

  ‘Poor boy. That’s what happens when you’re famous. Don’t let them rattle you.’

  ‘Easier said than done. Any hints?’

  ‘Little Sparrow in the Garden.’

  ‘Now you’ve really got me intrigued’, said Jack.

  ‘I’ll send a car to pick you up from the station. See you tomorrow.’

  Isis’ driver was waiting for Jack with the black Bentley at St Pancras station the next morning and drove him straight to the Time Machine Studios. Lola greeted Jack downstairs and took him up to Isis’ apartment.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ asked Jack, enjoying the familiar ride in the glass lift. Lola shook her head. ‘Come on, you can tell me.’

  ‘No way! She’ll skin me alive if I let anything slip.’

  ‘Oh. That important, is it?’

  ‘You’ll see in a minute.’

  Isis looked like someone who had just stepped off the catwalk. Her impeccable make-up, perfect hairdo and the latest creation by one of her favourite fashion designers, told Jack that Isis was definitely back to her true self again. She hurried towards the lift, her high heels clop-clopping on the marble, threw her arms around Jack and kissed him on both cheeks, French style. ‘You’re in for a big surprise’, she said, pointing to the easel standing in the middle of the room.

  ‘Little Sparrow in the Garden, still in pride of place, I see’, said Jack.

  ‘It is, but what do you think is next to it?’ asked Isis, pointing to another easel covered with a black velvet cloth.

  ‘No idea. Something new you’ve bought?’

  ‘No. I didn’t have to buy it. It was a gift.’

  ‘How interesting.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you think, Lola; shall we put this wretch out of his misery and show him?’ asked Isis.

  ‘Might as well.’

  Isis walked over to the easel and began to slowly lift the black cloth like a magician revealing the impossible. The only thing missing was the drum roll. As the cloth inched closer to the bottom of the frame, Isis quickly pulled it off with a flourish and stood back.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ said Jack, completely taken by surprise. He walked up to the frame and looked at the familiar painting. ‘How … did … you …?

  ‘Fuchs left it to me.’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’

  ‘I received a formal letter from his executors. Oh, and this is for you’, said Isis. She handed Jack a sealed envelope with ‘Jack Rogan’ written across the front in a spidery handwriting.

  Jack opened the envelope, unfolded the piece of paper inside, and began to read:

  Dear Jack

  I enjoyed sparring with you during our recent interviews more than I like to admit. Facing the truth for someone like me is never easy, but you have always been fair and objective in your dealings with me, and for that I am grateful.

  You have given me your word not to publish the story of the forged painting whilst I was alive, and you have honoured that pledge. By the time you receive this, you will have been released from that promise.

  I have left my art collection to various galleries around the world. True works of art can never belong to just one person. We are but temporary custodians of other men’s genius, which must be shared with the world.

  As for my forged ‘Little Sparrow in the Garden’, I have thought long and hard about what to do with it. I believe the right solution here is to reunite the two paintings, as both share a unique history and therefore belong together. That is why I have left my painting to Isis. I know she has great plans and will use her painting to raise money for charitable causes. If my ‘Little Sparrow in the Garden’ can in some small way contribute to this, perhaps as a curiosity, then I am content.

  It has been a pleasure to get to know you, Jack. You have brought a little excitement and sunshine into an old man’s life.

  Emil Fuchs

  ‘Come on, Jack, are you going to tell us what it says?’ asked Isis impatiently.

  ‘Sorry. Of course’, replied Jack, and then read the note out aloud, his voice solemn, as if he were reading out a will, which in a way of course, it was. When he tried to slip the note back into the envelope, he noticed that there was something else inside. He pulled out another piece of paper, looked at it and smiled.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Isis.

  ‘I’ll show you’, replied Jack, and held up the piece of paper. It was the receipt for the painting, reluctantly signed by Berenger Krakowski with a heavy heart in the Warsaw Ghetto on that fateful day in 1942.

  If you’ve enjoyed meeting some of the main characters in the Jack Rogan Mysteries and are not already familiar with my books, you may wish to find out more about Jack’s adventures.

  To pique your interest, I have included excerpts from all three books for your enjoyment. You won’t be disappointed; promise!

  Happy reading!

  Gabriel Farago

  MORE BOOKS FROM THE AUTHOR

  The Empress Holds the Key

  The Disappearance of Anna Popov

  The Hidden Genes of Professor K

  In 2013, I released my first adventure thriller–The Empress Holds the Key.

  Journalist Jack Rogan knows a great story when he finds one. A charred old photograph found in the ruins of a burnt-out Blue Mountains cottage hints at dark secrets, and he unwittingly reignites an ancient and deadly quest for a holy relic mysteriously erased from the pages of history.

  In pursuit of a suspected Nazi war criminal, Federal Police officer Jana Gonski joins forces with Rogan, barrister and amateur archaeologist Marcus Carrington QC, and celebrated composer Benjamin Krakowski. Together they uncover a murky web of intrigue and greed, hoards of Nazi gold, and hidden Swiss bank accounts. All of these implicate wealthy banker Sir Eric Newman. When Newman goes on trial, unexpected clues are discovered that point the way to a mystery that has haunted the Catholic Church for centuries.

  On a dangerous journey to find the relic, Rogan and his companions trace links back as far as the reign of Akhenaten, the heretic pharaoh of ancient Egypt, and King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. What is this dark secret guarded by the Knights Templar, and so feared by the Vatican? Will religious fanatics foil the quest, which could destroy the very foundations of their Church and challenge Christianity itself?

  Gabriel Farago

  THE EMPRESS

  HOLDS THE KEY

  A disturbing, edge-of-your-seat historical mystery thriller

  Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 2

  Gabriel Farago

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  We carefully removed the last stone blocking the entry to the burial chamber, and held our breath. Peering inside, we saw a large sarcophagus partially covered with sand. No other treasures—tomb robbers had probably seen to that centuries ago. Silent, we entered and approached the stone chest, its exquisite hieroglyphs whispering to us from the distant past.

  Our professor pointed to the inscriptions on top of the broken lid, his hand shaking with excitement. Barely able to speak, he said they told stories of great battles, conquered lands and glory. It appeared the tomb belonged to a general who was close to the
pharaoh. Our spirits soared; a discovery like this only comes along once.

  After the excitement had died down, the professor cleared his throat, a smile on his face. ‘This isn’t bad, guys, but don’t get too carried away’, he said, pulling us back down to earth. ‘What do you think would be the ultimate find?’ he asked, throwing us a challenge.

  I’m sure he was only teasing, but a heated debate erupted at once, the ensuing discussion continuing well into the evening as we waited for the boat to take us back across the Nile to Cairo.

  At first there were many suggestions but then, quite unexpectedly, we all agreed that one particular artefact, which had mysteriously disappeared from the pages of history a long time ago, would qualify for that distinction.

  This was remarkable, because scholars from different parts of the world rarely agree on matters like this. However, on this occasion all of us—Christians, Muslims, and Jews—had somehow come to share the same view.

  It was an unforgettable moment; it turned into a moment of destiny and became the inspiration for this book.

  Gabriel Farago

  Leura, Blue Mountains, Australia

  PART I: WAR CRIMES

  Greater Germany, on the Swiss border: November 1944

  The major looked affectionately at the sleeping Doberman curled up on the seat beside him. Slowly, he took off his gloves, stroked the dog’s shiny coat and then ran his fingers playfully along the open violin case resting on his knees.

  After a while, he looked out the window and, recognising where they were, tapped his driver on the back. ‘Stop the car and wait for the others. We’re almost there.’

  The driver slowed and pulled the powerful Mercedes to the side of the road. After switching off the engine, he unfolded a large map and began to look for the inconspicuous track he remembered that lead down to the lake.

  Meanwhile, the major turned and watched the armoured personnel carrier slowly crawling up the pass behind them. He pulled out his silver cigarette case engraved with a small swastika, which Himmler had given him. If Heinrich only knew what we’d just done! he thought, all hell would break loose. By driving through the night and using only back roads, they’d managed to avoid patrols and roadblocks. Himmler, of all people, would know that leaving Auschwitz with two prisoners without the necessary permits wasn’t easy, even for a member of the SS. And then there was the precious cargo ...

  Benjamin Krakowski tried to shield his brother from the icy wind rocking the open truck. He put his arm around his brother’s bony shoulders and pulled him towards his chest.

  ‘Where do you think they’re taking us?’ asked his brother, staring up at the snow-covered peaks ahead of them.

  ‘Shut up, David! Do you want them to beat us again—or worse?’ whispered Benjamin. He glanced anxiously at the guards sitting on wooden crates in the back and squeezed his brother’s arm.

  ‘No’, replied David, huddling closer.

  Fear could no longer keep Benjamin awake. Almost delirious from hunger and the numbing cold, he closed his eyes and drifted into a restless sleep that his exhausted body craved so much. Unable to relax, he again heard his father beseeching him: ‘Benjamin, listen carefully ... There isn’t much time! Promise me you’ll do exactly as I tell you ... You must finish what I’ve begun ... You are the one ... do you understand? And remember, the Empress holds the key ...’

  ‘I promise, Father’, murmured Benjamin. ‘Yes; the Empress holds the key ...’

  The personnel carrier followed the black Mercedes down to the lake and stopped in front of a jetty.

  ‘Wake up, you lazy scum!’ shouted one of the guards, kicking Benjamin in the back. ‘Unload the crates. Move!’

  One by one, the two young prisoners lifted the heavy wooden boxes off the truck and carried them across to the jetty.

  ‘And when you’re finished, start digging a trench over here’, the guard yelled.

  ‘We’re digging our own graves’, hissed David, driving his pick into the hard clay. ‘We’ve seen it all before. We have to make a run for it—now! Into that forest before it’s too late!’ he continued, pointing towards the pines with his chin. ‘Come!’

  ‘Are you mad?’ said Benjamin. ‘They’ll shoot us before we make it to the first tree.’

  David ignored his brother’s warning and slowly worked his way towards the guard standing closest to the trench. Then, lifting his pick, he slammed the pointed end into the back of the guard’s knee. Taken by surprise, the screaming soldier lost his balance, dropped his gun, and fell against the crates, splitting one open. Three shiny gold bars tumbled unnoticed into the mud.

  Benjamin froze. Instead of running after his brother, he stared at the soldier thrashing in agony on the ground in front of him.

  Startled by the scream, the major looked across to the jetty. He unleashed his dog, raised his arm, and pointed to the prisoner running towards the forest. ‘Arco—there. Catch!’ he shouted.

  Before the other guards had realised what had happened, David was lying face down in the mud. Pinned to the ground by the major’s Doberman on his back—fangs bared and snarling—he was certain he was about to be torn apart.

  The major pointed to a dead tree. ‘Take him over there’, he ordered. ‘Strip him!’

  The angry guards ripped the threadbare prison rags from the boy’s thin frame. Terrified and shaking, David looked like a cornered animal as he tried in vain to cover his genitals with bleeding hands.

  ‘Now, string him up from the tree over there’, shouted the major. ‘The way we saw the Ukrainians reward deserters—remember? That’ll teach him a lesson.’

  ‘Why don’t we use this instead?’ suggested one of the guards, pointing to an iron cross wedged into the rock behind the tree.

  ‘A crucifixion?’ said the major, laughing. ‘That would be most appropriate; he’s a Jew after all. Look, it’s too small, even for a miserable wretch like this—see? Pity.’

  Suddenly, a motor boat materialised out of the mist and approached the jetty. A tall young man in a fur coat waved his slouch hat, jumped ashore, and hurried towards the major. ‘Is it all here?’ he asked.

  ‘See for yourself, Anton’, replied the major. He pointed to the crates and embraced his friend.

  Anton began to examine the markings on the lids by tracing the familiar German eagle with the tip of his finger. Satisfied, he turned towards the major. ‘Congratulations!’ he said. ‘I don’t know how you did it. Let’s get them on board. Quickly!’

  The major opened the door of the Mercedes and lifted the violin case off the back seat.

  ‘Taking music lessons?’ teased Anton, smiling.

  ‘No. This has nothing to do with music. This is an instrument of history’, the major replied gravely, patting the case. ‘Come, let’s go; they’ve almost finished loading the crates.’

  The two friends hurried down the embankment and stopped in front of the dead tree. Despite the horrific beating, David was still alive. The major reached for his holster.

  ‘Hold it right there’, said Anton. He pulled a camera out of his pocket and took a photo. ‘One for the family album?’ he added sarcastically.

  The major pointed his Luger at David’s head. ‘Can you hear me?’ he demanded.

  David nodded without opening his eyes.

  ‘You cannot run away from destiny’, the major whispered calmly, and shot David in the temple. The virgin snow, turned crimson by the hot droplets of David’s splattered blood, began to weep.

  When he turned around, the major saw Benjamin staring at him from across the trench. Their eyes locked and contempt met fear. Then, slowly, the major lifted his gun, took aim, and pulled the trigger. ‘Neither can you, Jew boy’, he snarled, calmly slipping the Luger back into its holster.

  ‘Bury them’, barked the major. ‘Heil Hitler!’ He hurried across the gangplank and saluted his men standing to attention by the jetty.

  As soon as the powerful diesel engines had roared to life, Anton gave an order. Two
sailors armed with machine guns stepped out of the wheelhouse and opened fire on the major’s men. Torn apart by the unexpected hail of bullets, the hapless men collapsed, their arms still raised in silent salute.

  Anton looked at the major. ‘No witnesses—remember?’ he said with a shrug, and climbed below deck.

  * * *

  Benjamin opened his eyes. Darkness. He quickly closed them again. Silence. Licking his lips, he tasted blood. Barely able to breathe in the confined space, he tried to move his aching limbs but couldn’t; something heavy was pressing on his back and shoulders. It was the arm of a dead soldier lying on top of him. Slowly, the numbness drained away and his whole body began to throb with pain. Flashes of memory returned.

  I’m not dead!

  Fear gave him strength. Slowly, he began to claw through the loose clay towards the top. Breathless and retching, he pushed his head out into the open and gasped for air.

  The sleet hitting his face like icy needles revived him. He opened his mouth, a silent scream on his parched lips, then searched all around him, squinting through half-closed eyes into the blinding daylight, scanning the empty clearing. The soldiers were all gone, the crates had disappeared and there was no boat at the jetty. The burnt-out shells of the armoured truck and the Mercedes smouldered in the mist, filling the bracing cold air with an acrid stench of burnt rubber. Over the brooding lake the mountain fog hovered like a shroud. Benjamin cautiously turned his aching head, and began to look for his brother’s tree. It was just behind him, with part of a severed rope still tied to one of the branches.

  ‘David!’ Benjamin cried out. ‘Noooo.’ He covered his face with blood-stained hands, fell to his knees, and began to pray.

  CHAPTER 1

  The thunderstorm blew in from the south, sending dark clouds racing across the night sky like a celestial pirate fleet raiding the stars. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning struck an old eucalypt; it split its trunk in half and set it on fire. The rugged sandstone cliffs trembled as the thunder roared across the dry valley. At first, the flames struggled to ignite the tough bark of the doomed tree. Soon however, nourished by a gust of wind, they formed a blazing ring around the base of the giant and began their deadly ascent towards its parched crown. Defeated, the burning trunk crashed to the forest floor, sending a cloud of lethal sparks dancing towards their next victim. The bushfire had begun.

 

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