The Monet Murders (24 page)

“Can't say I do.”

“It's from
Idylls of the King
. Tennyson.”

“Hence ‘King Arthur.'”

“Bravo, my good D'Invilliers.”

I made a mental note to tell my friend Hobey that I was “going by” D'Invilliers. I figured he would get a kick out of that.

As soon as the secretary left, Bunny put the dish of macaroons on the floor. Tom dispatched them quickly and noisily and then went back to his place below the window and resumed his nap.

“Have you ever thought about the differences in our language?” asked Bunny. “For example, we call these things ‘biscuits,' whereas you call them ‘cookies.' Who said the
English and Americans were two people separated by a common language?”

“I don't know, but for me a biscuit is something you pour gravy on.”

“I rest my case. It was either Shaw or Wilde. They both said something along those lines, I believe. Not surprising. They both were always straining after the bon mot. Shaw's still at it, as a matter of fact. The word is, he wants to come to Hollywood and write for the pictures. Imagine that.”

Bunny lit his pipe, and the sweet smell of expensive tobacco drifted through the room. It made me think about taking up the pipe at some point. It looked very elegant. But I wasn't sure I could quite pull it off the way Bunny did. He was wearing a brown tweed jacket with a checked shirt and a blue-and-white ascot. Now, there was nothing unusual about ascots in this town, but Bunny was one of the few who actually didn't look or feel self-conscious wearing one. Passing a mirror or a plate-glass window, it wouldn't occur to him to look at his reflection. It was part of his quite genuine self-assurance. He was the kind all the others were trying to imitate.

“I apologize for dragging you here,” he said. “But I thought it best not to tell you anything over the phone. It's a habit I've picked up since I started working with the FBI. Telephone operators have large ears. Besides, I think the story will raise a number of questions.”

Was that really the reason? I wondered. It seemed a little overly cautious. Then I remembered Gertie, the telephone operator for my office building. Then Bunny's caution made more sense. Gertie was a friend of mine, but I knew she doubled as an escort for Della's service, a bit of information
the building manager and the phone company would frown on. A little implied blackmail and chocolates now and then went a long way toward guaranteeing confidentiality.

“It's no trouble,” I said. “What's up?”

“Something interesting to us both. An art dealer I know stopped by to tell me that an important French Impressionist painting will be coming on the market in the next week or so.”

“The Watson Monet?”

“Very possibly, although the dealer wasn't specific. It was just a preliminary conversation. He was a little cagey, which sent up a small-ish red flag. The interesting aspect, though, is that the sale will be private. No auction house involved.”

“Why would this guy come to you?”

“Well, we've done business before, you see, and he wanted to know if I was interested in getting involved. I told him I just might be.”

“In what way?”

“Helping to place it.”

“‘Place' it?”

“Sell it, to be more precise. I know a great many people who are both wealthy and acquisitive, here and in New York and London. And a few other places where money lives. There is a large appetite internationally for Monet.”

“And they say we're in a Depression.”

“Soup kitchens and bread lines notwithstanding, people with money are quite happy to look for bargains in the arts. Of course, the dismal economic climate affects the selling price, but the demand is still there if you know where to look.”

“And you do.”

“Frankly, yes. As a sideline, I've often helped place artwork with private buyers. It's a nice arrangement for everyone,
because there are no auction-house commissions to be paid. I also authenticate the work, so that the buyer is assured that he is getting a genuine article. Of course, there are other experts who do similar work. We tend to specialize in certain periods. I'm best known for my work on the French Impressionists.” He smiled, ironically. “No doubt you've read my book.”

“It's on my nightstand.”

“I'm pleased to hear it,” he said, indicating that he knew better than to believe me.

“But how does this market work—I mean, with no auction, how do you know what something is worth? How does anyone set the price?”

“I help with that, too. You rely on knowledge of what has sold in the past and set a provisional price. And then there is a bidding war of sorts, albeit private. You don't just contact one potential buyer. But the contacts are confidential, the opposite of a noisy auction room.”

“Do you get paid for this?”

“Of course, but my fees are much lower than those of an auction house. No overhead, you see.”

It occurred to me that this private-placement business was the perfect way to move stolen art, and I said so.

“It is the only way, my boy,” said Bunny. “The only way.”

“And I suppose with your contacts, you have an idea of who might be in the market for a piece of art—with no questions asked?”

“You mean stolen art?”

“Yes. Or forgeries.”

“One gets around. And hears things too. The private-placement market is actually quite active, and sometimes
just as cutthroat as an auction, but entirely sub rosa. And fragmented. Lots of one-on-one confidential contacts. An ideal environment to move stolen artwork. Or forgeries, for that matter.”

I stared at him for a moment. He must have detected the shadow of suspicion in my expression.

“Have you. . . .”

“Ever placed a piece of stolen art?”

“Yes.” It was an offensive question, but Bunny did not seem in the least offended.

“Not knowingly,” he said. “But no one knows the whereabouts of every piece of an important artist's work. Things come on the market that you've never heard of. Didn't know existed. And therefore had no idea who might have owned it or where it came from. Happens more often than one would imagine.”

“A hundred years ago, a starving artist traded a café owner a painting for a glass of beer? And then it stayed in the family attic for generations while the artist became more and more famous—after his death in the poorhouse?”

“Something like that, although in the case of the French Impressionists it was more often a glass of absinthe they traded for—which accelerated their passage to the poorhouse, or sometimes the madhouse. But the fact that such pieces bob up regularly has created and supported the private-placement market. And it works the other way round—the fact that there is an active private market opens the door to the sale of forged as well as stolen works. If everything were sold only in public auctions, the art thieves would be essentially out of business.”

“Are the private buyers conscious co-conspirators in this business?”

“Not for the forgeries, for obvious reasons. No one is a conscious dupe. But in the case of thefts, the answer is ‘quite often,' yes. It is a wicked world, I'm afraid. You have no idea of the passion of a true collector. Many of them would jump any number of legal and moral fences to acquire something they wanted. Many are not in the least burdened by legal scruples. Not when it comes to acquiring great art. And let's face facts, people who amass great fortunes are not always the kind of people you want to take home to mother. One does not usually become a multi-millionaire by taking soup to the poor. In fact, I firmly believe that many of them enjoy the intrigue. They think—in fact, they know—they are getting a valuable asset at a discount from its true open-market value. That is part of the thrill of acquisition. Of course, countries have been acquiring art this way for centuries. The Elgin Marbles, for example. Pure theft. Ask the Greeks.”

“This all must take place pretty quickly. I mean when a painting is stolen, wouldn't the cops or the FBI be on the case almost immediately?”

“In theory, yes. But if you were a thief, you'd probably steal a painting in, say, Budapest, ship it quickly to New York or London, and put it into the market, privately. The better the piece, the faster it sells.”

“And way ahead of the law.”

“Way ahead, yes. And don't forget, the sale is completely private—a conversation between a dealer and his client, usually a regular client. Word of the sale does not get out, regardless of how efficient the international police might be. And you won't be shocked to hear that international cooperation between law-enforcement officials is highly
in
efficient. What's more, if the thieves were clever enough to replace the
stolen object with a credible forgery, the owner might not know for a week, a month—or ever, for that matter.”

“Would a good forgery, especially one masquerading as a previously unknown work, almost always find its way to a buyer through the private-placement route?”

“Usually. A particularly good forgery might be offered at public auction, but generally there are too many people examining the piece to make it quite comfortable for the forger. Better to take a little less and sell it privately.”

“How do you authenticate these sudden mysterious arrivals, then?”

“From the style, most of all. And some technical tests. It's generally easier with a stolen piece, because, after all, it is genuine.”

“Although you don't know it's stolen.”

“No, because it's presented as one of those ‘found in the attic' pieces. Authenticating forgeries is another story. If I have even the slightest doubt, I don't guarantee authenticity, just give an opinion. Say ‘it's in the style of so and so.' That's usually good enough, though. At the right price, collectors are willing to take a chance now and then. It may knock down the price a bit, but the forger paid nothing for it to begin with—just a few tubes of paint, a canvas, and a little time—so anything is almost pure profit to him. And most of these people are extremely talented. They can turn out a credible forgery in a matter of days. So anything they get for their work is like the stuff you pour on biscuits.”

“I get it. But it would have to be a master forger who could slip one by an expert. Like you.”

“Yes, in all modesty. I don't say it couldn't happen, though. Or even that it hasn't happened. Besides, there are other
authenticators who may not be as, shall we say, fastidious. Or as expert.”

“An expert who might be in on the deal, possibly?”

“I wouldn't say that. But
you
might.”

“Getting back to the dealer who contacted you—let's assume for a minute that the painting he's talking about is the Watson Monet. Can you find out from him who's behind the sale? Who's offering it?”

“There's the rub. As I've said, these private placements are usually done in complete secrecy. The owner is not always identified. A dealer who does not honor that privacy would be out of business very soon if word ever got out, which it would. That is why forgeries and stolen pieces can be moved—secrecy. Besides, there are often several middlemen in the transaction, so that a dealer sometimes has no idea of who the original owner might be.”

“A daisy chain.”

“If you like. I can ask my dealer friend, of course, but I would not be at all surprised if he doesn't know or isn't allowed to say.”

I mulled these elements over, wishing I had some talent as a painter. It was only a fleeting thought.

“Has Charles Watson contacted you?” I asked.

“The owner of the Monet?”

“Yes.”

“No, I haven't heard from him. Why?”

“I gave him your name as the best person to examine the painting in his house—to see if it's genuine or another copy like the one I showed you. Strange that he hasn't done it.”

Bunny studied me for a moment, took a few puffs on his pipe, and then gazed out the window for a few more
moments. He let the smoke out gradually, savoring it, and he did not blow smoke rings. It wasn't his style.

“You think there may be something overly ripe in Denmark?” he asked finally.

“It's possible.”

“Ah. Very interesting. Let us therefore consider those possibilities. Suppose this new painting that's coming on the market is in fact the Watson Monet. And suppose, further, that it is genuine and currently hanging above the Watson mantel, protected no doubt by an elaborate alarm system. The Watsons would be foolish not to have very good security. But the point is, in that scenario, there is nothing at all nefarious, right?”

“Correct.”

“Right. And Watson is selling it because he's not an art lover and simply wants to turn an asset into cash and get rid of a bad memory at the same time. The painting would have unhappy associations, even if he appreciated Monet.”

“Which he doesn't.”

“I'm not surprised. Anyway, that's scenario one. Everything on the up-and-up. But let's consider scenario two. In that case, let's suppose the painting above the mantel is a fake. Then what?” he asked.

“Then we can assume it's a second fake that was almost certainly painted by Wilbur Hanson so that he could cover his theft and sell the genuine article through these private-placement channels.”

“But why bother with a second fake, I wonder?”

“I've wondered that too.”

“Perhaps it was a better job,” said Bunny. “Perhaps Wilbur thought he might improve on the first. He had talent, no
question. The one you showed me couldn't pass muster with anyone who would be interested in buying Monet. But if he did a better job the second time around. . . .”

“But why bother?”

Bunny put a fresh match to his pipe and leaned back in contemplation.

“How about this for a scenario,” he said through a cloud of aromatic smoke: “Wilbur somehow exchanged his first copy for a new and improved second copy. How or when he did that remains to be seen. But let's suppose he managed it. As Mrs. Watson's lover, he most likely had access to the house. Probably knew how to turn off the alarm when he entered. Probably had his own key. Agreed?”