“So what can he blurt out?” Esther sat back in the chair on the other side of Annette’s desk and stared at her. “What’s the new development?”
“There are two, possibly three, paintings in the collection which are forgeries, and we must absolutely keep this under wraps. We can’t have leaks, which would be detrimental to my business. You know how gossipy the art world is, and the mere mention of the word fake in connection to the Delaware collection and Annette Remmington Fine Art would be disastrous. Even though I have nothing at all to do with the forgeries showing up, I’d somehow get smeared. You know how it is. People make assumptions, even invent things.”
Esther grimaced. “I certainly do know. But do you mean there are two more forgeries plus the Cézanne with the soot covering parts of it, or has a new one popped up?”
“There are three more that were found, yes. Let me tell you about the weekend, and what happened.”
Annette leaned back in her chair, carefully explained, in great detail, the events of Saturday and the discovery of the priest hole and its treasures as well as the fakes. She also told her about the Graham Sutherland watercolors.
When Annette had finished, Esther exclaimed, “How marvelous! It’s a fantastic windfall. You can now revamp the next auction, can’t you? Do what you really wanted to do originally.”
“You’re right. I can have an auction of the six Impressionist paintings, and one sculpture, Degas’s The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer. I will probably hold back the Giacometti, auction that later in the year, along with the Graham Sutherland paintings, which fit together better since they’re all modern. But this collection of Impressionists is unique, now guarantees an important auction.”
“Christopher must be over the moon about this,” Esther said.
“I’ve discovered that Christopher’s cup is always half empty, never half full. He’s got a negative personality. . . . Nothing is ever right, there’s always something wrong. He’s a whiner and he’s focusing on the fakes, not the windfall, as you call it.”
“But surely you can caution him, warn him, insist he doesn’t talk about the forgeries, which his uncle obviously bought. Can you explain how dangerous that would be?”
“I have already, and I believe he understands, especially since I brought the word money into our discussion. However, I can’t keep him under lock and key, or have him permanently by my side, and therefore there is always that risk, that he might say the wrong thing to somebody.”
“I understand.” Esther frowned, then stopped speaking as the office secretary opened the door, having just knocked on it, and said, “Mr. Jack Chalmers is in reception. He says he doesn’t have an appointment with you, Annette, but that it’s urgent he sees you.”
“Thanks, Marilyn,” Annette replied. “Tell him I’ll see him in a moment.”
The secretary nodded and closed the door.
Annette said, “It must be something to do with the profile he’s writing.”
Esther wondered why he hadn’t simply phoned, but refrained from saying this. “I’d better go and get him, bring him in,” she murmured, and stood up.
“I was supposed to see him Saturday to finish the interview,” Annette volunteered. “And when the situation developed with the discovery in Kent, I asked Jack to come with me. We were able to do the balance of the interview on the way down, and on the drive back to London. In fact, he was very kind and transported the paintings in his car, which we took to Carlton.”
“Oh, I see,” Esther murmured, and hurried over to the door so that Annette wouldn’t see the sudden expression of glee on her face. Now she understood why Annette looked so different. She had been with Jack Chalmers, who most definitely had designs on her. Esther was so pleased she was positively beaming when she walked into reception to greet the good-looking journalist.
A moment later Esther returned with Jack at her side, showed him into Annette’s office, and closed the door behind her.
Smiling, Jack leaned against the door and beckoned for Annette to come to him. She hesitated only momentarily, and then walked across the room. “What’s so urgent, Jack?” she asked in a low voice. “Why are you here?”
“I have a solution to your problem,” he murmured softly, and pulled her into his arms, kissed her lightly on the mouth, nuzzled her neck. He whispered, “God, I’ve missed you so much, darling. All night, in fact.”
Still clinging to him, her heart pounding, Annette whispered, “Why on earth are we leaning against this door?”
“To prevent anyone from opening it,” he whispered back, and kissed her again. Then, eager to tell her why he was there, he let her go, and they walked across the room together. He took the chair Esther had just vacated, and she sat behind her desk.
Annette looked at him for a long moment, and finally asked, “Which problem do you have a solution for?” She finally smiled at him, her eyes loving. “I have so many.”
“I know how worried you are about Christopher Delaware blabbing about the forgeries. Oh, by the way, any news from Laurie?”
“No, but she’ll be calling me shortly. She went to see Carlton early this morning. I’m expecting to hear from her any moment.”
“Good.” Leaning forward, his strong gaze fixed on her face, he began to talk, the words rushing out of him. “You’ve got to get the jump on Christopher. You’ve led me to believe that the merest mention of forgeries could be damaging to you, that just being linked to them could be a black mark against you. And since you worry he might . . . let’s say inadvertently talk about them, you’ve got to take control. Immediately.”
“What do you mean get a jump on him? Take control? I’m not following you.”
“You’ve got to make an announcement tomorrow or Wednesday. You must tell the world about the amazing discovery in a long-forgotten priest hole at Knowle Court. Reveal what’s been discovered. Three fabulous Impressionist paintings, worth millions and millions, by Cézanne, Pissarro, and Manet. Play up those by Cézanne and Pissarro, the two different views of Louveciennes by these great artists working side by side. Talk about the Graham Sutherland paintings, also discovered in the room. Play them all up. Make no mention of any forgeries. If there are any questions about whether other paintings were found, be dismissive, fluff it off, just say that there were a couple of nondescript unimportant canvases by unknown artists. Making the announcement will do the trick. Christopher will immediately get caught up in the ballyhoo that will occur, because you know how to do that. And even he will see how idiotic it would be to talk about forgeries, when these valuable paintings are in play and the press is writing about his fantastic collection.”
“It’s brilliant, Jack! And you’re brilliant. But it sounds as if you’re suggesting I give a press conference. Are you?”
“I was, yes. That was the idea I had this morning as I was shaving, then dressing, getting ready to come and have lunch with you.”
“Are we having lunch?”
“You betcha!”
“I don’t think I want to have a press conference. Couldn’t you write the story, Jack? After all, you went to Knowle Court with me. You were sort of, well, in on it, in a sense part of it. That would make the story better, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, it would, and I thought of that myself when I was in the cab coming here. But I didn’t know how you’d feel. I certainly didn’t want you to think that I’m trying to push myself into your world. Or worse, make money on you, even manipulate you. After all, you get enough of that, and—” He broke off, realizing what he had just said in the excitement of the moment.
He looked at her carefully. Her face had paled slightly, and there was an expression of surprise in her blue eyes. Or was it hurt? He cursed himself under his breath, and said gently, “Sorry about that, Annette.”
“You must have been asking some very probing questions about me before writing the profile. And about Marius.”
“No, I haven’t,” he protested. “I promise you. It’s the truth, darli
ng, and there must always be truth between us, no matter what. I did talk to a few people in the art world, said I was writing a profile of you for The Sunday Times. Several of those people I spoke to mentioned that Marius was a bit of a Svengali, manipulative, controlling. I found this rather strange, since you’re such a strong and independent woman.”
She nodded, relaxed her taut body, believing him. After a moment, she said, with a light laugh, “Marius does think he knows what’s best. For everyone, not just me.”
“I understand. Look, I left my laptop outside in reception with my raincoat. Let me get it. You can read the profile on it if you want, although I did send it electronically to my editor at the paper before I left the flat.”
“I trust you, Jack, honestly I do. And I would actually prefer you to write the story. But won’t that interfere with your profile, since that hasn’t appeared yet?”
“No, I don’t think so. I could wait a week to write the news story, but I think it’s better that it appears as fast as possible. Just in case our Chris gets a bit too chatty.” Jack rose, walked over to the window, looked down into Bond Street, stood there thinking for a few moments.
Annette was focused on him, watching him, realizing what a wonderful profile he had. Suddenly it was there again, that flicker of a fleeting memory that was gone in an instant.
Walking back to the chair and sitting down, he said, “I’m going to phone the editor who edits my stuff for The Sunday Times a bit later. I want to tell him about what happened on Saturday. I think he’ll suggest I write it for The Times, our daily paper. It can run before Sunday. With it they can reference my profile of you, coming up on Sunday. How does that sound?”
“Good to me, but you’re the journalist. Just one question. If you do write the story for The Times, and they run it this week, will I have to speak to a lot of other journalists on the phone? I mean the rest of the press will hound me, won’t they?”
“You might get some calls, yes, because every paper wants its own quote, wants to ask questions. But you can handle that, I’m sure. However, I’ll make my story very comprehensive, cover everything I can think of, so there won’t be too much fresh material for anyone else to probe for, okay?”
“All right then, let’s go for it. When are you going to write the story, Jack?”
“Right now, if there’s a spare desk somewhere here. After that I’ll take you to lunch.”
“And where will that be?”
“I thought about Le Caprice. It’s in walking distance, and they make great fish cakes.”
“It’s such a public place,” she said worriedly.
“I promise I’ll behave myself.”
“But we’ll be seen together.”
“What’s wrong with that? I’m writing about you, I’m writing about your upcoming auction. A good cover. When is it, by the way?”
“In September. Sotheby’s agreed to the date. I thought I’d told you.”
“Yes, I think you did.” He stood up. “Where can I sit for an hour or two, darling?”
“I’ll take you to the little conference room. It’s nice and quiet. And, Jack, please don’t call me darling in front of anyone here, will you? Please.”
“Of course not. Do you think I’m daft, or what?” He grinned at her, pulled her to him, and kissed her on the mouth.
Annette extricated herself quickly, and shook her head when he made a glum face. “You’re quite the actor, aren’t you?”
“This is not an act. I hate it when you push me away.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” she murmured.
“You can be certain I’ll hold you to that,” he said, and allowed himself to be propelled across the floor and out into the reception area.
Esther listened to Annette and then took charge of Jack, explaining that the conference room was a perfect place to write. As they walked off together down the corridor, she glanced at him surreptitiously, couldn’t help thinking he looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary. Very well pleased. She smiled inwardly, hoping he and Annette would have a long friendship. But then that depended on Annette. The thought of Marius Remmington wiped the happy expression off Esther’s face, filled her with unexpected worry.
Annette returned to her office and sat down, staring into space, thinking about Jack. He had come up with a clever idea; still, deep down she dreaded the thought of the press on her back. She was afraid they would dig into her past. So far they hadn’t done so, but she still fretted about this.
Her private line began to ring, and she picked it up at once. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” her sister said. “I’m here with Carlton.”
“What’s the verdict?”
“I’m ninety percent sure the Degas dancer is a fake. In fact, I thought so at once. It has a certain crudeness about it, a roughness. It’s not a copy of any Degas dancer I know of, though. I think somebody just tried to paint in his style, but did their own thing.”
“You see it the same way I do, Laurie. At first glance you think, Oh, great, a Degas, and when you look again you’re not certain. I assume Carlton is going to test the paint and canvas.”
“Yes, of course. He needs to speak to you. Here he is.”
“Hello, my darling girl,” Carlton said. “Laurie spotted it straightaway, confirms what you thought originally. Look, to be absolutely sure, I would like to bring in Ted Underwood to examine it with me. Is this all right?”
“Absolutely. Do what you have to. Test everything, including the frame. I thought it looked like a bit of old molding, to be honest.”
“I have a question for you, Annette, but I don’t believe you can answer it.”
“What is it?”
“What is Christopher going to do with these new forgeries? There are now three more showing up in the famous Delaware collection. Well, three if the Degas dancer is a bust. Don’t you think they ought to be destroyed?”
“I do, but he hasn’t destroyed the earlier Cézanne yet, at least not to my knowledge. I’ll speak to him again.”
“Very good. I’ll be in touch within the next few days.”
Laurie came back on the line and said, “Unless you need me for anything else, I’ll go back home.”
“Do that, darling, and we’ll speak later.”
“Big kiss,” Laurie said, and hung up.
Annette sat for a long time, staring into space. Who had created these forgeries? Why had Sir Alec Delaware bought them? Had he been truly out of it when he did? Dementia? Everyone seemed to think he had become weird after his fiancée had committed suicide. Had she advised him, earlier on in their relationship? Annette compressed her mouth. It beggared belief that a man like Delaware had been duped.
On a sudden impulse, Annette buzzed Esther on the intercom and said, “Could you look up an artist in the various British painters reference books? Modern painters. By modern I actually mean contemporary.”
“Yes. What name?” Esther asked.
“Clarissa Normandy,” Annette answered. “The woman who was engaged to Sir Alec, then later killed herself.”
“Give me two minutes,” Esther said, and put down the phone.
Ten minutes later Esther hurried into Annette’s office, explaining, “Sorry, it took longer than I thought it would. She’s only listed in one, and then there’s not much, only a few lines. She attended the Royal College of Art, showed great promise, but never made it as a famed artist before her so-called untimely death. Here, I made a couple of notes.” Esther handed her the piece of paper.
Annette glanced at it and shrugged. She read aloud: “Born in Gloucestershire. Maiden name Lang. Oh, Normandy must have been her married name. Obviously divorced or a widow, since she became engaged to Sir Alec. You’re absolutely correct, though; there’s nothing to help us.”
“Why did you think she could?”
“It occurred to me that she might have advised Sir Alec. I mean, why on earth did he spend good money on forgeries?”
“I guess beca
use he didn’t know they were.”
“Only too true,” Annette said, and then asked, “Are the Estrins scheduled to come in later this week?”
Esther nodded. “Yes. I put the appointment in your book. They’re currently in Paris, but they’ll be flying to London tomorrow.”
“Very good, and thanks, Esther.”
Two hours later, around one o’clock, Jack came into Annette’s office, and beckoned to her. “Can you come to the conference room, where I’m set up, please?”
Annette rose, walked across the floor, asking, “Have you finished the story?”
“Yes, more or less. I had a few calls to make as well. I’ve got an okay on doing this piece for The Times. I don’t usually do this, show my stories to anyone except my editors, but I’d like you to look it over. If the basics are correct, as far as you’re concerned, and as I remember everything, then we’re fine. I’ll polish it first thing in the morning and send it electronically tomorrow, for Wednesday’s paper.”
“Are you usually this quick?” Annette asked, as they went to the conference room.
“Sometimes. I was writing from memory, not constantly checking notes, so it went pretty fast. Remember, this is a news story, and it’s just the facts, ma’am.”
Annette frowned. Those words rang a bell. Someone else had once said them to her. But who was it?
“Why the puzzled look?” Jack asked, staring at her.
“Those words seemed so familiar to me. Just the facts, ma’am, I mean.”
“Oh, you’re remembering the actor Jack Webb saying them. He played a detective called Joe Friday in an American television show called Dragnet, and he used to say, ‘My name’s Friday. I’m a cop. Just the facts, ma’am.’ ”
“I guess you’re right,” she agreed, and walked on with him. But she wasn’t so sure he was right. But what did it matter? Her main concern was her secret past. She had buried it deep, prayed it would stay there. She shivered involuntarily. Fear was a strange thing. It came and grabbed you by the throat unexpectedly.
In the conference room, she sat down in front of his laptop and slowly read the story he had written about the events of last Saturday. It was good clean copy, no folderols, and everything was correct. “It’s perfect, Jack. And what a good memory you have.”
Playing the Game Page 30
