“Ah, oui. I know what you mean.”
“So Vincent collected art, did he?” Jack asked, glancing at her.
“Most of his life. In fact, all of the paintings in this house were Vincent’s. He left them to me in his will, as well as his villa in Villefranche.” She smiled at Jack. “Which is where Antoine still works. Vincent employed him as a gardener for years.”
The moment they walked into the library Jack spotted the two Cézanne paintings at once. They were distinctive and filled with strong color, especially dark greens and the more somber hues. He liked them, and went over to look at the landscapes more closely. It was then that his eye caught sight of the Degas dancer hanging on a side wall, and he stepped over, stared at it. He couldn’t help thinking how much it resembled the Degas fake which had been found at Knowle Court. Obviously this was the real one. Swinging around, he said to Claudine, “I’ve seen a similar painting to this. . . . I like Degas. I understand his work.”
“So do I. This was one of Vincent’s early purchases, when he first started collecting seriously. Shall we go upstairs? There are a couple of paintings I would like you to see, a Vlaminck and a Braque.”
“I enjoyed that,” Jack said once he and Claudine had returned to the kitchen. “Thank you for showing me the art collection.” He sat down in the armchair in the seating area of the kitchen and picked up his glass of red wine, taking a sip.
Claudine joined him and said, “Perhaps you would prefer something else, Jack.” She laughed. “You have been nursing the same glass of wine all night.”
“Another coffee, please, Claudine. I do have to drive down that mountain, you know.”
Claudine said, “You shall have your coffee immediately, Jack, and I fancy a Napoleon. I enjoy a cognac after dinner, a habit I acquired from Vincent.”
As she rose and went to the drinks table to pour the cognac, Jack’s gaze followed her. She was a striking woman, very handsome, and she did not look her age. Her hair was still jet-black and luxuriant, and she moved around with ease and energy. There was a certain vivacity about her that he admired.
He said, “So Vincent was an art collector. You’ve never told me that before.”
“Did I not? Perhaps I assumed you knew. From Lucy.” She came back to the seating area, handed him a fresh cup of coffee, and sat down next to him.
“I had the paintings in storage. After I sold Vincent’s villa in Villefranche, I wanted to live here at the farm. To be close to Lucy and the girls. The villa was too large for me alone. And that is when I had the idea of building this little place for myself. It serves two purposes. . . . I am close to my family and I can display Vincent’s art. He loved it. And it gave him great pleasure.”
“It’s quite a collection. It must be very valuable,” Jack said. “Worth a fortune.”
Claudine merely nodded. Unexpectedly she volunteered, “Vincent and I could not marry. He had a wife, you see, Jack. We had been together for forty years when she suddenly died. We decided not to bother making our relationship . . . legal.” She began to chuckle. “Why? I asked him, and he agreed. He had no children or relatives left, and so he made me his sole heir.”
“As long as you were happy together, that’s all that really counts,” Jack said. “Which is what I keep telling my friend.”
Claudine sighed, then offered him a small smile, but made no comment. She sipped her cognac, feeling great sympathy for Jack. Toujours l’amour . . . always love. Always pain.
Jack leaned forward and said urgently, “Listen, Claudine, I hope you have an alarm system here. I didn’t notice one when I came in, and you must be protected. My God, all this valuable art! It must be worth hundreds of millions of euros.”
Claudine gazed at him, her black eyes full of sudden merriment. She said, “I do have an alarm system, Jack.”
Laughter overcame her for a few seconds, and when she had calmed herself, she said, sotto voce, “I have a secret, Jack. I shall tell you. However, you must swear to keep it. No one can ever know.”
Intrigued, Jack nodded. “It seems to be our night of sharing confidences, doesn’t it?” He smiled at her. “Whatever you tell me, I shall bury it deep. I will never betray you.”
“The paintings are not real.”
Jack gaped at her. “Forgeries?” He was momentarily stunned, so startled he went on staring at her, gobsmacked. “I can’t believe it,” he muttered.
“I know you can’t. When Vincent first bought most of them, thirty years ago now, he truly thought they were genuine. But the prices were so low, he eventually questioned the owner of the gallery. This fellow was an old friend. . . . They went to school together. Pierre finally admitted they were fakes. He begged Vincent to keep his secret, he even offered to buy the paintings back from Vincent at a loss, because of their long friendship. Vincent refused. He loved them. It amused him. To own fakes which everyone thought were real made him chuckle. So he kept them hanging on his walls. When people admired his masterpieces he would merely smile. And he never betrayed Pierre, whom he had known at school.”
“He was the gallery owner?”
Claudine nodded, picked up her brandy balloon, and took a sip.
“Was the gallery in Nice or Monte Carlo?”
“It was in Paris. The Pegasus Gallery.”
“Did the owner ever get caught?” Jack asked, his curiosity as a journalist kicking in. But he was also thinking of the forgeries which had turned up at Knowle Court. He seemed to be stumbling over fakes these days.
“No, fortunately for him. And his partners. They were lucky. But I believe they did become nervous, and the Englishman also. So Pierre finally closed the gallery, and retired.”
“Englishman? Do you know who he was?”
“I cannot remember his last name, Jack. His first name was most unusual. Marius. He had a gallery in London. And he had a special friend. Mon dieu! What was his name?” Claudine closed her eyes. “Let me think. Ah, oui . . . the friend of this Marius was a journalist. English also. Famous. Nigel! That was his name.”
Jack sat up straighter, his face tightening. He asked swiftly, “Was his last name Clayton?”
“I am not sure. But he was a boulevardier. I heard he liked les femmes . . . the women.”
“Boulevardier . . . a man about town,” Jack said. “Is that all you know?”
“Yes. Why are you so curious, Jack? This all happened long before your time.” She gave him an odd look, raised a brow.
“Not quite. I was a baby, though.” He forced a smile. “So nobody knows you own forgeries, Claudine?”
“That is correct. And no one must. Fakes must be destroyed in France. It’s the law.” Her face became serious. “I trust you, Jack.”
“What about Lucy?” he asked, giving her a penetrating stare.
“She does know. I had to tell her. She is my heir. But she will keep the secret. She knows she cannot sell the art.”
“Do the paintings have provenances?”
“No! No! C’est pas possible! A provenance is hard to fake.” She threw him a questioning look. “What do you think of my art collection, is it not good? You were fooled, I know.”
“It is good, and yes, I was fooled, you’re right about that, Claudine. Now, would it be possible to have another cup of coffee, please, before I head on down that dangerous mountain?”
Jack was relieved when he pulled into the garage at the Villa Saint-Honoré. He let himself into the house, went straight upstairs to his office, and called Annette on her mobile. She did not answer and he left a message, asking her to phone him. Then he sat back in the chair, his mind in a turmoil.
Marius Remmington was a crook.
He had been involved in selling forgeries through a gallery in Paris thirty years ago. So was he behind the forgeries which were suddenly being discovered now? He did not know. Maybe this was just a coincidence? And was the man Claudine remembered as Marius’s friend, a man called Nigel, his own father? Had Nigel Clayton and Remmington been in cahoots? Ha
d his father also been dealing in forged art through the Pegasus Gallery in Paris?
He did not know. But he aimed to find out. Only the truth would do. But how could he find out anything? His mother and father were dead, as was his stepfather. He could hardly go and question Marius Remmington. Who else might know something? My God, his aunt! Of course.
Aunt Helen was still alive, and had just returned from Canada. He must go and see her immediately, question her. He was, after all, a damned good journalist, had once even been an investigative reporter. He would get the facts, no matter what. Aunt Helen was the key to the past, wasn’t she? Because Helen and her sister, his mother, Eleanor, had been like two peas in a pod. Fast friends, intimates, and extremely close until the day his mother died.
The Louis Vuitton trunk.
Jack remembered it and zeroed in on what he had seen in it. All those notebooks and diaries. He had merely flipped through them, and briefly, had hardly paid any attention to them. There were photographs as well. The trunk held a lot of information. And secrets? And answers to more secrets? He hoped so. He sighed to himself. He hadn’t been paying attention to the trunk because of Annette and his sudden obsessive fascination with her.
His thoughts settled on Annette. He wondered if there was any way she could have been involved. He doubted it, knowing her as well as he did. She was as honest as he was.
Claudine had said it all happened thirty years ago, before his time. 1977. Annette would have been only ten years old. She couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with it.
Two shocks in one day, Jack thought, and both involved Marius Remmington. How about that. He was determined to get to the bottom of everything, no matter what it took, and he was certainly going to tell Annette about the fakes in France. She would have to promise to keep his confidence. But he knew, and without a shadow of a doubt, that she could be trusted.
Annette had to know about Claudine’s collection of art and where it came from, because she had to understand that her husband was a crook. And also an adulterer.
Despite what Claudine had said, the way she had cautioned him to keep quiet, Jack was going to tell Annette about the scene he had witnessed at La Réserve. She was an adult. She had to know. And she could handle it.
Standing up, Jack went and retrieved his manuscript from the other desk, put all the rubber bands around it, and went to find his small overnight bag in the bedroom. He packed the manuscript in it, then did a quick survey of the office, found all of the small things he had brought with him. These he placed next to his laptop, including his extra mobile.
He was going to fly to London tomorrow. He had no other choice. He must do his investigation so that he would discover the truth about everything. And everyone.
Forty
Organization was one of Jack’s strong suits, and on Thursday morning, back in his flat in Primrose Hill, he took everything out of the Louis Vuitton trunk, carefully laid it out on his freshly made bed. Then he began sorting the photographs, the trivia, the notebooks, and the diaries into separate piles.
He spent most of his time going through the diaries and the notebooks. They confirmed a lot. Much to his chagrin, he did discover that his father had indeed been a close friend of Marius Remmington’s, and there were mentions of trips to Paris, the Pegasus Gallery, and paintings by Braque, Pissarro, Sisley, Cézanne, and Matisse.
And yet there was nothing incriminating to do with either his father or Remmington. No mention of paintings sold, bought, or exchanged. Nothing about deals being made at the Pegasus Gallery, paintings being sold or delivered. And not one word about forgeries or forgers. Zilch.
Yet the Pegasus Gallery had obviously been a part of his father’s life; he seemingly had known a great deal about art. According to what he had written, he loved paintings and painters, liked to socialize with them, was at ease in the bohemian world.
At one moment, Jack went and sat down in a chair, and closed his eyes, thinking. Naturally there would not be one thing that was incriminating on paper. His father had undoubtedly been too smart for that.
What had been the connection between his father and Remmington? Were they simply mates? Two chaps who liked each other, liked to carouse and womanize together? He just didn’t know. Whilst the notebooks told him a lot about his father, there was not one word in them which connected his father and Remmington to any criminal act.
So his father was out of the picture in a sense.
Remmington was still very much in it. Jack could not deny facts. Claudine had indicated that Remmington was a partner in the Pegasus Gallery. She had told him Pierre, Vincent’s friend, wanted out, as had the Englishman, i.e., Marius. Later, he had established that the gallery had closed in about 1979. He was facing a brick wall.
What was he actually looking for? Information which he could use to bring Marius Remmington down. Unfortunately, to Jack’s annoyance, it just wasn’t there. And yet he could not dispel the feeling that the fakes from thirty years ago had something to do with the forgeries so recently found at Knowle Court. If anyone asked him why he felt this, he wouldn’t be able to explain. And yet the suspicion lingered that Marius Remmington was somehow involved.
Getting up out of the chair, Jack did some push-ups and stretches, and then sat at the desk and dialed Annette’s mobile. It was turned off. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was just ten o’clock. He rang her office, and was relieved when Esther answered.
“It’s Jack Chalmers. Good morning, Esther.”
“Hello, Jack,” she answered in a bland voice.
“Could I speak to Annette, please?”
“I’m afraid she’s not here. She won’t be in today. Is there anything I can do?”
“Er, er, not really. I had a few questions for her, regarding the piece for The New York Times.”
“Why don’t you e-mail them to me, and I’ll get them answered,” Esther suggested.
“I prefer to do this directly with her.” Jack paused for a moment, then asked, “Can I get her at home?”
“She’s not there. She’s out and about, on business. But I will pass on your message when I hear from her.”
“Thanks, Esther. I wonder if you can tell her something else.”
“Of course, I’ll tell her anything you want.”
“Would you tell her I need to speak to her about the paintings recently found at Knowle Court? The fakes. And tell her it’s urgent.”
“I will, Jack. Bye.”
“So long, Esther,” he murmured, and hung up.
Jack sat staring at the phone. He had not spoken to Annette since Monday. He had left countless messages on her mobile and her private line at the office, and on the office answering machine. Esther knew all this, at least about the calls to the office, yet she hadn’t referred to them. He might as well admit it, a wall had gone up between himself and Annette, and she had erected it. Because Marius was due to come home soon; perhaps he was already home. She was frightened of her husband, and Jack was fully aware she was not able to handle their love affair because of this. She was terrified they would be found out.
He thought back to some of the things she had said lately. . . . We must cool it. . . . We have to break up. . . . I can’t continue seeing you. And on and on. And when she grew really scared, she warned him that Marius would ruin him. And also her.
But how? By bad-mouthing him? Or them? By putting her out of business somehow? Did Marius have something on her? Was there some kind of blackmailing going on here?
Certainly there was nothing Remmington could have on him, because he was squeaky clean. Could Remmington reveal something terrible about his father? Even if he could, what did that matter today? His father had died years ago. Yes, he had been a famous journalist, but who remembered him nowadays?
Suddenly, none of this made sense, and all Jack knew was that he was frustrated on every level. Furthermore, he genuinely needed a sounding board, somebody to talk to about Annette, Marius, and the forgeries. Whom could he trust
? Whom could he unburden himself to here in London? Who knew the players to be able to make a proper judgment?
Margaret Mellor. No way. She seemed trustworthy enough, but they weren’t exactly close friends and she was a journalist. He dare not expose Annette’s life to her. Laurie. A possibility. But he would have to be cautious. Malcolm Stevens. Maybe Malcolm would be the best person to talk to. He would call him. And right now to make that date for lunch.
The two men met the next day for lunch at Wiltons in Jermyn Street. Malcolm had suggested it and Jack was happy to eat there. It was one of his favorite restaurants in the world, and he was always tickled by the line which went under the name: Noted since 1742 for the finest Oysters, Fish & Game.
Malcolm was already waiting for him in a quiet corner when he arrived, and as Jack sat down he realized again how much he had liked Malcolm the night they had dinner together at the Ivy. He was a straight shooter.
Jack declined a glass of wine, asking instead for sparkling water. He explained, “I’m working on the piece about Annette for The New York Times Magazine. So I’m sort of on the wagon.”
“I understand, and I rarely drink at lunchtime. Anyway, I’m delighted you phoned, Jack. It was really odd. . . . I was just about to get in touch with you, actually.”
“Great minds think alike,” Jack said, and swiftly went on, “How’s Laurie?”
“Extremely well, and fussing about the wedding.” Malcolm smiled indulgently. “You know what women are like when it comes to that particular occasion.”
Jack nodded, and jumping in with both feet, he said, “And how’s Annette? I haven’t spoken to her for a few days.”
“As far as I know, she’s fine, and I think rather pleased about the reaction to your story last Sunday.”
“She told me all about that, and the marvelous fuss being made over The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer.” After a sip of the water, Jack went on, “You’ve known her a long time, haven’t you?”
“About fifteen years, or thereabouts. I know it was before I bought the Remmington, and that’s ten years ago already. You know, I can hardly believe it. My father lent me the money, and he thought he’d never get it back. But he was wrong.”
Playing the Game Page 35
