Art of Murder

by Jose Carlos Somoza

  The canvases, especially the youngest ones, all loved talking to Benoit. They poured out their fears to this bald grandfather who spoke with a French accent, and invariably decided to struggle on. It was a wonderful act. In fact, Benoit was a dangerous individual: more dangerous, in his own way, than Miss Wood. Bosch thought he was the most dangerous of them all.

  Except, of course Stein and the Maestro.

  They're young and rich,' Benoit said scornfully, staring at the monitors. 'What more do they want, Lothar? I can't understand them. They have clothes, jewellery, human ornaments and toys, cars, drugs, lovers ... if they tell us of somewhere in the world where they'd like to live, we buy them a palace there. So what more do they want?'

  'A different kind of life, perhaps. They're human, too.'

  Benoit's forehead furrowed. The frown stayed for several moments while Bosch smiled wearily but stubbornly at him.

  'Please Lothar, don't say such things while I'm drinking my tea substitute. My ulcer has been worse recently. What Van Tysch has offered them is something far greater than they themselves are, or their wretched lives. He's offered them eternity. Don't they realise it? They are incredibly beautiful works of art, the most beautiful a painter has ever created, but that's not enough for them: they complain of backaches, of itchy backsides or of depression. Please, Lothar, please ...'

  'All I meant was ...'

  'No, Lothar, don't give me that.' Benoit lifted his hand. It was as though he were waving away a plate of disgusting food. 'Beauty requires sacrifice. You've no idea what it costs us to keep these little flowers in good condition. So don't give me that. Let's drop it.'

  He waved his cup angrily in the air. The Trolley rushed over, arching her back so that her stomach, with the tray attached, stuck out beneath it. She was almost bent over double backwards, because Benoit had barely raised his arm. Her depilated, mauve-coloured sex pointed straight at Bosch.

  'Would you like some more, too, Lothar?' Benoit asked, signalling to the ornament to serve him another half cup.

  'No thanks,' Bosch said, taking the opportunity to get rid of his still almost completely full cup on to the Trolley.

  'Did you like it?'

  'It was delicious.'

  'It is, isn't it? I order it personally from a firm in Paris. They have substitutes for almost everything you could think of, even substitutes of substitutes.'

  There was another silence. Purple Tulip appeared on the screens.

  'Will you be staying long in Vienna, Paul?' Bosch asked eventually.

  The question caught Benoit just as he was sipping his tea. He drank greedily as he shook his head.

  'Only as long as is necessary. I want to be sure the information about the case is kept out of the news. That's proving quite difficult. For example, yesterday I had a telephone conversation with a bigwig in the Austrian Ministry of the Interior. Those people make your blood boil. He was trying to put pressure on me to make it public. My God, what's happening in this crazy country just because at the end of the last century a neo-Nazi party raised its head? They treat everything as if it were breakable, they use tweezers all the time . . . All they think of is covering their backs . . . He even had the nerve to accuse me of putting the population of Vienna in danger! I told him: "As far as I'm aware, the only things in danger at the moment are our works of art." The idiot! Well, 1 didn't say that to him, of course.'

  Bosch laughed soundlessly, simply opening his mouth and tilting back his head.

  'Paul, you need intravenous injections of that tea substitute of yours.'

  'I don't like Austrians. They're too twisted. That swindler Sigmund Freud was Austrian. I swear that...'

  There was a noise at the door and Miss Wood burst in.

  'Did that policeman we talked to yesterday get in touch with you?' she asked Bosch directly.

  'Felix Braun? No. Why?'

  'I left a message on his answering machine demanding he call us at once. His men found the van early this morning, but they didn't tell us a thing. I only found out because a little bird told me so. Oh, hello there, Paul. I'm glad you came. We can all have a good laugh together.'

  'The van?' Benoit said. 'What about Diaz?'

  'Not a trace.'

  The two men looked concerned at the news. For a moment all that could be heard was the dialogue between De Baas and the purple Flower. An assistant brought up a chair. Miss Wood's slight frame collapsed into it. She crossed her legs, revealing a pair of jodphurs and a pair of pointed leather boots. Her slender neck rose high above her shoulders, where she was wearing a purple-coloured silk scarf. The badge in her lapel matched the scarf. She looked like a pretty adolescent, an effeminate daddy's boy who had just been expelled from university for the third or fourth time. There was something dispiriting about her: it was not the way she sat, nor the ironic smile on her lips, not even the way she looked at people - although Bosch preferred seeing her in profile to having her stare at him - or the striking clothes she wore. Taken one by one, each of the components that made up Miss Wood was attractive: it was when they were all put together that they became somehow disagreeable.

  'Would you like some tea substitute?' Benoit said, pointing to the Trolley.

  'No thanks, Paul. You have it, you're going to need it. Because I still haven't told you the best bit.' Bosch and Benoit looked at her.

  'The van was found hidden in trees forty kilometres north of the area where they discovered the work of art. As we suspected, the tracking device had been disconnected. In the back was a bloody sheet of plastic. Perhaps he used it to wrap the work in after he had cut her to pieces, so he could drag her across the grass without getting stains on him. And by the side of the road there were other tyre tracks, apparently from a saloon car. He had another car waiting for him. Our Mr Fixit planned it all very thoroughly.'

  It hurts, Mr De Bans. It really hurts. I can bear it, but it does hurt.'

  It was the voice of Imaginary Orchid. She was in the gym for canvases in the MuseumsQuartier and had adopted a classic stretching pose: standing with her head between her feet with her hands clasping her calves. In order to film her face, the camera was behind her back almost at ground level. And the Orchid's face appeared upside down on the screen.

  'Does it only hurt when you adopt the pose, Shirley?' De Baas wanted to know.

  Benoit was looking not at the screens but at Wood. He seemed suddenly irritated.

  'April, for the love of God, where has Diaz got to? He is only a guard. He can't have dreamed up a plan as sophisticated as this! Where is he?'

  'Spin a globe and stick your finger in it, Paul. You might get lucky.'

  'I warn you, I'm not in the mood for jokes just now.'

  'It's not a joke. Several hours went by between the moment he destroyed the canvas and when we started to look for him. If we bear in mind that he had another car, and calculate he also had false papers, by now he could be anywhere in the world.'

  'Now for example, the pain is ... owl'

  'Don't keep it in, Shirley. Don't try to suppress it, because that way we won't know how much it is hurting you ... I can see the effort you're making ... let yourself go. Express the pain you're feeling...'

  'We have to find that Colombian girl,' Benoit said between clenched teeth.

  'That seems easier,' Miss Wood said. 'Thea has just called me from Paris. Our dear Briseida Canchares is with Roger Levin, Gaston's eldest son.'

  'The marchand?' Benoit drew his hand across his face. 'Everything is getting more and more complicated ...'

  'I have to get through it ...Mi... ster De Ba .. .aas... I am a work ofa... art, M... ister DeBa ...a ... aaaaas'

  'No, no Shirley, that's a mistake. You can't get beyond your pain. I want you to express it... Come on, Shirley, don't hold it in, you can scream if you need to ...'

  'Roger and the girl are going to one of those surprise parties the Roquentins organise to attract clients and deal in illegal works. But the real surprise will be when they get home.'
Wood glanced at her watch. Thea is going to call me at any minute.'

  'Shout, Shirley. As hard as you can. I want to hear how much your back hurts ...'

  'N-n-n-n-... N-n-n-n-n-n-n-nnnnnn ...'

  Bosch was observing the screens. The canvas' forehead was racked with dry sobs - she was primed and had no tears to cry. Her knees, on a level with her face, were trembling. Benoit and Wood were the only people in the room paying absolutely no attention to what was happening on the televisions. The Trolley was not looking either, but then she was only an ornament.

  'April, scare her as much as is necessary,' Benoit said. 'Her and that idiot Levin boy, if need be.'

  Wood nodded.

  'We plan to scare them so much they'll piss themselves, Paul.' 'Is Romberg in Vienna?'

  'No, Romberg is in Czechoslovakia looking into that fake copies business. Last week we found a false sketch of one of the figures from Couple. We convinced him he didn't want to have anything to do with fakes any more. I don't think he'll blab, but it's still a delicate matter.'

  'Can't you see, Shirley? It hurts too much. I'll count to three, then you shout as loud as you like, OK?'

  'April, forget the fakes for a moment. This has priority.'

  'Since when have you also been Head of Security, Paul?'

  'It's not that, April, it's not that...'

  'As hard as you can!... A real howl, Shirley.'

  The Austrian police are searching for Diaz even under the Minister of Interior's carpet,' said Wood. 'I don't think there's any need to invest more men or money in a job they can do for us. The fact that the dogs bring us our prey doesn't make them the hunters, Paul.' Two...'

  'OK, let's do it your way, April. All I want is ...' 'Three!'

  'AaaaaaaaaAAAAAHHHH...!'

  It was strangely fascinating to see a face shouting upside down: at the top, beneath the tiny pyramid of a forehead, a huge blind eye with a pink tentacle; at the bottom, two slits sunk into furrows. Except for the Trolley, everyone raised their hands to their ears.

  'Shit, Willy!' Benoit shouted. 'Can't you put a gag on that idiot? It's impossible to talk!'

  Willy De Baas moved away from the microphone and turned down the loudspeakers.

  I'm sorry, Paul. It's Shirley Carloni. In April she came apart and we had to operate, do you remember? But she's still not right.'

  Bosch remembered that the expression 'came apart' had become popular among the Conservation staff for 'Flowers'. It described the worst problem the works of art faced: damage to their spines.

  'Pull her out for a week, suspend the flexibility drugs, give her more painkillers and call the surgeons,' said Benoit. 'That's exactly what I had in mind.'

  'Well do it then, and keep the volume of your wonderful speaker down, would you? ... What was I saying? April, I have no wish to supervise your work, far from it. You know how much we all trust you. But this problem is ... let's just say ... a bit special. This bastard has destroyed not merely an adolescent, but part of the world's heritage.'

  'I'll take the responsibility, Paul,' said Miss Wood with a smile.

  'You'll take the responsibility, fine. I do as well, and so does everyone else in this artistic enterprise, April. That's what we can tell the insurance companies, if you like: "We take the responsibility." We can also say the same to our investors and private clients: "Don't worry, we take the responsibility." Then we organise a dinner in a salon with ten Rayback nudes in it, and fifty wonderful ornaments as tables, vases and chairs a la Stein, we leave them all open-mouthed in astonishment, and then ask them for more money. But they will reply, quite correctly: "You put on a wonderful display, but if a guard from your own security team can destroy such an expensive work of art and get away with it, who on earth will want to insure any of the works in future? And who will pay to have them?"

  As he spoke, Benoit waved the empty cup in the air. The Trolley had been waiting for him to replace it on her table, but Benoit had been too carried away to notice. The ornament did not say or do anything beyond crouching there attentively, trying to keep her balance. As she drew breath, her stomach made the teapot tremble. As he observed her antics, Bosch could scarcely stop himself laughing.

  'This business is built on beauty,' Benoit was saying. 'But beauty is nothing without power. Just imagine if all the Egyptian slaves had died, and the pharoah had been forced to carry all those blocks of stone himself...'

  'He'd come apart,' Bosch quipped.

  'So art is power,' Benoit declared. 'A wall has been breached in our fortress, April, and it's up to you to plug the hole.'

  He finally appeared to realise he was still holding the cup, and quickly moved to replace it on the Trolley, who stood up nimbly.

  At that moment, as if a black cloud had passed over the room, it turned a darker shade of purple.

  'I'd like to know what's happening to Annek,' a voice with a Haarlem accent said.

  They all turned towards the screens, though they knew it was Sally before they saw her. She was leaning against one of the bars in the gym for the canvases, and the camera was filming her to halfway down her thighs. She was wearing a T-shirt and shorts. The shorts cut into her groin. She had removed the paint with solution but even so her ebony skin had dark purple highlights. The yellow of her neck label stood out between her breasts.

  ‘I don't believe the story about flu ... the only reason for withdrawing a work from this fucking collection is if they come apart, and if Papa Willy can hear me, let him deny it.. .'

  Willy de Baas had switched off the microphones, and was whispering hurriedly to Benoit.

  'We told the works that Annek has the flu, Paul.' 'Fuck,' growled Benoit.

  Sally smiled all the time she was talking. In fact, she looked very happy. Bosch thought she must be drugged.

  'Look at my skin, Papa Willy: look at my arms and here, on my stomach ... If you switch the lights off, you'll still be able to see me. My skin is like a raspberry past its sell-by date. I look at it and feel like eating plums. I've been like this since last year, and I haven't been withdrawn even once. If you don't come apart, you're on show, flu or no flu. But Annek and I will never come apart, will we? ... Our postures with our backs straight are easier than most. How lucky we are, they all say. We're the lucky ones, apparently. But I reckon it depends on how you look on it... it's true, the other works are carried out on stretchers at the end of the day ... and they are jealous of us because we can walk without any back problems and we don't need any of those flexibility implants that mean you can kick yourself in the shin with the same foot, isn't that so, Papa Willy? ... But it also means we're on the outside, we aren't part of the group of those who have officially come apart... So cut the crap. What's wrong with Annek? Why have you withdrawn her?'

  'Fuck,' Benoit said again.

  'She could cause real trouble,' De Baas said, twisting his head towards Benoit.

  'She will cause real trouble,' one of his assistants insisted.

  'What's happening, Papa Willy? Why don't you reply?'

  Benoit swore indignantly again, and stood up.

  ‘Let me deal with her, Willy. Why on earth did you tell her that nonsense about flu?'

  'What else could we do?'

  'Papa Willy? Are you there...?'

  Benoit scurried over to De Baas, talking all the time.

  This is a work of art valued at thirty million dollars, Willy. Thirty big bricks and a monthly rental I prefer not to mention ...' He took the microphone from De Baas, 'And she has become indispensable: the owner will only have her. We have to tread carefully...'

  Benoit's voice suddenly became mellifluous. 'Sally? It's Paul Benoit.'

  'Wow!' Sally unhooked her thumbs from her shorts and stood with arms akimbo. 'Grandpa Paul in person . . . I'm truly honoured, Grandpa Paul ... Grandpa Paul is always the one who comes to the phone when things go wrong, isn't he? ...'

  I'm sure she's drugged, Bosch thought. Sally was slurring her words, and her plump lips stayed open when she f
ell silent. Bosch thought she was one of the most beautiful pieces in the collection.

  That's right,' Benoit said gently. 'That's how things work with us: they pay Willy less than me, so he spouts more nonsense. But this is pure chance - I happened to be in Vienna and wanted to come and see you all.'