The Hogarth Conspiracy

by Alex Connor

  “You’re kidding!”

  Liza laughed. “No, seriously. But Bernie didn’t like the idea and asked her if she’d like a baseball bat instead.”

  “A baseball bat?”

  “I know, odd or what? Anyway, Annette said no. And he pushed her and said it would be a special bat. She still wasn’t having it, but then she said a baseball bat was okay—if there was something really special about it. Maybe she wanted it gold plated or something,” Liza said, laughing again. “I suppose she thought Bernie would wrap it in a fur coat. Who knows?”

  Victor pressed her. “It was definitely Bernie who suggested the bat?”

  “Oh, yeah; it was his idea. But I never saw it…. Oh, hang on; I remember now. Annette told me that Bernie was going to give it to her when she met up with him in New York.”

  “So Bernie kept it on the plane with him?” Victor was thrown when Mrs. Fleet’s voice suddenly came on the phone.

  “What’s all this about baseball bats? Does it matter?”

  “No, probably not,” Victor lied.

  He wasn’t about to tell Charlene Fleet what he suspected. Years earlier someone had smuggled a painting in a walking stick, and it wasn’t too big a jump to suppose that Bernie Freeland had suggested the baseball bat for the same reason: to smuggle a small rolled-up canvas. It would be easy to hollow out to make room, and with clever weighting, no one need ever know. What better way to transport the Hogarth secretly? But when Bernie had been drugged, he had panicked, certain that someone was trying to kill him. So instead of giving Annette the baseball bat on the jet, he had held on to it, promising to give it to her when she came to New York.

  At first it must have seemed such a simple plan. Annette wouldn’t know about it; she would simply keep her gift until Bernie visited her again and surreptitiously removed the picture. He would be the only one who knew where the painting was, so no one would be able to steal it while he found a buyer. That had been the plan before Bernie was spooked. But later, trying to shake off the effects of his spiked drink, he had watched the girls and the dealers leave the plane and then had the jet flown directly on to New York with the baseball bat still in his possession. He had already arranged for Annette to visit him a few days later. He would just give her the bat then. She would take it—and the hidden canvas—back to London on an anonymous British Airways flight.

  Victor could imagine Bernie Freeland’s panic when he was taken ill. He would have assumed that he was in danger, his usual cunning ousted by the sogginess of the ingested drugs. In a haze, he would have confided in the most trustworthy person—Sir Oliver Peters—hoping that if he was killed, he would have someone to stand witness for him.

  “Victor,” Mrs. Fleet asked impatiently. “Why does the bat matter?”

  He lied without conscience.

  “I don’t know that it does, but one thing’s for sure: Annette Dvorski’s on her way to New York because she thinks she’s meeting up with her client, but Bernie Freeland’s been killed, which makes me wonder if someone’s going to be waiting for your girl.”

  “Shit.”

  Ordering Liza to leave the room, Mrs. Fleet picked up the phone again.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve been thinking about Marian Miller, about who might have killed her.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same.”

  “It had to be someone who knew about the Hogarth.”

  “Which could be a few people. Or dozens. After all, what was to stop any of them from spreading the news as soon as they got off the jet? They all had time. Kit Wilkes could have got on to the Russians, Lim Chang the Chinese, and Sir Oliver Peters was back on his own turf, with all his contacts in easy reach. Marian Miller told you about the Hogarth as soon as she landed, so why should she be the only one?”

  “We don’t know that everyone overhead.”

  “No, we don’t. Yet,” Victor agreed. “Of course, there’s another possibility: one of your girls killed Marian.”

  “Don’t be stupid! Liza isn’t the type; neither is Annette. What about Lim Chang?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Then find out!”

  He bristled, stung by her tone. “I’ve only just started working on this.”

  “Work faster. I don’t want anything else to happen. Annette might be in danger.”

  “Please don’t tell me you care about them.”

  “I care about my little empire and my money,” she replied, her tone expressionless. “What I’ve created, built up over the years. I don’t write music or paint pictures; I use flesh, Mr. Ballam. Flesh is what I deal in. I buy it and sell it and do very well out of it. Trouble makes people pry. I don’t like that. I don’t want my business dealings exposed. So, in answer to your question, I don’t care about what happens to my girls except inasmuch as it endangers me. I’ve never been the whore with the heart of gold. I can sense you don’t like me.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Or perhaps you find the whole matter intimidating? A little too much for you to handle?”

  He refused to show his irritation even though she had struck a nerve. Victor had never expected to leave jail and be immediately thrown into a murder inquiry; he had hoped to ease himself back into the art world, never anticipating this headlong plunge into the maelstrom. He knew how important the Hogarth was—and how dangerous. But he was only just realizing that the danger was coming straight to his door.

  “So, is it too much for you?” Mrs. Fleet repeated.

  Victor ignored the question. “I’m going to New York, so I’m going to need some help here.”

  “Which means?”

  “That I need to hire someone in London. Which will mean more expense for you.”

  “And you have a suitable person in mind?”

  Victor thought of Tully Harcourt. He knew that Tully had been reckless in his youth and still hankered after excitement—but danger? Wasn’t that too much to ask? Did he really want to risk Tully Harcourt’s safety to repay an old debt?

  But then again, Tully Harcourt was the only person Victor could trust.

  “Well?” Mrs. Fleet snapped. “Have you got someone who can help you?”

  “Yes. Yes, I have.” Taking her silence as confirmation that she had accepted the proposal, Victor continued.

  ”Where would Annette Dvorski stay in New York?”

  “At Bernie Freeland’s apartment. I haven’t got the details next to me; I’ll text them to you.”

  “Fine.” His tone was deceptively polite. “Oh, and Mrs. Fleet …”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m not one of your whores. You can’t buy me or sell me, and if something happens that I don’t like—because, frankly, I doubt you’ve been straight with me about anything—I’ll walk away from this situation, and you, without looking back.”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Ballam,” she replied, her voice butter soft. “After all, you are part of the situation now.”

  Part Two

  “Shiploads of Dead Christs, Holy Families and Madonnas …

  The connoisseurs and I are at war, you know, because I hate them….”

  —WILLIAM HOGARTH

  Nineteen

  SLIDING THE KEY INTO THE LOCK OF BERNIE FREELAND’S NEW YORK apartment, Annette Dvorski pushed open the door and dropped her bag onto the hall floor, rubbing her stiff neck. The place was in darkness, which surprised her. Usually there was a maid in attendance when she visited Bernie; she had never been in the apartment before when it was deserted. Curious, she glanced about her, taking in the familiar surroundings, then went into the master bedroom, half expecting the Australian to jump out and surprise her. But she found herself alone and, disappointed, flicked on the plasma TV on the wall opposite the bed.

  Bored and a little peckish, Annette moving to the kitchen and made herself a sandwich with some leftovers from the fridge. Tired and stiff from the flight, she ran a bath, pinned up her long red hair, and st
epped into the warm water. Perhaps Bernie has left me a note, she thought idly. She’d look when she finished bathing. He’d left no message on her cell phone, not even a text. Odd, because he always let her know if he couldn’t make it. Maybe he was stuck in traffic, Annette mused. The snow was bad in New York; that always held everyone up. But it wouldn’t have stopped him from calling her. She closed her eyes, relaxing in the water. Knowing where Bernie kept his cocaine, Annette decided she would take a snort later. Well, why not? Bernie was always open-handed.

  She soaped her legs, then her breasts, studying a mole near her left nipple and remembering the LA Dodgers baseball bat. Bernie had told her all about it, delighted that he had managed to get hold of all the players’ signatures. It was to be a prize, if she won a point against him the next time they played squash together. Hah, Annette thought; like he ever really beat me. I could hammer the hell out of him if I wanted to, but why humiliate a client? Especially one as generous as Bernie Freeland. Kneading a knotted muscle in her left calf, Annette thought of Mrs. Fleet and felt a twinge of anxiety.

  When her employer found out—and she would—about this extracurricular trip to visit Bernie, there would be hell to pay. The two women had always disliked each other, but Mrs. Fleet saw her profit in Annette Dvorski and Annette knew that she could get the highest fees by working as a Park Street girl. So they tolerated one another, occasionally spitting invective and, once, Mrs. Fleet actually hitting Annette during a quarrel. The fact that the madam hadn’t raised her voice once during the altercation had made the violence all the more unexpected and shocking. Stupidly, Annette had lifted her hand to hit back, but the dog that was always with Mrs. Fleet had started snarling, and she had been forced to back down.

  Annette also knew that her background, her supposedly impoverished Polish origins, nettled Mrs. Fleet so much that the woman had even asked Annette to change her name. But the redhead’s stubborn streak had come out. After all, she had said, how many of the johns were interested in a girl’s surname? In fact, Dvorski wasn’t her father’s name; Annette had taken her mother’s maiden name after she died, a sentimental, titular memorial to a woman she could barely remember.

  Still soaping herself, Annette studied her body, thankful there were no signs of aging even though she was thirty-one. Athletic genes and playing sports regularly had kept her lithe, able to cheat her real age. Slyly she smiled to herself. Mrs. Fleet thought she was twenty-six; indeed, she often said that a whore’s best earning days were over when she hit thirty. Well, perhaps hers had been, but Annette was relying on at least another couple of good years. Or less if she could just hook Bernie Freeland.

  Getting out of the bath, Annette wrapped a towel around herself. She knew she was Bernie’s favorite girl; that much was obvious, and it had certainly galled Marian Miller. Annette remembered the dead girl without affection. Marian had been cold, conniving, and self serving, but the news of her death had been shocking. Suddenly uneasy, Annette moved into the kitchen, where dozens of stainless steel doors reflected her image back to her. She turned up the central heating. It was getting very cold now, snow falling outside the window and landing on the balcony; the lights of the apartment building opposite shone like glowworms in the freezing night.

  Of course, she had been a bloody fool to spike Bernie’s drink. She had only done it for a laugh, but no one could have foreseen his reaction. Annette frowned, remembering how Bernie had leaned down to talk to Sir Oliver Peters, his face sweaty, panicked. Aware of what she had done and feeling guilty, Annette had turned away from the scene, but the word Hogarth had caught her attention. Cursing, she tried to hear more of the garbled conversation but could only just make out Bernie saying, “I’ve got it.”

  Which was interesting. Very interesting.

  Of course Annette had told Liza that she had heard nothing. After all, what point was there in broadcasting the news? News that might prove to be very lucrative for her. She knew enough about the art world to realize what having a Hogarth painting would mean, how it would swell Bernie Freeland’s already overflowing coffers.

  Slumped in a chair, watching the snowflakes land on the balcony, Annette wondered idly when Bernie would get back to the apartment. With the hazy lights opposite watchful and unwelcoming in the falling snow, she suddenly felt isolated and longed to hear the key in the lock, longed for Bernie’s arrival to break the suffocating dead silence. Annette’s confidence faltered momentarily, but she rallied, remembering the baseball bat, the present she had been promised. Bernie had said that he would give it to her when she came to New York. Well, I am here now, Annette thought. Looking for her present would keep her occupied.

  Beginning in the bedroom, she looked through the closets, then searched the bathroom, the kitchen, and finally the living room. Lifting the window seats, she paused, wondering where else he could possibly have hidden it. Not in the hall cupboard, so where?

  A thought suddenly occurred to her, and, smiling, she left a note for Bernie. Then she pulled on a tracksuit and made for the back stairs that would take her down to the basement gym eight flights below. Annette’s fingers slid along the icy handrail; her feet moved noiselessly on the stairs. She began to hurry, and her breathing accelerated. At the bottom of the steps she took a deep breath, then pushed through the double doors into the gym.

  The manager nodded a welcome. “Can I help you?”

  “Did Mr. Freeland leave something for me to collect?”

  “Mr. Freeland?” He appeared surprised, staring at her for a long moment before taking something out from under the counter. “He left this for you, miss. I was supposed to give it to you.” Bernie Freeland was no mug. He didn’t want to leave the bat in his apartment, where anyone could find it, and knew it would be securely locked in at the gym. He’d even slipped the manager a heavy retainer to ensure it went only to Annette.

  Annette’s manicured hand took hold of the bat, which was still wrapped in brown paper. “Thank you.”

  “I’m really sorry, miss.”

  She frowned. “About what?”

  “Well, you know….”

  “No. What?”

  “Mr. Freeland,” the man said uncomfortably. “He was killed yesterday. In a traffic accident.”

  She felt the strength leave her legs. She spoke in a faraway voice that seemed to belong to somebody else,

  “Mr. Freeland’s dead?”

  “You didn’t know, miss? I’m so sorry. Can I get you a glass of water?”

  Shaking her head, Annette backed away, moving out of the lobby, and looked up the stairwell. The stairs seemed to extend upward indefinitely, the echoing gray concrete bitterly cold and hostile. Turning away, she moved to the elevator and pressed the buzzer, her mind a collage of images: Bernie and Marian Miller, half-remembered clips of experiences and conversations, and a name—Hogarth. Hogarth. Hogarth. At last the elevator came to a stop in front of her, the doors slid open, and she walked in. Luckily, it was empty, and she leaned against the wall, holding on to the baseball bat, her eyes fixed on the lighted numbers overhead. Two, three, four, five … Suddenly the elevator stopped, and Annette tensed, expecting someone to enter. But no one was waiting, and after another moment the doors closed again and the elevator restarted its slow ascent.

  Six, seven … Her breathing jagged with anxiety, Annette watched as the doors opened at her floor, then she stepped out. Down the hallway, a young man noticed the striking redhead, and a couple leaving for dinner nodded politely to her as they passed.

  She moved toward the apartment, unlocked the door, and walked in.

  It was eight-thirty in New York. Winter snow was falling, the lights were on all over the city, and yellow cabs sounded their horns as they limped through the traffic below. As a shaken Annette Dvorski walked into the apartment, she noticed that it was warm again and that there was a light flickering on the answer phone.

  But she didn’t notice the footprints on the balcony outside, fresh footprints breaking into the smoothness
of the silent snow.

  Twenty

  “LIKE I SAID, I’M UP FOR IT. IS THE WHOREMONGER GENERAL PAYING expenses?” Tully asked

  “She is. I am now officially working for Mrs. Fleet.” Victor, in a taxi on its way to Heathrow Airport, was talking fast into his cell phone. “I’m going to New York,” he explained. “Catching the next flight, so I’ll be away, and I need someone in London.”

  “Thrilling. When do I start?”

  “You sure about this?” Victor asked. “I told you what happened last night. I was threatened.”

  “You were warned off.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “If the man was attached to the royals, he was just sent to scare you.”

  “But what if he wasn’t? What if he was working for someone else entirely?”

  “If you believe that, why are you still working on the case?”

  “I need the money.”

  “Not to mention that a Hogarth is involved,” Tully commented perceptively. “Stop worrying about me, Victor; I’ve got friends in low places. And besides, I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “No one has nothing to lose.”

  Ignoring the comment, Tully went on. “Did I ever tell you about my grandfather? He married his first wife, then fell in love with her sister and set her up as his mistress in another town. He died a happy man, having kept his secret for decades.”

  “So?”

  “After he died, the two sisters congratulated themselves on having feigned ignorance for so long. You see, they knew about each other all the time; it was just that neither of them had liked my grandfather enough to want him around seven days a week. So they had shared him. And all along they had let him think he was Don Juan.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “No one’s who they seem,” Tully said enigmatically.

  “Are you sure you want in on this?”

  “Yes. And don’t ask me again. Have you anything to go on?”

  “I think I know where the Hogarth is,” Victor said simply. “And if I know, someone else might know too.”