by Peter James
If she had said that she had bought just one painting from Marcus Leigh-Hoye, Denempont would have been impressed – and he was not a man who impressed easily. But the word many set all kinds of positive connections firing off in his synapses. Mostly to do with money. For, while he loved fine art, he loved money even more. If you went shopping in Marcus Leigh-Hoye’s Cork Street gallery, your entry level purchase wasn’t going to leave you with much change from a quarter of a million pounds.
He leaned forward. ‘So how can I help you?’
‘My husband and I need to raise some money – we have very expensive repairs to our palazzo in Firenze, but more importantly we are faced with some very heavy taxation which, if my husband cannot pay, could be ruinous for us. We could have many of our assets seized. One of our biggest is our collection of French Impressionist pictures. Marcus Leigh-Hoye told my husband you are the best man to sell such a collection.’
‘And what pictures do you have?’ he asked. ‘And by which artists?’
She opened her Hermès bag and pulled out a sheath of papers, clipped together, which she handed to him.
He pulled on his half-moon tortoiseshell glasses and began to read. She lit a cigarette and waited patiently, watching him.
Within less than a minute his eyes were almost out on stalks. This was some collection! Almost every great name among the Impressionist painters was included. Monet; Renoir; Pissarro; Manet; Cézanne; Matisse; Sisley. Included amongst them were some incredibly rare and valuable unfinished works.
When he had finished reading he looked back at her. She stubbed the lipsticky butt of her cigarette out in the ashtray alongside the stub of his cigar and crossed her legs in a sudden display of anxiety. ‘What do you think, Mr Denempont?’ she asked in a charming, almost innocent voice.
Millions! That’s what he was thinking. Millions! This was potentially one of the most important sales in years. He was already calculating his potential commission. But there was a problem. A big, big, problem. ‘May I ask where these paintings are housed?’
‘In our home in Firenze,’ she said.
‘Excuse me one moment, please,’ he said, and pressed the intercom. ‘Angela, see if you can get hold of Lord Hobart and tell him I’m going to be a bit late.’ Then he turned his attention to the Contessa. ‘Forgive me if you already know this, but it is almost impossible to get an export licence for works of art housed in Italy. There would, of course, be a certain value for this collection sold within Italy – but nothing remotely comparable to their value here or in the United States. I’ve tried before for Italian clients, and even with –’ he held up his right hand and rubbed his fingers together, not wanting to actually say the word bribery – ‘it’s impossible.’
‘Where are they worth the most?’ she asked, unperturbed. ‘Here or in the United States.’
‘Undoubtedly the States at present. There are a number of fabulously wealthy collectors there who will pay a premium for rare works of art, just to have them in their private collections for their eyes only. Some of them will even buy stolen works – not that I would deal with those people,’ he hastened to add.
She pursed her lips. ‘So you could arrange the sale of these in the United States?’
‘There are plenty of potential buyers there. In New York, Los Angeles and elsewhere. I could get you the best prices for them in New York. But . . .’
He watched her tap another cigarette out of an expensive-looking holder. ‘I’m being impolite,’ he said. ‘Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee? A glass of Champagne?’
‘If you have Champagne, that would be very nice,’ she said.
He pressed the intercom again and requested two glasses of Pol Roger. Winston Churchill’s favourite and good enough for him as his house standard.
‘I’m afraid Lord Hobart has already left to meet you,’ his secretary said.
‘Call the Garrick and tell them to apologize, and for him to start without me.’ He looked back at the Contessa.
‘And the but is?’ she asked.
‘It’s rather a big but, I’m afraid. The but is that you would have to get the pictures to New York yourself. I couldn’t be involved in that.’
‘You mean, smuggle them?’
‘That’s your only option.’
He saw her eyes widen. She drew on her cigarette, holding it in her gloved fingers. She was without doubt not only a very beautiful and smart lady, but tough, too.
‘So, OK, how would I do that?’
‘You’d be taking a big risk. If you got caught you could end up forfeiting the lot.’
She shrugged. ‘If we do nothing, we are going to lose much of what we have, Mr Denempont.’ Then her eyes narrowed. ‘Marcus Leigh-Hoye told my husband that you are a man he trusts completely. And that you are a man who is prepared to – how you say in your country – bend the rules? That is good enough for us. We need to bend the rules. How are we to do this?’
‘You really want to know?’
‘Yes.’ She was emphatic.
Their Champagne arrived.
‘OK, I’ll tell you what I would do if these were my pictures and I wanted to get them out of Italy.’
She raised her glass and sipped. ‘Yes?’
‘Your biggest problem is the countries signed up to the Unidroit Convention on Stolen or Illegally Exported Cultural Objects.’
‘Which are?’
‘Every European nation.’
She looked unfazed. ‘So what would you propose?’
‘I’d take all the canvases off their stretchers, put them in the bottom of a suitcase and set off on what looks like an innocent motoring trip across Europe. The key to this being a success would be the timing of your arrival at the borders. I would suggest crossing frontiers in the middle of the night, when customs officers are tired and not so alert – at 4 a.m. no one is at their best. Get to London, where they are the least diligent about exported arts – there are no export customs at London’s Heathrow Airport, for example – then fly to New York from there.’
‘With the paintings at the bottom of my suitcase?’
‘Precisely. Their weight will be insignificant. But you are taking a massive risk.’
‘In our situation, is that a risk you would take, Mr Denempont?’
He hesitated. ‘If I had no other option then yes, I think I would. But you must understand, Contessa, I cannot advise you to do this. I’m simply telling you what I would consider doing. The risk you face in any European country is serious. Confiscation of the entire collection. You could lose millions.’
‘As I pointed out, we are going to lose millions if we do nothing,’ she said.
‘It has to be your decision.’
‘So, OK, let us suppose we succeed in arriving in New York with the pictures. Will we have a problem with potential buyers because we do not have an export licence from Italy?’
‘Not with the collectors I know there,’ he said. ‘No problem at all.’
He began once again to compute his potential commission. It would be a big sum. A very big one indeed!
She smiled and raised her glass. ‘I think, possibly, we may have a plan – no?’
He raised a defensive hand. ‘Your plan, Contessa. I know nothing about it!’
She raised her glass again and drained it. ‘You know – nothing! Nada!’ She grinned, then stood up. As she reached the door she turned and said, ‘I look forward to seeing you in New York. One of my favourite cities.’
‘I’ll be more than happy to carry your suitcases, Contessa.’
‘I might hold you to that. Marcus was right, I think, when he said you were our man. I appreciate your honesty. Arrivederci!’
In a swirl of classy perfume, she was gone.
*
Reality was a drizzly, late November Thursday, a few minutes before midnight. While their diminutive, elderly retainer, Vincenzo, hefted the Contessa’s bags into her Alfa, she stood beside her husband, nervously squeezing his hand, her stomach
feeling like jelly. In the gloomy darkness, beneath the crumbling portico, with the solitary overhead lamp shining down on the wet paintwork of the car, she felt anything but confident. She had streaks of dirt on her face and her gloveless hands were grimy – all part of her cover story.
Vittorio, Conte Di Valieria Massino, a tall, elegant man, dressed in a pale blue cashmere sweater over a cream shirt, paisley cravat and crisply pressed slacks, squeezed her hand back, trying to give her reassurance, but in reality feeling very nervous, too. It should be he who was making the journey, but the London dealer, James Denempont, was experienced in helping people smuggle works of art out of Italy and was adamant that a woman travelling alone would be less likely to attract the attention of customs officers than a man.
They were taking a terrible risk. A long prison sentence for Romy and the confiscation of their works of art, which would leave them in financial ruin. The alternative was equally unthinkable, though.
This magnificent palazzo, up here in the hills close to Florence, had originally been built in 1588 as a summer home for Catherine de Medici, although she had died without ever seeing it finished. It had been in Vittorio’s family for over four centuries now. He’d grown up here, and it was where, in turn, he and his wife had raised their four children. He was now its custodian. Aristocrats like himself never really viewed themselves as owning their grand houses. He regarded himself merely as a curator, trying to preserve the palazzo and hand it on to the next generation in slightly better condition than when he had inherited it.
Now he risked losing it through a convergence of unlucky factors. The first was being swindled by his trusted accountant, who had convinced him to invest vital cash, which he had been keeping in reserve for maintenance works, into a printing business. It turned out to be a scam, set up by his lawyer who had absconded to Brazil. The second was the arrival of a crippling tax bill, thanks to the same accountant, who had been siphoning off the tax Vittorio thought he’d been paying for the past decade into a Panama bank account. The third, just two months ago, was the grim news from a structural engineer that the house was riddled with dry rot, to the point where parts of the upstairs were too dangerous to inhabit and had to be sealed off. The estimate for repairs was hundreds of millions of lire.
Other than the property itself, their assets were the art treasures housed in the palazzo’s grand rooms – some of which he had inherited and some which he and Romy had collected during better financial times. These Impressionist pictures, now taken off their stretchers and lying at the bottom of a suitcase in the Alfa, were the latter, so at least in disposing of them it did not feel like he was selling off the family silver. He watched Vincenzo close the boot.
They were all set.
They’d discussed for an age what car she should drive on this trip. Her convertible sports Mercedes, which she loved, might attract too much attention, they decided. As would his Jaguar. So they had bought, second-hand, an Alfa Giulietta 1600 Ti saloon. Sporty but relatively inconspicuous. And it had the advantage of a large boot.
She slipped behind the wheel. He kissed her on the cheek, wished her good luck, then slammed the door. She fired up the engine and drove off fast, as she always drove, along the driveway lined with cypress trees. After a moment he saw her brake lights come on and wondered if she had forgotten something or was having a change of heart. Then he saw a faint glow inside the car and realized she had lit a cigarette.
He went inside and had Vincenzo pour him a very large single malt. A short while later he poured himself a second one, eyeing the time. At this time of night, with the traffic light, it would be an easy two hours to the nearest crossing point, near Locarno, into Switzerland. Romy planned to stop before then and get an espresso, to kill a little more time. With luck, she would be through the border controls by a quarter past three. Then she had about a twenty-minute drive to a hotel, where she would spend the rest of the night and much of tomorrow. She had already phoned them to explain she would be hours late, giving them the same story she would give to any border official if she was challenged about why she was driving alone at this hour of the morning. Her brother-in-law had recently died; she was going to take her sister away on a short motoring holiday to Scotland.
*
The barrier at the Italian sector of the border control was up, and two officials in the booth, engaged in a conversation, didn’t bother to look at her. She slowed, her stomach in knots, then drove on. There was still the more efficient Swiss border control to go through a few kilometres further on.
Sure enough the barrier was down, blocking the road. She pulled up, lowered her window and picked her passport up off the seat beside her. The official peered at her from beneath the peak of his hat and frowned, clearly studying the smears on her face. Then, as she handed over her passport, he said something in German.
‘Scusi?’ she replied.
This time speaking in fluent Italian he asked kindly, ‘Have you had an accident? Is everything all right?’
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘I’m fine. I had a flat tyre a few miles back, but I managed to change it myself with the help of a gentleman who kindly stopped.’ She raised her hands to show how grimy they were. As an additional precaution, in case anyone checked out her story, the spare wheel was lying loose with the luggage in the boot, partially deflated. Although she carried a foot pump in the car, just in case she really did get a flat.
Satisfied, he nodded, stamped her passport and handed it back. ‘Be careful now you don’t have a spare any more, Contessa. Are you going far?’
‘No, I plan to stop at the first hotel I find and stay until the morning, then I’ll find a garage to get it fixed.’
‘Yes, I think that would be sensible. A lady on her own in the middle of the night is very vulnerable. Perhaps you would be safer to pull in here and wait until dawn?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘But thank you for your kindness.’
‘I’ll alert the Polizei who patrol this road to keep an eye out for you.’
The very word made her tremble, and she hoped her nervousness did not show.’
‘Thank you, I appreciate that.’
‘What is your registration number?’
She gave it to him and he wrote it down. ‘There is a pleasant hotel about fifteen kilometres along this road. L’Auberge des Pins. I would try them, if they are open at this hour.’
‘I’ll look out for that,’ she said. Then she gave him a cheery wave and drove on, breathing a sigh of relief. She checked in her mirror and saw a large lorry had pulled up at the checkpoint. Good, she thought, he would be distracted. She put her foot down and accelerated hard into the night.
After several minutes of driving fast along the dark road through a valley, she saw a speck of light appear in her mirror. It rapidly grew brighter and she felt a stab of anxiety. She put her foot down harder, until the speedometer needle passed 160 kph. Then 170. Still the light kept on growing brighter. In another minute she was being dazzled by it, right on her tail now.
She felt nervous, half watching the light, half concentrating on the curving road ahead. Still the light stayed on her tail. It had to be a motorbike.
Was it police? Or had one of their servants passed on information to some crooks? She pressed harder on the pedal, pushing the speed up to 180 kph, and beyond her comfort zone. Pines, road signs and occasional houses flashed past. The yellow line in the middle of the road stretched out ahead and the Alfa felt as if it were on rails, but she was too scared to feel exhilarated. She wasn’t sure whether to slow and let the bike pass, or keep on to her destination. But she was scared of crashing.
God, she thought, imagine crashing, and all the millions of dollars’ worth of paintings in the boot being destroyed?
Then the lights ahead picked up the name of a village, and a 50-kph speed limit sign. Could she take the risk of ignoring it? What if it was police behind her? She reduced her speed slightly and suddenly, to her relief, the motorbike roared past,
carrying on at high speed, its tail light fading away into the night as she decelerated further, bringing her speed down to a much more comfortable 80 kph, until she was through the village and back out on the open road.
She was shaking, she realized, her hands trembling on the wood-rimmed steering wheel. Then, to her relief, she saw the welcoming sign for her night stop, L’Auberge des Pins, five Ks ahead. She had not told the border official that she had a reservation there and had warned them she would not be arriving until the early hours of the morning.
Drenched in perspiration, she finally pulled up outside the front entrance of the hotel. Ten minutes later, having given a massive tip to the night porter who had carried her bags up and then brought her a large brandy, she sat down on a sofa in her suite, cradling the glass, and lit a cigarette. Then she phoned her husband to say she was safe, and smiled at her two large Louis Vuitton suitcases. One contained the clothes, washbag and makeup bag she needed for the trip. The other, beneath an assortment of underwear and dresses, contained a conservative five million pounds’ worth of Impressionist canvases, all lying at the bottom, removed from their stretchers.
An hour later she fell into a fitful sleep, and dreamed of being chased for a hundred miles by a whole posse of bandits on motorcycles. She awoke shortly after 7 a.m., drenched in perspiration and scared as hell. The enormity and danger of what she was doing was now really hitting her. She needed to kill a few hours in the hotel, then set off in the afternoon and head to Geneva, then up towards Jurançon to cross the French alpine border, again in the middle of the night. Then the following day on to England and a plane to New York.
She phoned her husband again and was comforted by his reassuring voice. It was easy for him to sound calm, she thought after she had hung up. She still had the Swiss and French border officials to get through. Then the English ones. No one would be interested in checking her bags when she flew into New York, he assured her. Once she was in England she would be home and dry.
*
