by Graham Ison
Fox realised that he and Davenport did not share a common language. He rephrased the question. ‘You were satisfied that it was a genuine Cézanne?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Davenport. ‘I was quite certain that I was looking at the master’s own work, and I was happy to say so in writing. Then the painting went off to the client in Amsterdam and I thought no more of it.’
‘What happened next?’
‘About a week later I got a telephone call from the client. He was very rude, I may say.’ Davenport shook his head.
‘In fact, he was so angry as to be almost unintelligible, but the gist of what he was saying was that he had been sold a fake ... a copy. He said he’d had it examined by an expert —’
Davenport interrupted himself. ‘I thought that was a bit unnecessary.’
‘What was?’
‘The implication that I wasn’t.’
‘What did you do about it, then?’
‘I took the very next flight to Amsterdam to see for myself. After all, my reputation, such as it is ...’ Davenport smiled weakly. ‘My reputation was at stake.’
‘I suppose so.’ Fox adjusted his position in the armchair, considered lighting a cigarette and then thought better of it. ‘This dealer in Amsterdam. What was his name?’
‘Oh!’ Davenport searched the ceiling for the answer. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Martens. Jan Martens.’
‘Address?’
‘Now, there you have me, at least for the moment. I’ve a note of it somewhere here. Perhaps I could —’
‘My inspector will take the details before we leave,’ said Fox. ‘Do go on, Mr Davenport.’
‘When I arrived in Amsterdam and looked at the painting, I could see at once that it was not the work I had examined in London.’
‘Oh dear!’ murmured Fox. ‘As a matter of interest, and forgive me if I appear to be asking silly questions, but do you mark a painting that you’ve examined?’
Davenport smiled benignly. ‘There are certain ways in which we make sure that the work is the same one,’ he said. ‘The occasional mark on the back of the canvas, for example.’
‘And that wasn’t there, I presume.’
‘Oh, but it was. Carefully copied ... or forged, I suppose I should say.’
‘I see,’ said Fox, anxious to get to the nub of the matter. He glanced across at Evans and was pleased to see that he was making copious notes. ‘So what conclusion did you arrive at, Mr Davenport?’
‘It’s obvious,’ said Davenport scathingly. ‘The painting that I had authenticated had been disposed of elsewhere, and my certificate of authentication had been used to support a copy ... and a not very good copy at that. Certainly not good enough to fool anyone who knew what he was about.’
‘But wouldn’t your authentication be needed to sell the original?’
‘Not really. Anyone who knew Cézanne could soon determine that it was his work, despite its being hitherto unknown. I’d stake my reputation on that.’ Fox felt like pointing out that Davenport had already done so, and lost. ‘But apart from that,’ continued Davenport, ‘whoever had the painting could always have gone to another dealer and have him do what I did.’
‘Nice one,’ said Fox. Although sworn to prevent and detect crime, he was always generous enough to admire a novel professional scam. ‘So what did you do? Give him his money back?’
‘Certainly not. I hadn’t got his money. My partner had, I suppose.’
‘And what did this partner of yours have to say about it when you challenged him?’
‘He was just as baffled as I was,’ said Davenport. ‘He was adamant that he had shipped the genuine Cézanne and we came to the conclusion that somehow a fake had been substituted for it on the way across to Holland.’
Fox gazed at a painting of a bowl of fruit on the wall behind Davenport’s desk and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘This partner of yours,’ he said eventually. ‘How long have you known him?’
‘About a year ...’
‘Tell me about him.’
‘His name’s Pogson. David Pogson.’
‘And how did you meet him?’ Having read the Art and Antique Squad’s computer printout and the papers that Detective Chief Superintendent Probert of the Fraud Squad had produced, Fox had a pretty shrewd idea anyway, but was interested to hear Davenport’s version.
‘It was most fortuitous, as a matter of fact.’ Davenport looked slightly guilty. ‘I was running this gallery single-handed, but not very well, I’m afraid. I’d reached such a low point that bankruptcy proceedings seemed inevitable. It was then that this man appeared in the gallery. He was an educated sort of fellow, seemingly well versed in the world of art. For some time he wandered about, glancing at this painting and that and nodding wisely. Finally, he strode up to me and without any sort of preamble, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “I’ll buy it.” ’ Davenport gazed at his fingernails. ‘I asked him which particular work he had in mind. He’d examined just about everything that was on view. The fellow just smiled and said, “All of it. The whole thing. The gallery.” ’
‘But you didn’t. Sell it, I mean.’
Davenport smiled. ‘I’m afraid I rather bridled at his presumptuousness and told him, in no uncertain terms, that the gallery was not for sale. Anyway, he didn’t seem put off, he just took me by the arm and steered me towards the office. He said something about it being better if we continued our conversation in private.’ Davenport frowned. ‘And he had the temerity to call me Ralph,’ he added. ‘Much to my dismay, the wretched fellow sat down, where you’re sitting now, and started to fill an enormous pipe.’
Fox tutted. ‘Not good for the paintings, I imagine.’ He was pleased that he had decided not to light a cigarette. ‘But can we get to the nub of the thing, Mr Davenport?’
‘Yes, well, he took some papers out of his brief-case and spread them on the desk. Then he proceeded to tell me how near I was to bankruptcy. The fellow had all the figures for the last five years’ trading. I was absolutely staggered, Mr Fox, I can tell you.’
Fox nodded. ‘I can imagine you would have been,’ he said, but decided that this was not the time to tell Davenport about bent accountants. ‘What was this chap’s name?’
‘I’m afraid he didn’t introduce himself.’
Fox shook his head. He never ceased to be amazed at the naiveté of the human race. ‘What happened next?’
‘He told me he was representing a client who had a great interest in art and had some capital to invest. This client, he said, was familiar with the gallery and hated the thought of it going under. In short, he was offering me a partnership with his client, who not only wished to put money into the business but, as a dealer himself, wished to take an active part.’
‘So you accepted?’
‘Not immediately. I must admit that it was an attractive proposition, but the thought of a complete stranger coming in and helping me run the business did not appeal to me ... at least, not straightaway.’
‘But it did eventually?’
‘I was very firm about it,’ said Davenport. Secretly, Fox thought that Davenport would have about the same consistency as a rice pudding when it came to firmness. ‘I said I would have to consider it, and I would most definitely need to meet this client and see if he really did know the art world, and whether I would be able to work with him.’
'And presumably you found that you could?’ Fox knew what a great attraction a cash injection must have been to a man like Davenport.
‘Yes.’ Davenport did not elaborate, sensing the detective’s cynicism.
‘So the upshot was that he invested in the gallery and became a working partner?’
‘Yes, he did. I must say that it was the best thing that ever happened to me. David seemed to know the business quite well, and of course the money was a tremendous help. He had all manner of contacts, and business started booming.’
‘Until this unfortunate incident with the Cézanne?’
&nbs
p; Davenport nodded sadly. ‘Exactly so. If it gets out, it could severely damage my reputation, to say nothing of the business.’ He waved a hand airily around the office.
‘I think it might be a good idea if I have a word with your Mr Pogson,’ said Fox.
‘That’s a problem, I’m afraid,’ said Davenport. ‘I’ve not seen him since this awful business —’
‘But I thought you said that you’d spoken to him about it.’
‘Oh, I did. On the phone. But he’s not been into the gallery since, and when I tried to telephone him again, the line was out of order.’
‘What an extraordinary thing,’ said Fox, who was not the slightest bit surprised by this revelation. ‘Perhaps you would give my inspector Mr Pogson’s last known telephone number ... or his address.’ He was already convinced that it would not be the same as the address shown for Pogson in Companies House records.
‘Ah, yes, of course.’ Davenport started rummaging about in the drawers of his desk. ‘I’m sure I’ve got it here somewhere.’ He was clearly unsuited to deal with the wicked world of crime.
*
‘Well, what d’you make of that, guv’nor?’ asked Evans as they returned to Scotland Yard.
‘There’s some bent bastards about,’ said Fox darkly, ‘and one or more of same have just taken poor old Davenport for a ride ... to Amsterdam.’
Chapter Ten
‘I think you’ve stumbled on something a bit tasty there, guv’nor,’ said Detective Sergeant Hepworth of the Art and Antiques Squad when Fox had finished relating the sad story of Ralph Davenport’s little problem with the Cézanne.
‘I don’t stumble on things,’ said Fox sharply. ‘I investigate them. So just tell me what you know about this priceless collection of bloody wallies that you call the art world and then piss off. I’ve got work to do.’ In Fox’s view, Hepworth fancied himself as a bit of a smart-arse who was intent on escaping from real police duty. He dressed too casually, had no style at all and given half a chance would probably walk around in a cravat and a floppy artist’s hat.
Hepworth sat up abruptly. ‘No, I didn’t mean ...’ Fox’s eyes bored into him. ‘What I mean, sir, is that the whole set-up is unusual.’
‘I know that. And you’re going to give me chapter and verse. You’re supposed to be some sort of expert. At least, that’s what they tell me, but I shall make up my own mind.’
‘I know of Davenport’s gallery, sir,’ said Hepworth, suddenly anxious to say what he had to and escape from Fox’s clutches with all due despatch. He could well do without aggressive senior officers. ‘From what I hear, he’s a bit naive — ’
‘I came to that conclusion myself, so I don’t need character assessments. You’ve heard what Davenport told me. All I want to know is if it could have happened the way he said.’
Hepworth ran a hand reflectively round his chin. ‘Well, you see, sir — ’
‘Yes or no.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Hepworth desperately needed a cigarette, but decided it would not be a good idea to ask permission to smoke.
‘Go on, then.’
‘Normally a painting like a Cézanne, if it was a Cézanne, would be auctioned at a reputable house in London or New York or Paris. The auctioneers or the gallery — whichever way it was going to be sold — would satisfy itself as to the authentication. Then they wouldn’t let it out of their sight until it got knocked down to the highest bidder. And they’d usually make sure of his bona fides, too — ’
‘Meaning?’
‘Well, that he had the funds. That the cheque wasn’t going to bounce. That sort of thing. But from what you were saying, this whole deal sounds a bit iffy. Deals for cash are a bit rare. It’s the way they normally knock out stolen paintings — ’
‘So was it stolen?’
Hepworth shrugged. ‘We don’t have it on record as being stolen, sir, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that it wasn’t.’
‘No?’ Fox spoke in a way that made Hepworth feel utterly incompetent.
‘It sometimes happens that a loser won’t report the theft of a work of art to police.’
‘Why not?’ Fox stared at the unfortunate sergeant.
‘Sometimes they might have difficulty in establishing their ownership of it — ’
‘You mean if it was nicked?’
‘Well, sort of. On the other hand, they might want to take steps to get it back themselves. Cheaper than increased insurance, you see.’ Hepworth gulped. ‘Or it might not have been insured at all.’
‘Really?’ said Fox.
‘But if there’s a buyer out there who’s quite happy to take a stolen painting, he would almost certainly pay for it in cash.’ Hepworth struggled on. ‘The painting would disappear into his private collection and never see the light of day again.’
‘What’s the point of that?’ asked Fox, to whom a handler of stolen goods without a profit motive was a novelty.
‘Possession,’ said Hepworth. ‘Just to have it is enough for some people. They don’t care what it costs or where it came from.’
‘Well, what about this finger in Amsterdam? Does he sound like one of these geysers to you?’
Hepworth shook his head. He nearly smiled but remembered, just in time, that Fox was not into smiling sergeants. ‘He won’t have been the final purchaser, guv. He’ll have been acting as an agent, probably one of several. The idea is to make the transaction virtually untraceable. I wouldn’t mind betting that one of the links in the chain will have disappeared by the time you get to him ... or the Dutch police do. But they always start out with a reputable dealer. Like Davenport, for instance. And if he’s as naive as Davenport sounds, that’s a bonus. But I must say that switching the painting between authentication and delivery is an interesting variation. And a bloody dangerous one, too.’
Fox nodded. He could understand the wisdom of that. People who were prepared to part with large sums of money merely to indulge a whim could get very angry if they were had over in a way that they wouldn’t hesitate to use themselves.
‘And the thing that will have upset the bloke in Amsterdam is that he’s the one who’ll have lost out,’ continued Hepworth. ‘It’s no good him going to the next bloke up the line and telling him he’s been sold a pup. He’d probably just shrug and say “Tough!” ’
‘Yes, I can imagine.’ Fox smiled slowly. The prospect of thieves welshing on thieves always appealed to him. ‘Got any friends in the Dutch equivalent of the Art and Antiques Squad, then?’ he asked.
‘One or two, guv.’
‘Right. Get on the trumpet and see what you can find out. The dealer in Amsterdam’s called Jan Martens, so Davenport says. DI Evans will give you the address.’
Hepworth looked apprehensive. ‘I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as all that, sir. Martens is probably as legit as Davenport.’
Fox shrugged. ‘You’re a detective. So detect. And while you’re doing that, I shall make some searching enquiries in respect of one David Pogson, sometime art dealer. You heard of him before, incidentally?’
‘Not as an art dealer, sir. But there was a con-man of that name working the West End when I was a DC at Savile Row. And it was something to do with fake paintings. That must have been about six years ago.’ Hepworth looked smug; that piece of information was probably new to Fox and, with any luck, would have redressed the balance a bit.
‘Bloody terrific,’ said Fox. ‘I shall be interested to learn why my own officers were unable to furnish me with that particular piece of intelligence.’
*
‘It’s not an uncommon name, guv,’ said Evans defensively. ‘There are two or three on the computer.’
‘Very likely,’ said Fox. ‘And they relate to CRO files upon which, unless things have changed, there should be photographs. Yes?’
‘Yes, guv.’
‘Good. Which you could have extracted and shown to our Mr Davenport. Yes?’
‘Yes, guv.’ Evans looked unhappy.
‘Right.
Get hold of said photographs now. Then we shall go and see Davenport and see what sort of reaction we get to this.’ Fox tapped a file on his desk.
‘What’s that, guv?’
‘A full run-down on his gallery as contained in the annals of Companies House from which it becomes clear that Pogson was one of Danny Horsfall’s front men. Horsfall obviously set the whole thing up, turning the gallery into a limited company and putting Pogson in as a director with five shares. He also gave Davenport five shares, but the balance of ninety shares was held by one of Horsfall’s companies. And I’ll bet old Davenport hadn’t got a clue what was happening.’ Fox smiled. ‘But we’ll ask him. Just to satisfy ourselves that we’ve got it right so far.’ Fox had known the make-up of the gallery company when he had seen Davenport the first time, but had decided to wait before springing that bit of news on him.
*
‘Mr Fox ...’ Davenport spread his hands. ‘I’m an art dealer. I know nothing of business matters. When David came along, offering to put capital into my gallery and help me out, it was like manna from heaven.’
‘You were aware, I suppose, that you had become a limited company?’
Davenport looked at Fox with a vacant expression. ‘Well, yes. We both became directors, and the business started picking up again almost immediately.’
‘But were you aware that from that point on, you only owned five per cent of the gallery?’
‘Five per cent?’ Davenport’s jaw dropped. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘What I say,’ said Fox. ‘According to the entry at Companies House, and I have a copy here, you and Pogson held five shares each. The balance of ninety was held by another company.’
‘But I had no idea.’ Davenport sounded horrified. ‘But what ... I mean, how do I stand now?’
‘What d’you mean, how d’you stand now?’
‘Well, can I sue or something?’
Fox shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea, Mr Davenport. I deal with crime. These entries at Companies House all seem perfectly above-board.’ He tapped the file resting on his knee. ‘I can only suggest that you consult a solicitor.’
