Fatal Forgeries
Page 26
“Is he still there?”
“He left the building, but he’s outside watching the river.”
“Great. Keep an eye on him until you see me in the shot too.” I sat up high in the seat, trying to look over cars to see if I could spot my objective.
“Are you kidding me?” Williams laughed. “Of course I’ll keep you in sight. Hawkes would kill me otherwise. He might do it just because I called you today. I’m assuming, of course, he doesn’t know where you are.”
“He’s busy with an assignment. I don’t want to divide his attention. It’s my Valentine’s Day gift to him.”
“Somehow, I think he’d prefer sex.”
“That’s my backup plan,” I said. “I see him!” I tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Stop here.”
“Sex before or after he gets pissed off about you confronting a criminal?” Williams asked, as I tossed pound notes toward the cabbie.
“Both, probably,” I said, hurrying quicker than I should down the sidewalk. “But I’m not confronting him. I’m just going to talk. See if I can get some answers. I’ve never been in danger talking to him before. Nothing to make you or Jack worry.”
Williams laughed. “Yeah, tell that to Hawkes. I’m sure he’ll think it’s completely fine then.”
“I’m hanging up now, Danny. Thank you.”
“Don’t you da—”
I shoved the silenced phone into my pocket.
As I approached, I noticed his hair under the fedora was back to gray. The hat wasn’t the same one as he wore in Germany, but it was similar. He didn’t wear his glasses either, since he wasn’t reading. He was watching something or someone either in or across the river. I got closer and he spoke first. “You must be tired. Why don’t we go and sit over there?”
Moran took my arm and led me to the bench under a bare-limbed tree. I wondered how long I had before Danny had a Met police car cruise by. I said, “I get the feeling you expected me.”
There were plenty of people around. I felt safe in the open like this, but my phone vibrated and I knew someone didn’t share my belief.
“Eh,” Moran said, shrugging. “You’re smart. I knew you’d figure it out.”
“Not until you checked out of the hotel. I missed seeing the quiet man with the newspaper. Once you were gone, I started remembering things I’d missed in those busy days. I got security to give me a picture and a friend helped me locate you. Why were you there? Did you know what was going to happen?”
He chuckled.
“How could I know? I just needed a vacation.”
“So you decided to spend it in the lobby of the hotel where I lived?” A boat on the water tooted its deep horn.
“It was quiet. Good light there for reading,” he said. “For watching people.”
“You also spotted when I brought in the Caravaggio too. Did you see the video?” My phone began vibrating again. My gaze swept the roof eaves and lamp poles, trying to see if I could figure out which camera Danny watched us from, but it was no use. He probably zoomed in. I pulled my cell from my pocket and held it high, so he could see when I turned it off completely.
Moran chuckled, but ignored my actions and answered my question. “Oui. You have distinctive movements and marvelous talent. I’ve had my suspicions about you for years. Too many things have been stolen from thieves or wealthy men without scruples and returned to original owners. The video was simply confirmation.”
“And that was when you decided to vacation in my neighborhood of London.”
“Perhaps.”
A Met police car crawled by. I smiled and waved. The car moved on. “But you didn’t give the painting to your grandson, despite the fact he’d paid for it and scheduled a pickup so he could take it to Barcelona.”
“If…” He sighed. “If my grandson prepared to use the art to gain other art, or even money, I would have aided him in his efforts. However, after he called and raged about the midnight theft, and sent me the video link, I took other measures.”
“And I assume an informant in Scotland Yard lets you know about any art-related confiscations, which gave you the added advantage of learning about the copies confiscated in Calais.”
“Your mind is très young and brilliant.”
I felt heat in my cheeks. “Which all means I must admit to my boss the original work disappeared in my care, out of the hotel safe where I thought it was better protected than in my room. Instead of being stolen after he’d acquired it. I never dreamed the nice man who sat in the lobby each day, and who had logical access to the safe room just like me, would spirit away the painting. Max has been blaming a mole at Scotland Yard.”
“Let him continue.” Moran shrugged. “What does it matter really when it happened? It would have been one place or the other. Trust me. Once I knew where the masterpiece was, the Caravaggio would be taken. Maybe by me, maybe by someone else. It is the nature of our business.”
“Your business,” I said. “Not mine.”
I was sorely tempted to do as the old man said. Maybe if I told Max that Moran confirmed he had an informant in Scotland Yard, then let my boss draw his own conclusions… No, this would take some thought—and a stronger sense of courage. However…
“One has to love Caravaggio. He was such a scoundrel,” Moran said, changing the subject. His smiling face shone in the surprising February sunlight.
I couldn’t help grinning at the fact I’d said almost exactly the same thing many times. Talk about the bad boy of the art world. And here I was sitting beside a septuagenarian of the same personality. “He’s one of my favorite artists. His works always walked the edge between acceptable and…maybe not.”
“At least not in the eyes of the Church,” Moran said.
“Especially when he’d made them prepay a commission, then they had to turn down the work after he added something intolerable that he wouldn’t change.”
“So he would sell it a second time to a noble and make double the rate for the piece,” Moran said. “Which is your favorite of his?”
“I like them all. But I love how he hid the tiny self-portrait in the wine decanter in Bacchus. Almost like a secret Easter egg.”
“You know, that painting was lost for hundreds of years. Too many works like this. A tragedy. Shipped off to storage like some warehoused merchandise,” Moran complained.
“Yes,” I said, pulling my coat tighter around me. The wind off the water was sharp, despite the sunshine. “Bacchus was rediscovered in Florence in 1917, when a museum worker stumbled onto it in an Uffizi Museum storeroom.”
“Lost art people cannot see for generations because it is stored away and someone forgets where it even is.”
“I had a similar discussion with your grandson in Germany,” I said. “It’s frustrating, true, but such instances do not provide a reason for art to be forged or even just copied later. The original public works should stay available to the public. Like the original Caravaggio you substituted for the Scotland Yard copy. The family is disappointed a second time because the painting still isn’t coming home.”
“I am not a good guy. I am not a bad guy. I am a thief.” He stood up. “I should go before one of your policemen come by again and arrest me for loitering. That is the only crime they can hold me for today. You, however. There is proof of who actually held the Caravaggio. Video proof.”
I probably should have felt alarmed, but logic told me not to bat an eye. Confidence was respected. I smiled instead. “You may have seen the proof you needed, but I’m not concerned. No one at the French facility wants the video link part of a court case. Too many others would suffer far greater risks. But I will keep looking for the Caravaggio, and I will someday return it to the family home where it truly belongs.”
He laughed and tipped his hat. “Touché.” He turned to walk away.
“Before you go,” I said.
“What do you want from me?”
He gave me a puzzled expression and rested a hand to lean against the back of the bench. “I want nothing from you. You arrived here seeking me.”
“I mean…” I stopped and took a breath. “What do you know? And what have you told your grandson that makes him see me as a threat?”
Moran shook his head and moved his shoulders. “I’ve told him nothing to view you like that. He has asked for things he cannot have, and he may have misinterpreted—”
“Please tell him for me…” I stood up and faced him, the bench between us like a means of dividing worthy opponents. “Tell him I do not want anything associated with the name Aubertine. I want to make this clear. I want nothing. And please understand this yourself. I want nothing.”
“You are very clear, my dear.” Moran frowned. “I must leave now before your secret policeman has me detained.”
“This isn’t over, Moran.”
“Why would I think otherwise? Au revoir.”
About the Author
Ritter Ames lives atop a high green hill in the country with her husband and Labrador retriever, and spends each day globe-trotting the art world from her laptop with Pandora blasting into her earbuds. Often with the dog snoring at her feet. Much like her Bodies of Art Mysteries, Ritter’s favorite vacations start in London, then spiral out in every direction. She’s been known to plan trips after researching new books, and keeps a list of “can’t miss” foods to taste along the way. Visit her at www.ritterames.com where she blogs about all the crazy things that interest her.
The Bodies of Art Mystery Series
by Ritter Ames
COUNTERFEIT CONSPIRACIES (#1)
MARKED MASTERS (#2)
ABSTRACT ALIASES (#3)
FATAL FORGERIES (#4)
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