The wild beast of Wuhan al-3

by Ian Hamilton

  “I’m not going to use the O’Toole files other than as a way of keeping score.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “All they prove is that your brother hired O’Toole to paint them. They dead-end with Kwong. Your brother could take the same position with me that you did: ‘The Chinese can sue.’”

  “And why wouldn’t they?”

  “I had this same conversation yesterday with a consultant I’m using,” Ava said. “In a nutshell, my client doesn’t want to look foolish. He would never expose himself to the kind of public ridicule a lawsuit of this nature would invite. Glen referred to him as, what, ignorant? Why would he want the rest of the world to think the same?”

  Hughes looked down at the files on his desk. Ava reached into her bag and pulled out an additional one. “There are four letters in here, addressed to the Earl of Moncrieff, Harold Holmes, and Jonathan Reiner, and to Frederick Locke at Harrington’s. The letters explain in detail how they came to be in possession of forged paintings. Accompanying each letter will be a complete file, just like those you have in front of you,” Ava said. “Here, you can read the letters if you want.”

  She was pleased with them. Each addressed the single painting that related to the letter’s recipient. They were short and to the point — no hint of hysteria, nothing overstated, just a chronological statement of the facts with appendices noted and a line that said the original invoices, photos, etc. were available for viewing if necessary. The letter was signed by Ava. In a postscript she added that she had come across the painting in question as part of a broader investigation. She was passing along the information in the interests of art scholarship and wasn’t seeking any compensation or acknowledgement.

  The colour that had re-emerged in Hughes’ face as he was talking to Ava visibly began to drain. His right eye began to flicker again.

  “This would destroy me,” he said.

  “That is the intent.”

  “You said — ”

  “The question is, how is your brother going to react to the same threat?”

  “He would go mad.”

  “I don’t want mad. I want fear. Fear of complete destruction of his professional reputation, of public disgrace, of having to defend himself against three powerful, angry, rich, vindictive men. And I’d like to think he couldn’t sleep at night for worrying about going to prison.”

  Whatever comfort Edwin Hughes was feeling about the direction of their conversation seemed to vanish at the mention of the word prison. Ava could see his body tense. He swallowed, and then took two deep breaths.

  “I think — actually no, I’m certain — you would achieve that reaction. I am, I think, in some ways braver than my brother, and you’ve certainly had that effect — and more — on me,” he said slowly.

  “Good. That’s what I was hoping to hear.”

  “So that’s the plan, is it? To use the threat of exposing these three paintings to get him to pay back for the Fauvist works?”

  “It’s the leverage I have at hand,” she said.

  “And if it works?”

  “Those letters go back into my bag.”

  “What else can I do to help?” he said.

  Ava smiled. “I want you to start by writing down everything you told me today — everything, every detail about the Fauvists. Do it on gallery stationery. Take your time; be thorough. Implicate your brother in every imaginable way you can. Be specific about Nancy O’Toole and Helga Sorensen. Mention the Liechtenstein account. Describe his relationship with Kwong — but leave out any remarks about ignorant Chinese.”

  “You don’t want anything about the three earlier forgeries?”

  “Of course I do. That will be your second document: a complete and frank confession. And don’t bother with the rationalizations — no one will care. And I’d like you to make mention of our meeting and that you’ve reviewed my paperwork and judge it to be genuine, and that I have my bases covered.”

  He shuddered. “Yes, you do.”

  “When you’re finished, date both of the documents and have them witnessed. Lisa will do.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No, I want all the information you have on your brother: addresses, phone numbers, email, and so on. What you don’t have, get.”

  “And then?”

  “Contact him. Phone is best.”

  Hughes looked worried. “We haven’t spoken in two years. I’m not sure he would even take my call.”

  “That’s your problem. You need to talk to him.”

  “To say what?”

  “He’s about to hit a bump in the road.”

  “You actually want me to tell him about you?”

  “Yes. I want you to set up a meeting between me and him.”

  “You want me to talk about the paintings?”

  “Yes, but I don’t want you to mention the Fauvists. Let’s keep the focus strictly on the other three. Tell him that I’ve unearthed Maurice O’Toole’s files and that I have a suspicion, borne out by some documentation, that the Hughes Gallery was involved in financing and selling forgeries. Tell him that for a million dollars I’ll go away, and that you’ve already agreed to pay half.”

  “What if he doesn’t want to pay?”

  “You need to convince him. Tell him that if he saw the documentation I have, he would agree immediately that a million dollars is getting off cheap. And if you think it would be effective, describe the letters I’ve drafted to the Earl and the others.”

  “What if he wants to see the documentation?”

  “Then he has to see me with it. I won’t let it out of my possession, out of my sight.”

  “He can be stubborn.”

  “Mr. Hughes, you’re approaching this from the wrong direction. You have an opportunity here to do something quite remarkable. You should be relishing it, not nitpicking the challenges. Your brother is going to be paying a very heavy price for his stupidity. He owes my client more than seventy million dollars, and one way or another, I’m going to collect it. Whatever hurt he caused you and this business is nothing compared to the hurt he’s going to be feeling. So whatever you have to say, say it.”

  “I understand that,” he said deliberately. “I also understand only too well the other implications if he doesn’t co-operate. I just need to talk this through a bit.” He paused. “What if, on the other hand, he is immediately agreeable? What if he says he’ll pay the half-million and he doesn’t need to see you or the paperwork?”

  “Slim chance. But if it does happen, bluff. Tell him I’m quite insistent on doing the transaction in person.”

  She could see he wasn’t convinced. “Are you scared?” she asked, pointing to the files.

  “You know I am.”

  “Then impart your concerns to your brother. That’s all you really have to do.”

  She stood up and he flinched. What does he think I’m going to do? she thought. She picked up the files, secured them with the rubber band, and held them in her lap. “I know I don’t have to say this, but I don’t like to take things for granted. These files aren’t my only copy. My colleague in Hong Kong has a set, and he’s also aware of you and your brother and what role you’ve played in this situation. So if anyone got any ideas about trying to take me out of the equation, it wouldn’t make any difference. In fact, it would probably make things worse. I think that’s a message that might be worth passing along to your brother as well.”

  “You didn’t have to say that.”

  “I’ve said it anyway.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “You have some work to do,” she said. “I’ll be back in four hours. Is that enough time?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “It will be about ten o’clock in New York by then, so you can call your brother as well.”

  “He’s a late sleeper.”

  “Get him out of bed.”

  (26)

  Ava walked down Church Street back to the hotel. She phoned Uncle from her room.
It was dinnertime in Hong Kong, so she wasn’t surprised to hear the clatter of dishes in the background when he answered his phone.

  “ Wei.”

  “I’ve just left Edwin Hughes. It went well, I think. Now I need to get to the other brother, Glen,” she said.

  “Is he in London?”

  “New York.”

  “How soon will you leave?”

  “After Edwin gives me what I want, so I can’t leave until maybe late today, more likely tomorrow morning.” She heard voices. “Are you with someone?”

  “I’m at the noodle shop near Kowloon Station, Andy’s place. Sonny is with me.”

  “Say hello to Andy for me,” she said, and heard Uncle relay her greeting.

  “Ava, these brothers,” Uncle said, “how much money do they still have? How much do you think you can recover?”

  She didn’t answer him immediately. The same question had occurred to her after Edwin’s rant about his brother’s lifestyle. “I don’t have a clue,” she finally said, “but I’ll call you the instant I know.”

  She hung up and was thinking about going downstairs for lunch, when her cellphone rang. May Ling. She let it go to voicemail. A moment later it rang again. Irritated, she picked it up, ready to silence it until the afternoon, when she saw a London number appear on the screen.

  “Ava Lee.”

  “Frederick here. I’m just calling to see how things are going.”

  “I believe I told you I’d phone when I had something to report.”

  “I’m anxious,” he said. “I was up half the night worrying about all this. The more I think about it, the more I realize how difficult this could be for my firm.”

  “Then stop thinking about it.”

  “Easily said.”

  “Leave the office, go to a movie, find a distraction,” Ava said.

  “How are things going?” he asked again.

  She sighed. “Quite well, actually. With any luck, you and I should be able to sit down in a day or two with all the facts at our fingertips and make an informed decision.”

  “I’m counting on that.”

  So is Edwin Hughes, she thought, and hung up.

  Ava took the elevator to the lobby and had lunch in the hotel’s Stable Bar. She then headed outdoors, where the sun was still visible through a bank of clouds that grew darker towards the horizon. She decided to take a walk around the Gardens, and was on her third circuit when her phone rang. The incoming number was for the Hughes Gallery. That was quick, she thought.

  “This is Ava Lee,” she said.

  “I’ve finished my paperwork. You can come by and pick it up anytime,” Hughes said.

  “Have you spoken to your brother?”

  “Yes, not more than ten minutes ago. I think you’ll find him co-operative.”

  She checked her watch. It was just past one o’clock. “I’m on my way now,” Ava said. She was near the bridge that spanned the Serpentine, so she reversed course and headed back to the High Street. She called her travel agent in Toronto as she walked.

  “Gail, it’s Ava. I need to fly to New York. Can you see if there’s a late-afternoon flight out of Heathrow, something that could get me there sometime early this evening? I won’t be near my computer for a while, so call me when you have the information. I’m not sure what part of the city I’ll be going to, so let’s hold off on a hotel until I know for certain.”

  As Ava approached the gallery she saw Lisa waiting by the front door, looking embarrassed. Ava wondered if she’d read the papers she’d been asked to witness. “Mr. Hughes is in the back,” she said softly, as if it were a secret. She’s been told something, Ava thought.

  Ava walked to the offices in the back and found Hughes standing by a photocopier just outside his office, feeding it notepaper with handwriting on it. “That was prompt,” he said when he saw her.

  “I was just around the corner.”

  He turned his back to her as he finished making the copies. He sorted the papers into three neat stacks and stapled each stack together. “One for me, one for you, and I thought you’d want one for Glen, so I took the liberty,” he said, handing her two sets.

  “Do you mind if I sit to read?”

  “Let’s go into the office.”

  There were nine pages of notes, double-spaced, six of them devoted to the earlier forgeries and the remaining three recounting his knowledge of the Fauvist scam, including his meeting with Nancy O’Toole, the letter from Helga Sorensen, and his brother’s admission to him of his guilt. It was a straightforward account, unemotional and not the least bit self-serving. She respected him for his directness.

  Ava pulled out her Moleskine notebook and checked the notes she had made that morning against the documents Hughes had drafted. “Mr. Hughes,” she said, “on a separate piece of paper I’d like you to make a list of the so-called art experts who authenticated the Manet and the Modiglianis.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “Yes, I want that information.”

  He hesitated. “What bearing does it have on this? I’ve already given you a full confession.”

  “It will give me additional leverage with your brother,” she said, not at all sure it would but figuring it never hurt to have extra ammunition.

  “All right,” he said.

  “I also don’t see any of the information I asked for about your brother.”

  “That’s done, but I’ve separated it from these documents.”

  “Good. Now, do you have a fax machine?”

  “Next to the photocopier.”

  “I’d like to send a copy of your notes to Hong Kong.”

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  Ava put Uncle’s name on a cover sheet and wrote, Here is an accurate description of how the Wongs were cheated. I’m leaving for New York in a few hours. I’ll be in touch. She dialled his Hong Kong fax number and fed the papers through the machine.

  Her cellphone rang as the transmission started. Her travel agent told her there was a five-o’clock flight to JFK that got in at eight forty-five. Ava figured that by the time she’d cleared Customs and found her way into Manhattan it would be at least ten o’clock. She hoped Glen Hughes didn’t mind working nights. “Hang on a second,” Ava said to Gail, and walked back to Edwin Hughes’ office. “Where does your brother live?” she asked.

  “On 65th Street near Lexington Avenue, on the Upper East Side,” he said.

  She repeated this to Gail.

  “There’s a Mandarin Oriental Hotel at Columbus Circle and 60th Street,” Gail said. “It’s on the southwest corner of Central Park. You can have a room with a park view if you don’t mind paying a thousand dollars a night.”

  “Book the flight and the room,” Ava said.

  “I’m finished with the list,” Hughes said, as she hung up the phone.

  She read the document quickly. The only name she recognized was Sam Rice, only because Hughes had mentioned him specifically.

  “And here is the information on my brother.”

  “Only one address. Is that his house or his office?”

  “Both, evidently. He told me he has his office on the ground floor and the living quarters are upstairs.”

  “A townhouse?”

  “That’s what he told me.”

  “Is he living alone?”

  “Yes, wife number three vacated several months ago.”

  Ava thought Hughes looked curiously relaxed. This is the man, she thought, whom Edwin Hughes said he detested. “So, you say you spoke to your brother and he’s going to be co-operative?”

  “I did, and he said he would be.”

  “He took your call so easily?”

  “I used Lisa’s mobile. He probably thought it was some old girlfriend trying to reach him.”

  “Was it strained, your conversation?”

  “What does that matter?” Hughes asked. “You got what you wanted.”

  “How hard did you have to push?”

  He laughed and then s
lowly shook his head. “My brother has a remarkably fine-tuned instinct for survival. He can identify danger from miles away, and I only had to start talking about you and Maurice O’Toole before he had the situation sussed out. He thought the half-million was cheap. He said he’d pay it. He may posture a bit, protest, negotiate, whine, threaten — he has a whole range of theatrics he can call on — but in the end he said he’ll pay. His only concern, actually, was about my ability to pay my share. I almost thought he was going to offer to fund that too.”

  “Did you go into the letters I’ve drafted for the Earl and the others?”

  “I didn’t have to. Glen understood the implications of this going public far quicker than I did.”

  “So he’s expecting me?”

  “Of course. I told him I thought you’d be there in a day or two, and that you’d contact him directly.”

  This has gone well, Ava thought. Maybe too well.

  Edwin Hughes fussed with the papers on his desk. Ava tried to think of anything she might have missed. When she was satisfied she had covered everything, she stood up, put his notes in her bag, and said, “Thanks for this.”

  He walked out from behind the desk. “I’ll walk with you to the door.”

  She hadn’t been physically close to him before, and now that she was, she could smell a distinct body odour. Hughes hadn’t showered or used deodorant that morning, or else he had been sweating up a storm. On his breath she also picked up the unmistakeable scent of whisky. Fear and booze were a bad combination.

  He was walking beside her when he reached out to touch her elbow. Ava recoiled. He realized at once that he had overstepped his boundaries, pulled his hand back, and jammed it into his jacket pocket. “Ms. Lee, I have something I’d like to ask you,” he said.

  “I can’t promise I’ll answer.”

  “My brother, Glen — you are going to hurt him, aren’t you?”

  She wasn’t quite sure what he meant and looked at him sideways. Hughes’ face betrayed nothing. “Does he care about his money?” she asked.

  “Passionately.”

  “Then I am going to hurt him.”