by Morris West
‘Madeleine was born in London, daughter of French parents. Her father was a colonel in the Free French Forces who had set up business in London as a wine-shipper; her mother was on the staff of the French Embassy, attached to the Cultural Section. I was in London devilling for old George Bunbury on a transatlantic commercial case involving US and Canadian clients. The dispute was long and profitable. I stayed in London four months. Madeleine and I met one afternoon at an exhibition at the Royal Academy. She was then a student at the Slade. We fell in love. It was head over heels for both of us. We married before I left England.’
‘And then?’
‘The honeymoon and the homecoming were wonderful. After that it was a slow decline into misery. I was an ambitious young attorney with an interest in art. She was pure artist – all fire and fantasy, relentless in pursuit of her visions, constantly in need of release and renewal – mostly through sexual encounter. Without elaborating on it, that’s the origin of the newspaper reference. My wife was a great painter – and a very promiscuous lady.’
‘So that must have determined the thrust of police inquiries into her murder.’
‘Of course. I was the natural suspect. Faithless wife. Jealous husband. And I was jealous, make no mistake. I became morbid and tyrannical. I bullied her, put restrictions on her movements, forbade her to exhibit. It didn’t help of course. It only made things worse. But it was a simple piece of arithmetic to prove I couldn’t have murdered her. I was in conference uptown – I had a secretary call the studio to tell Madeleine I’d be late picking her up. There was no answer. By the time I got to the studio she was dead. I was frantic. I called the police, then I cradled her in my arms trying to revive her. That’s how the police found me…that’s the nightmare I live with.’
‘What I can’t understand is how you endured the hell you were making for each other. Why didn’t you divorce?’
Bayard gave him a strange lopsided smile and threw up his hands in a gesture of defeat.
‘You’re young, Max. You have all the happy talents of a bachelor on the loose. I hope you’ll never have to learn as I did that for some people even hell is more tolerable than nothingness. Madeleine and I needed each other, don’t you see? We fed on the misery we created in each other. The tension you see in her pictures, the wild impulse to escape, grew out of that misery. Besides, I knew that I had the best of her. It’s hung on the walls around you.’
‘But what isn’t there,’ said Mather, ‘is the other side of her – the sensual, orgiac side. Did she never paint nudes, human embraces?’
‘If she did, I never saw them. Perhaps that was just as well. For me, the hardest thing to endure was the knowledge that other men possessed her body and believed, as I so willingly did, everything she told them in bed. I could have killed for that – oh yes. But I would have killed the lovers, not Madeleine.’
‘Did you know who they were?’
‘Some, yes.’
‘Did she paint any of them? Did she paint for any of them? Did she write letters?’
‘I’m not sure I see the point of the question.’
‘To put it bluntly: is any embarrassing material likely to come on the market during the exhibition?’
‘I guess it’s possible. Not much we can do if it does.’
‘You could buy it in discreetly.’
‘I’m not sure I care that much. I’m purging out memories, not acquiring them.’
‘Then wouldn’t it be best to have them buried or at least kept in a safe place until time takes the sting out of them?’
‘You’re right, of course. But I’m damned if I’ll be the buyer.’
‘Then if anything’s offered I’ll pick it up on my own account. If the exhibition’s a success, there will always be a market for it through the gallery.’
‘No doubt.’ Bayard agreed with cool irony.
After all he had heard from Anne-Marie and Hugh Loredon, Mather found himself trying to match two different portraits of the same man. The problem was to make the disparate images coincide. He asked, ‘Are you in love with Anne-Marie?’
‘You know I am.’
‘Was Hugh Loredon one of your wife’s lovers?’
Instantly Bayard was withdrawn and hostile – a domestic animal turned feral.
‘How the hell did you know that?’
‘Hugh told me.’
‘Why would he tell you?’
‘He knows Anne-Marie and I are good friends. He’s asked me to keep an eye on her. He says he’s afraid you’ll use her to revenge yourself on him.’
‘God Almighty!’ The words came out in a cry of anguish. Bayard crumpled as if he had been struck in the belly. Burying his face in his hands he swayed from side to side, moaning unintelligibly. When finally he straightened up his face was a ravaged mask of grief. His voice was unsteady.
‘Does Anne-Marie know this?’
‘Yes.’
‘No wonder she withdraws from me – no wonder she’s afraid.’
‘That’s not the only reason,’ Mather told him brusquely. ‘You’ve got a lot of bad habits left from your marriage: you’re prickly; you bully people; you’re suspicious and, to cap it all, you set a goddamn spy on Anne-Marie. And don’t tell me it was to protect her; it was to make sure she wasn’t another Madeleine.’
Bayard nodded but did not speak.
Mather pressed the point home. ‘So she’s angry. She wants you out of her space. You can’t blame Hugh Loredon for that.’
‘Would you believe,’ said Bayard slowly, ‘that I don’t blame him for anything? I don’t blame any of Madeleine’s lovers for taking what she offered. After all, I forfeited most of my self-respect to hang on to her.’
‘Was Madeleine killed by one of her lovers?’
‘Possibly, yes. Probably not.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘She never made any pretence of exclusivity. So who needed to kill for what Madeleine handed around like a jar of cookies? At one time I thought that if I refused to talk to every man who’d put the horns on me, I’d have ended up living like a hermit. For a while that’s what I did. It’s only since I’ve met Anne-Marie that I’ve begun to live a half-way normal life.’
‘Are the police still active on the case?’
‘Active? That’s a very relative word. Every few months they pop round with a couple of new questions and a rehash of the old ones. That probably won’t stop until after the exhibition.’
‘Have they explored the possibility that someone hired an assassin?’
For the first time Bayard smiled, a crooked mocking grin of dismissal.
‘My dear Max, when they realised I hadn’t killed her – couldn’t have killed her, in fact – they began to construct all sorts of fantasies. One of them was that I had hired a professional to do the job. The only problem with that scenario is that professional killers don’t turn a one-shot job into a slaughterhouse. And I could have arranged a dozen pretexts to keep me out of town on execution day.…But hell, what’s the point of rehashing the whole bloody affair? Try to understand something, Max, because I’m never going to say it again. Try to explain it to Anne-Marie, if she’ll listen. I’m staging this exhibition as a tribute to the best of Madeleine – the part I loved, the woman who kept me captive all these years. After that, she’s gone. Out of my life. I don’t want vengeance on her killer. I don’t want to hate her lovers. I just want to forget her and start living like a whole man again.…With Anne-Marie, if she’ll have me – without her, if she won’t.’
‘Then take some advice from a footloose bachelor. Start living without her first. Then she won’t feel she’s being conned into a one-sided contract.’
‘The voice of experience?’ There was a new respect in Bayard’s tone.
‘It works both ways,’ said Mather with feeling. ‘Women hate a man who’s looking for a mother. Men hate the woman who wants a son for a lover. One more question.’
‘I hope it’s easier than the others.’
‘It’s
money in your pocket; you charge me for legal counsel. How would I go about forming a buying syndicate for works of art?’
‘Based where?’
‘Based in Europe, but operating anywhere in the world.’
‘Point of the exercise?’
‘I shall be representing Anne-Marie’s gallery. But she’s one dealer with her own special policy. Why shouldn’t I service five, ten, twenty? Why shouldn’t I deal on my own account?’
‘No reason – provided your judgment’s sound and your credit’s good – which on your showing to date they seem to be. If you want, I could set up a syndicate almost overnight.’ He broke off to pour two more large slugs of brandy. As he warmed the snifter in his palm, he asked, ‘Would you answer a couple of questions for me, Max? Tit for tat, as it were.’
‘Sure. Go ahead.’
‘What’s your precise relationship with Anne-Marie?’
‘Ex-lover, good friend – surrogate brother, business associate. We’re comfortable and free. Next question?’
‘Are you a kept man?’
‘No. I’ve accepted patronage from women – never keep. I’ve lived on my own resources and helped them to enjoy theirs.’
‘It’s a fine distinction.’
‘As a lawyer, I’m sure you’ll understand it.’
‘And what’s your ambition?’
‘To become very rich as soon as possible.’
‘And you think you can do that?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
‘I think,’ said Bayard softly, ‘I think you just might.’
He raised his glass and made the old toast that suddenly sounded very new and relevant. ‘To both of us, Max! Health, money and love – and God give us time to enjoy them.’
Having drunk deeply, they decided it would be a shame not to drink again. Then Bayard pronounced the last unsteady benediction.
‘I’m glad you never met my wife. If you had, I’d have lost you as a friend. She stole all my men friends, you see. All the best ones.…’
At nine in the morning – three in the afternoon, Paris time – Harmon Seldes received a telephone call from Henri Charles Berchmans the Elder. Their conversation was conducted in French. Seldes’ speech was accurate but fussy and pedantic. Berchmans’ still had the rough barking tone of his native Alsace.
‘This mess of papers you sent me on the fax yesterday…what do you expect me to do about it?’
‘Do?’ Seldes was bland as honey. ‘Do, my dear Henri? Thank me, of course.’
‘For what?’
‘For the first look at what may turn out to be one of the most provocative discoveries of our time. No one else has seen it – but if you are not interested, of course, we must proceed to…’
‘Of course I’m interested.’ Berchmans the Elder had a notoriously short fuse. ‘Don’t be stupid. This fellow Martha, Methier…’
‘Mather.’ Seldes spelt it out for him.
‘My God, I don’t need a spelling lesson! How good is he? Is his work authentic?’
‘I’ve checked all his references with the Palombini family, the library in Florence. He gives the impression of an agreeable idler, but that is deceptive. The work is totally authentic. I have personally inspected the source documents.’
‘Which are, however, four hundred and eighty years old. This is cold stew, my friend.’
‘Our publication will light the gas under it.’
‘So…what are you asking of me?’
Harmon Seldes smiled with satisfaction. Old Berchmans was a racing man. He insisted on giving the last riding instructions to his jockeys.
‘I ask three questions. First, is there anything in your own collections which might match the description in the Palombini accounts?’
‘There is not.’
‘Second, can you identify or even guess at matching material in other collections?’
‘At this moment, no.’
‘Third, do you wish to participate with me in a search for these objects on an exclusive basis?’
‘How do you define “participate”?’
‘You put up an agreed amount to fund the research. I conduct it. If the articles can be found and brought to market, we do it together…and we split fifty-fifty.’
‘And if nothing is found – or someone else makes the discovery?’
‘Then we are both out of luck.’
‘But I am also out of pocket. So we split seventy-thirty in my favour.’
‘Sixty-forty and we have a deal.’
‘I need time to think about that.’
‘You don’t have time, Henri. There is only the duration of this call.’
‘I must see this Mather fellow.’
‘I’ll arrange it if we make a deal.’
‘Where does he fit in all this?’
‘I told you. His scholarship is sound; he himself is a flâneur. He has private means, so he doesn’t have to work too hard. He is shrewd enough to see that he has neither the resources nor the expertise to do what you and I can do.’
‘Would he sign a quit-claim?’
‘In my view it would be a mistake, a grave mistake, to ask for it. If we want him to do work for us, I commission him. Already I have him working as a consulting editor. I could probably get him to accept a contract that binds him hand and foot and gives us all the fruits of his labours. But I’d have to approach that very carefully.’
‘Why not tie a woman to it?’ Berchmans’ dry laugh rattled through the receiver. ‘Next question: how much do you need to start your researches?’
‘First-class travel and accommodation and all outgoings. I’ll probably do the bulk of the work during my summer vacation. I presume you can let me use your offices and your scouts?’
‘The offices, yes. The scouts we’ll talk about as occasion arises. Give me an approximate figure.’
‘Fifty thousand to know whether we’re on the track or chasing a folly fire.’
‘It’s too much,’ said Henri Berchmans. ‘Make it a lump sum of thirty. You pick up all overages.’
‘Thirty thousand up front, sixty-forty split of gross proceeds.’
‘That’s the first time I’ve heard the word “gross”.’
‘You didn’t expect me to say “net”, did you, Henri? Here I am doing you the biggest service of your life and you’re still trying to screw me.’
‘The gross then.’
‘Good. We have a deal.’
‘Then why don’t you kill the story? Why alert the whole world to what we know?’
‘Because there’s no way you and I can cover the world, so we stir up the waters and see what bubbles to the surface. You’re the doyen of the dealers; it’s an odds-on chance the first finds will land on your doorstep – or mine, as publisher of the news.’
‘You’re probably right,’ said Berchmans, never one to pay compliments. ‘I’ll see you in New York in a week or two. Keep me posted on developments. Anything else?’
‘I was wondering,’ said Seldes tartly, ‘when you were going to say “thank you”.’
There was a long moment of silence before Berchmans answered with deliberate contempt.
‘We have a deal. I shall do my part. You will do yours. And if we find what we are looking for, we shall both go down on our knees and praise the living God who made us rich and fortunate. À bientôt, Seldes.’
Harmon Seldes put down the phone and looked at himself in the mirror. He saw a jowly fellow in need of a shave and a haircut who had just cut himself a very good deal. At worst his summer vacation was paid for; at best – hell, a man could retire in luxury on half the commission for two Raphael portraits and five cartoons. Henri Charles Berchmans the Elder was a rough-tongued old monster but, like all the great dealers, he did believe in miracles: the shining miracle of genius which could transform a blank canvas into an object of wonder; the Midas miracle of greed, which could turn the object of wonder into gold.
The easiest way to handle the monster was to hand him a victim
to rend. He called Max Mather, who at that precise moment was waking to a monumental hangover. His head was pounding, his eyes were full of gravel. His mouth tasted like the bottom of a birdcage. His response was less than cordial.
‘Hell, Harmon, what time is it?’
‘Just on nine-thirty. Did little Maxie have a heavy night?’
‘Little Maxie’s dying – and you can blame Ed Bayard.’
‘He keeps a good table, I’m told.’
‘He also pours brandy like a crazy man. What can I do for you?’
‘I just want to tell you that old man Berchmans has agreed to finance a search for the Raphaels.’
‘I wish you both the best of luck. Now can I go back to sleep?’
‘Not yet. Berchmans would like to meet you when he comes to New York in a couple of weeks.’
‘I won’t be here, I’m leaving for Europe tomorrow. But I can stop off in Paris and talk to him, provided Belvedere picks up the Concorde supplement.’
‘Why Concorde?’
‘Because I’m putting myself out for you and you’re picking up the profit.’
‘Very well. Put in an expense claim, I’ll authorise it. What are your plans?’
‘Ten days quiet work on the Madeleine Bayard piece. I saw her canvases last night – they’re stunning. And the story can match them. As soon as it’s done, I’ll send it to Leonie for editing and on-forwarding to you. Then I’m going skiing for a week in St Moritz. After that, I go down to Florence. If there’s anything you’d like me to do…?’
‘I’ll call Berchmans now and find out where you can contact him over the weekend.’
‘What does he want?’
‘To examine your scholar’s conscience.’
‘Everyone else has. What’s another inquest more or less?’
‘He’s important to us, Max.’
‘To you, not to me, but I’ll be pleasant to him for your sake. Is there anything else you want done while I’m in Europe?’
‘I’ll let you know. The important thing is that we co-ordinate our efforts. I can direct you to what I need, but we shouldn’t work wastefully or at cross-purposes.’
‘I agree, I agree! Now can you get off the line? I’d really like to die in peace.’
