by John Brooke
Impishly titled Post Chase Pleasures, surely a product of the famous Antwerp studio, her best guess circa 1620: a hunting scene, now considered the Flemish master’s obscure specialty. Actually, a post-hunting scene. No sign of the hunting party. A smallish study of a beagle, away from the pack, contentedly licking its anus. An afterthought, almost certainly. Probably an old master’s joke, maybe in reply to friend and sometimes partner Frans Snyders’ own variation on the theme, it would have been something kept in the studio for the private entertainment of the artist and his cronies. But these artistic jokes had since found their way into collections and were now highly prized, precisely for their quirky lewdness. Baroque animal porn, Flemish style.
Josephina knew it was easily worth a million US dollars.
Or one just like it. Somewhere.
Re-emerging from the protected area, resolved, professionally grave, she told him, ‘In my opinion this is the original. It’s not quite finished. Looks like light damage. The red was in the process of being re-deepened, if one can put it that way. I would say he hadn’t yet got to the blues.’ Grinnell shrugged. She explained, ‘Justin Aebischer was known for his skill at bringing back original colours with original materials — almost an alchemist the way he could zero in on the right pigments and medium. Many were proprietary secrets, highly sought. And that’s four hundred years ago. Justin could see them. It’s very impressive. It’s a shame he didn’t get to finish. His poor client. With Justin gone, they may have to live with colour discrepancies forever. Or cheat it with new technology, of course. Have they been around?’
‘Not yet.’ Grinnell smiled oddly. ‘I’m expecting them to come knocking any day now.’
Although murder was outside her ken, Josephina Perella knew a strategic cop smile when she saw one. She didn’t like it. Needing space, she turned away from Hans Grinnell and began to go through Aebischer’s desk, busying herself with documents until, bored, Grinnell drifted back out to the garden. She heard him chatting with the uniforms and felt herself relax.
She found Aebischer’s business cards in a small box at the back of a middle drawer. Reubens & Associates. Justin Aebischer could work flawlessly in a range of styles but it was common knowledge within the trade that the majority of Aebischer’s commissions fell within the Baroque period, as advertised on his ludicrous card. Reubens & Associates. Cheeky, if not stupidly careless, even in a very specialized market. But it didn’t matter now. Did it?
Josephina Perella cast a glance toward the garden.
When every inch of the desk had been thoroughly inspected, she sat back, turning to the patient Grinnell, exasperated. ‘I cannot believe no one has called looking for their painting.’
The Basel Lands cop indicated negative.
Which confirmed what she already knew.
What she did not know: Was Grinnell playing straight with her? All she could do was push him. Staying in role, Josephina Perella folded her arms under her expansive breast in the manner of the older, senior cop. She added incredulity to exasperation. ‘And you’ve contacted no one?’
‘We’re in contact with the Kunstmuseum. They came and had a look. They’ll send some appraisers. They will help find the client.’ He shrugged, sensing her skepticism. ‘There are no documents. We looked, believe me. They’re gone. If they existed.’
‘But if that’s the case, why didn’t they take the painting back to their vault?’
‘They offered. I asked them to leave it. Just to see.’ That shrewd smile: His case. His way.
Without losing her temper but making sure Grinnell knew she found his methods wanting, FedPol Agent Perella wondered how the Basel Lands police could leave a ‘very valuable!’ work of art virtually unguarded for…‘What? Almost a week now?’ The place was isolated, easily accessible to anyone who knew the victim and what he had been doing! Two uniforms were easily eliminated! ‘I mean, Inspector Grinnell, this is a genuine artistic treasure!’
Grinnell smiled. ‘We’re comfortable with it. The place is sealed. And — ’
‘That’s all well and good, but I’m still not certain as to your cavalier — ’
‘And you’re on tape, Agent Perella. Every move. Please…’ Another sort of smile said, I’m not an idiot, Frau. ‘We know what were dealing with here.’
Josephina stopped dead, peering around the room.
Grinnell said, ‘The Museum people agreed it might help to leave the work here for a while, for the very reasons you’re so worried about. A temptation too great to resist?’ He sniffed. ‘It’s just a strategy where no other has occurred. Or the beginnings of one.’
Josephina was mulling. ‘And Aebischer’s bank?’
‘We tried. Didn’t get too far. His client ordered them not to reveal any information.’ Grinnell’s dry expression was universal: This is Switzerland, don’t forget. The ones who could own a Reubens were also the banks’ most valued customers. A closed loop and then some.
Josephina Perella felt that her best move now would be to shut up and go back to the city. She had found out what she been needing to know. The more she talked, the more harm she did.
Opening the plastic drape, gazing at it one last time. ‘It seems authentic to me.’
Grinnell stepped close. ‘I used to have a beagle. They do that. Disgusting. Worse than cats.’
***
After leaving Hans Grinnell, Josephina Perella stopped at a quiet spot beside the Birsig River to gather her scattered wits. An unmitigated disaster. She’d got what she’d come for. But she had no idea what she’d given away. The Basel Lands inspector had been laughing at her.
She breathed for a good quarter-hour before opening her phone. Franck Woerli answered. ‘Franck? Josephina. Just leaving Biel. Since I’m in the neighbourhood I thought I’d drive over to see one of Aebischer’s fellow restorers. Marcus Streit. Consults for us regularly. He might have a sense of who Aebsicher was working for. There’s nothing useful at the scene.’
‘That’s not good… Nothing here, either.’ A weary-sounding Woerli recounted a frustrating afternoon visiting the galleries on her list. He had got no cooperation at all. ‘Worse than bankers.’
Josephina commiserated. ‘Welcome to my world, Franck,’ adding, ‘Sorry for disappearing. After talking to VigiTec, I sensed a certain urgency with this. Had to have a look for myself. But, dead end, I’m afraid — I mean from my perspective. We’ll try again at the galleries. We really do need to get some kind of lead as to who Aebischer was working for and they would have it. I know how to get them talking… You received the Basel Lands forensics file?’
‘Yes. Gone to the registry and over to France. Some results tomorrow, I hope.’
‘Should help… Best call it a day, Franck. I might be late. We’ll talk tomorrow.’
Woerli reminded her of their luncheon date in France.
‘Looking forward to it.’
Signing off, her will evaporated. She sat there fighting tears. From that spot by the river Josephina Perella could see a hillside that she knew. There was a green patch at its peak, isolated in a swath of forest, enticingly sunny in late afternoon. Two kilometres north and you were over the line in France. She had passed days of freedom hiking and picnicking in those forests with the man she loved. And making love. On a hill overlooking France. In a glade beside a stream. He knew some lovely places. She’d never done such a thing before. Not many men fancied a largish woman. Fate sent the odd one to share her bed from time to time — just enough of them, always transient, to ensure an abiding sense of lonely entrapment, in her skin, in her job. Fate had never said it was the least bit sorry. When the man she loved proposed a scheme, Josephina Perella had said yes, with no remorse or shame.
She had so badly wanted it to work. And it had! Perfectly… How had this happened? If the copy was here, then the Reubens was in France. Ruined? The thought made her mind stop. Josephina took her gaze away from the hills and sat staring at the river, moment by moment exquisitely dappled in the lowering evenin
g sun. Come on, Josephina, think! Martin Bettelman somehow gets wind of Justin’s contract — probably in a bed somewhere. Bettelman kills Justin and takes the painting, leaving Justin’s copy there for the world to find. He takes the painting to the French side? To whom? She had no problem seeing Bettelman being gunned down after the delivery — it happened all the time to naïve and greedy thieves. But then they destroy the thing?
Not priceless, but up there, top tier. It just did not make sense.
No rhyme or reason for this aberration came through the gentle motion of the river.
But it calmed her. And after more empty minutes, her willpower and focus regathered, more or less, she started up the car and headed for a hamlet on the border, heart tightening, struggling to cope. She would not give in to panic. She would work with Franck Woerli, the French police as well. Stay right in middle, that was her role, and prove she could handle a crisis.
Josephina Perella wasn’t very brave. But she was trying to be. For him.
Twenty minutes later she turned up a sylvan drive. Marcus Streit was another solitary artisan. Same trade as Justin Aebischer but a different kind of man. Older. Less talented. Less daring. His lawn was scruffy, his chalet in need of paint and newer, larger windows, a thorough cleaning of the mossy shingles. But his advice was always good. Josephina knocked.
Silence. Forest silence. She went in. He was sitting on the divan, sad looking, always that lovely slightly sad thing that pulled her to him, as if toward something in herself. ‘It’s gone,’ she reported. ‘The copy’s there. I blew some smoke, but it can’t last.’ The tears were pushing. She fought them, fought panic. ‘I cannot understand how a Reubens got torn apart and left in the river with that horrid little thief. Can you help me with that? Please!’
‘Calm down, Josephina. Calm…’ She tried. She watched him breathing, looking into her. ‘Josephina, the Reubens is not in the river. It’s somewhere safe with the Basel Lands police.’
‘What are you talking about? How?…If the copy’s on the table…’ She stopped. It dawned even before he spoke the words, quietly damning.
‘Did you even ask your colleague what painting they found?’
‘Well, no, I…I saw the link to Justin and I…you said I had to go see which one was there. I just assumed…I —’ She rubbed her pounding temples. Her mind would not pass that point.
‘And you did, Josephina. Now we know. They’ve laid a trap.’
‘Yes.’ Slipping into a vague place, instincts backfiring. ‘…And you sent me.’
‘That’s your role. I certainly can never tell one from the other.’
‘Yes. My role.’ Then it occurred to wonder, ‘But where is Marcus?’
‘In the kitchen.’
She found Marcus Streit dead on his kitchen floor. One bullet through his head. She knew she should not have come here. Josephina was shaking as she stood over the body. She had to keep control of her fear. Police are meant to be brave. He stepped into the kitchen.
She asked, as stern and businesslike as she could manage, ‘Did you need to do that?’
‘Yes. Very necessary. We’re closing it down, Josephina. Completely.’
‘But why? Marcus couldn’t hurt anyone. Could he?’
‘I know for a fact he could.’
The fear tightened to where it hurt. Her breathing stopped.
He said, ‘Who else could have alerted Justin’s client to Justin’s work?’
‘Who is Justin’s client?’
‘Someone who’d have never known the difference but for Marcus Streit.’
‘Then how did that horrible country cop ever — ?’
‘Because Justin’s client went to him. Obviously.’
‘Which means Bettelman killed Justin for — ’ For love? She was baffled.
He was shaking his head, rueful, arms out. ‘Josephina, you’re still not seeing it right. We’re shutting it down. The threat from this inspector and Justin’s client is too great. Not to the Reubens. To the entire enterprise. Our clients have standards, Josephina. This falls far short. They cannot be compromised… Justin had to be shut down too. Obviously,’ he murmured, taking her in his arms.
Obviously? ‘What are you telling me?’
He smiled into her eyes. His sad smile.
‘You killed Justin.’
‘Had to. Josephina…had to. The risk is just too great. We disappear for a time. It’s all or nothing, this service we offer. For people like ours, it has to be… You see?’
She was enfolded in his arms, shaking, sobbing now, desperately needful, her body heaving until both these actions seized up with a sudden intake of breath — the reaction to the blade entering through her cushiony side. It did not hurt much. The betrayal hurt far more.
There was an absolute loss of any notion of what to say as he watched her. So she only watched him. Josephina Perella watched his face turn vague. Grey. Then gone.
‘My poor Josephina.’
Laying her out on the floor beside Marcus Streit, he began going methodically through her pockets, her valise, her purse, thinking how Josephina had been useful, but clearly, in a crisis, she was not that good. Which meant a liability. Confidence and confidentiality, these hold an intricately sourced transactional system in ever delicate balance. Reputation is everything.
Yes, so tragic how Josephina had become a liability during this difficult time.
10
More Role-playing at Zup
Swiss side
Inspector Nouvelle left the office early, went home and changed her clothes, added makeup. It was not her usual look: a short (and now too snug!) black leather skirt over red autumn-weight tights, the collarless, cream-coloured wool top with the sequined outline of a cat she’d purchased on impulse and never worn. And a pair of blue sling-backs, sexy but a pain to walk in. Slightly down-market? Aliette hoped she looked like a distraught wife out looking for her slimy husband. She threw her trusty blue mac on over her tawdry disguise and left a note on the kitchen table. Claude would have to fend for himself again tonight. The shoes were a bother, she stumbled more than once on her way back to rue des Bons Enfants, where, without stopping at the third floor, she requisitioned her favourite car and headed back to Basel.
She was early. She found herself some fast food, a French newspaper. A careful look at every page told her Martin Bettelman was still nowhere in the mind of Basel; his status as a body found in the shallows on the French side of the Rhine remained safely undisclosed.
Later, flashing the discarded credit card as she stepped into Zup, Adelhard the doorman was apprehensive. Adelhard was just as strange in his Heidi dirndl this fine evening, but not so outrageous in his greeting. Perhaps it was not the first time a wife had come looking for an errant man. Avoiding her eyes, he indicated that the cover charge would be tallied at the bar.
It was much the same scene as the night before — couples at tables, some more into their roles than others. Macho roles framed in gay irony. Sleeveless T-shirts, leather jackets. Johnny? Alain? More likely American. Kitschy sentimental music added another layer of cinematic irony to the scene. There was no one in drag tonight but Adelhard. No black ties.
Max the barman shrugged, shook his head, No, Martin had not been in. Aliette slid Martin’s card across the bar to Maximilian. ‘Two Boxers, please. Put one on for yourself.’
Like Adelhard, he turned wary when he noticed the name on the card. ‘That’s you?’
‘The least he can do if he won’t show his face is buy me a fucking beer.’ A bitter wife made no bones about the fact. ‘I earned it. And you too, Max. I guess he owes you something too, no? This is about dishonest bastards playing with hearts. Mm?’
He returned the credit card without processing it. ‘It’s on me. I mean us. I mean…’ He stared past her. Poor Max. Martin Bettelman left him emotionally conflicted.
She leapt. ‘What do you mean, Max?’ Angry, refusing to be mollified by free drinks.
Frazzled, Max put a Boxer beer in fro
nt of her. ‘Why are you here?’
‘To confront the prick.’
‘Forget it.’ His forlorn eyes said it was a useless thing to attempt to do.
‘And I want my things back…from our place. I bought half the stuff in that place and I want it back. When he comes in here, I’ll drag him there by the ear!’
‘Really?’ Max smiled grimly. He seemed amused by the thought.
But the woman who was Lise deflated, sighing, ‘No, I don’t know what I’ll do.’ She sipped her beer and let her sense of hurt resurface. ‘But I will do something. I will…’
Max opened a beer for himself. ‘Doubt it’ll do much good. It didn’t do much good for me. Martin just laughed. Soon the whole place was. I could’ve died…’ surveying his happy clientele, rueful with the memory. ‘He didn’t give a damn. Confronting Martin, that was one of the worst nights of my life. Why don’t you just go and get your stuff and to hell with him?’
Lise stared down at the bar. ‘I’m afraid to.’ To give substance to her claim, she slowly rolled her sleeve back till the bruise on her bicep was blatant. That it had come from a hard bump against the shed door the morning she buried Piaf in a daze of sad confusion didn’t matter; tonight it served as a wronged wife’s defining mark. Max gazed knowingly. She would not open her shirt to show further proof, but she gently rubbed the area below her breast and gazed back.
‘I know what you mean,’ said Max. ‘The dumb part was I liked it.’
‘At first, sure. Marty’s an expert. I’d melt. Melt and moan.’
Max blushed. ‘Until he turned mean. Wouldn’t listen. Wouldn’t discuss. All he could say was, That’s it, get out, and add a few good kicks to get me out the door.’
‘You didn’t kick back?’ He was no pipsqueak, this Max. ‘I sure as hell did. Bastard.’
Max shook his head. ‘Don’t know how. Not when it’s like that.’
She sipped her beer. Turned and watched the dancers. Frank Sinatra…do bee do bee do.
