The Unknown Masterpiece

by John Brooke

  Grinnell gave a quick shake of his close-cropped head. ‘It’s the painting, Inspector. Perella’s reason for going out to Aebischer’s was to get that painting back here. She thought she’d badger me into being overwhelmed by Reubens and say, Please, take it!’ He shrugged. ‘Why do they always think we’re so stupid? Always. It never ceases to amaze me… Two. I have Perella tied to this thing. She’s on tape removing that box of business cards from Aebischer’s desk — caught red-handed. And three,’ taking a sheath of folded paper from his breast pocket, ‘I have these.’

  Two sheets. Copies. A letter. The other was an official document. In German, of course. A French cop humbly requested, ‘Please translate.’

  He obliged. The official document was a complaint processed on a Basel Lands Police form, made out in the name of Hildegard Federer, resident of Benken. It concerned false representation regarding the work of Justin Aebischer, an art restoration practitioner, performed under contract to the Federer family, specifically on a painting entitled Caresses by Frans Snyders, dated circa 1625. ‘Last winter this woman comes to me looking for help. Old family. Very rich. Collects these paintings of dogs licking themselves. Apparently some are very valuable.’ He sipped beer, continued. ‘They’d had their collection authenticated by modern means and she’d started the process of refurbishing. Aebischer was recommended by Marcus Streit, who’s an old family friend and has often acted as a kind of advisor and curator whenever the world became interested in the Federer collection. I got the sense she knows and trusts him. That’s two years ago. Aebischer took delivery of the Snyders, reported on his progress when asked, and returned it according to the schedule. Good and fine. Then she gave him the Reubens. Same job — clean it, bring it back to its original state. At your service, frau. Aebischer gets to work. Meanwhile, Streit comes to look at Aebischer’s work on the Snyders. And he noticed something worrisome.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘A colour discrepancy of some kind.’ Grinnell shrugged. ‘It’s well beyond me.’

  ‘Are we talking about a fake?’

  ‘Not at that point. Streit just thought it wasn’t very good work — that the refurbished colour wasn’t right. It’s all related to value. When Frau Federer contacted Aebischer demanding an explanation for Streit’s consternation, he just laughed and told her Marcus was getting old. He told her to take it to the lab at the Kunstmuseum and let them look at it. The frau told me Aebischer wasn’t worried in the least. But her friend Marcus kept coming back and staring at her cleaned-up Snyders. And fretting. So she came to see us for advice on how to guard her painting and at the same time compel Aebischer to provide more comprehensive disclosure with regard to his work on said painting during the ten months it was in his keeping.’

  ‘Why did she not take it for a second opinion?’

  ‘Actually, Streit brought some of his contacts through to see if they saw what he saw. But it’s so specialized, not to say subjective, and no one could agree. As for taking it to the museum, well, if she did that, Aebischer’s reputation would be cast into doubt regardless of the result. I’m not talking about the public. I mean his standing in the community that gives him most of his work. He could sue. But worse, the value of the work would come into question. Aebischer told me the same when I went to see him on her behalf, though not in so many words. In a backward way, he had control. Upshot: Herr Rooten, that’s her lawyer, told Frau Federer to go lightly.’

  ‘So you met Aebischer. What was he like? What did he tell you?’

  ‘That it was ridiculous, that Marcus Streit should retire, it was long past time, and that if the frau made trouble for him, he would reply in kind. Completely knowledgeable, completely arrogant. He more or less told me to get stuffed. Justin Aebischer was a haughty little prick.’

  ‘So you advised her to go ahead with the complaint.’

  ‘I did.’ Then, after a thoughtful pause and what-the-hell sort of shrug, Grinnell added, ‘I also convinced her to reclaim the painting. The Reubens.’

  The complaint was dated in September. It was witnessed by Marcus Streit. ‘This is a week before he was killed.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And the letter?’

  A personal letter from Marcus Streit to Inspector Josephina Perella, Federal Police, Cultural Crimes Division, Basel. Grinnell translated,

  Agent Perella,

  I am the last person to know the proper form or procedure in this matter. Because we have worked together on several occasions, I feel I may approach first on a personal level, and you will tell me how and/or where to proceed. Attached is a copy of a complaint made out by a friend to the Basel Lands Police — I have removed the name for reasons I’m sure you understand. It is self-explanatory. The Basel Lands authorities have advised they are taking steps to help my friend gain a more clear sense of her predicament. I myself have doubts their steps will lead anywhere, and certainly not quickly. As we both know, the longer the process, the greater the odds against a satisfactory resolution. I believe the matter I would like your advice on is related, and perhaps directly. I am growing increasingly certain there are colleagues in my profession using their status and perceived integrity to perpetrate the most grievous fraud. There is of course a huge amount of financial gain underlying this. More important, and which I believe you will appreciate, is the integrity of some our community’s — and the world’s — most treasured artworks. Forgive the hyperbole, but I am deeply concerned. As you also know as well as I, discretion is a necessity when looking into such matters. I have no notion how to proceed or whom to contact in order to bring effective attention. Perhaps yourself. If you could spare an afternoon, I believe you might find my worries most disturbing. Call to let me know you have considered this letter and give me your thoughts on the possibility of a meeting and/or names of any other contacts who might be able to move the matter forward. Yours in good faith…

  Grinnell looked up. ‘No date, but it’s obvious it was written within the last two weeks.’

  ‘Then Aebischer is killed.’

  ‘We start our investigation. Our turf, our case. Then she shows up. The Bettelman angle was interesting, but it didn’t affect my position. Or my strategy.’ Grinnell tapped the two documents laid out on the coffee table. ‘Finding these on her body later that day only confirmed it.’

  ‘But you said she was pressuring you about the painting. And she declared it original.’

  Hans Grinnell grinned and swigged his beer. ‘You should have heard her giving me hell. She really wanted to get that painting to Basel. The problem of a problematic masterpiece entrusted to our murder victim would move into a completely different milieu. Invisible. Far beyond my scope. I’d be automatically marginalized. Some little murder out in Basel Lands. Probably a gay thing. No one would give much of a shit, not the least our noble prosecutors.’

  ‘But the painting wasn’t there. You said — ’

  ‘Not the original. It’s verified. It’s safe.’

  ‘Alors? A fake.’

  ‘Justin Aebischer’s specialty was restoring Baroque period paintings. Very valuable Baroque period paintings. He also, as an even more particular specialty, made exquisitely perfect copies of these paintings. He returned the copy to his client. Someone else sold the original to god knows who for a very large sum. Marcus Streit noticed a mistake on the Snyders copy. The orginal is long gone, unfortunately. But we saved the Reubens. And we will get these people.’

  Aliette sipped beer, considering Grinnell with an emerging admiration. ‘But…’ she suddenly experienced the vague existential hole that frames a bad mistake; ‘if Perella shows up and declares this fake original, then maybe she’s not part of it. Maybe Franki’s right and you — ’

  ‘She was lying. Or guessing. I say lying. When we were called to Aebischer’s, the very same painting we’d removed a week before was sitting there on his work table. At least to my eyes. So I fetched Marcus Streit. I guess it’s a matter of professional tricks. Now he knew Aebisch
er’s. In two minutes he showed me how the Reubens on Aebischer’s bench was a fake. Perella had the same expertise as Streit, more or less. I say she was in league with Aebischer.’ A wise smile. ‘And whoever else.’ A cabal, covering all the bases.

  Hans Grinnell was probably right. But again, Aliette Nouvelle took the part of this sad woman — this time for selfish reasons, as yet unclear. ‘But if you had the real Reubens, why would she even bother going?’

  ‘Because she didn’t know. They didn’t know.’

  ‘Didn’t know?’

  He stared into his beer. ‘You told her there was a painting found with Bettelman?’

  ‘Yes.’ And Aliette felt her error coming into the light.

  ‘Did you tell her which one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No.’ Tipping the bottle to his lips, he drained it. ‘And Aebischer didn’t tell his people the real Reubens had gone home. Obviously that would end the deal. He probably thought, no problem, mine’s just as good. Trust me, Inspector — you would not believe how arrogant this man was. And they, whoever they are, would likely not know one from the other. One good reason among several for corrupting a cop like Perella… Then Perella receives the letter from Streit with a copy of Federer’s complaint about the Snyders. Boom! Aebischer’s under suspicion. She does what she’s been recruited to do and tells her friends. They can’t live with that. They decide to kill Aebischer, stop the flow of information, take the Reubens, and his bogus copy, and lie low. They must have expected to find two jobs in his studio the day they killed him. But there’s only one painting there and they don’t dare take it. They don’t want to sell a fake. In that world, that’s a sure death sentence. They need to find out. I was waiting for someone and I was surprised it was her. But then, why not? A bent art cop’s the perfect partner. An insider. News of Bettelman and a painting in France provide a door for Perella. They send their insider to find out where they stand. They don’t care who killed Martin Bettelman but they have to know which painting has gone to France. For business purposes — you see?’

  Aliette got up, sought some space alone, looking out the window. ‘You’re saying Bettelman was a bit of good luck for you.’ She spoke to his reflection. She saw him shrug again. ‘If Bettelman hadn’t been killed, Josephina Perella would not have come to Aebischer’s that day.’

  ‘Perhaps. But it’s all moot.’

  ‘But why would they kill her?’

  ‘Maybe they saw what I saw: a panicky amateur who’s even more of a risk than Aebischer. Better kill her too — after she’s done Aebischer. Kill Streit. Set up a frame, back away.’

  ‘If I had mentioned it’s a shoemaker and not a dog she might still be alive.’

  Hans Grinnell rolled off the divan and joined her by the window. ‘On the strength of our meeting, I believe she was headed for the same sorry end at some point. Sad, but inevitable. Not a game for amateurs. Please don’t tax yourself on that score, Inspector.’

  You can stare into the darkness, or at reflections. There was a shadow on the other side of the street. Instinctively, Aliette drew the curtain. Reflections vanished. She faced Hans Grinnell.

  He told her, ‘And I have to say I think someone else killed Martin Bettelman, someone not involved at all.’

  ‘The people behind this could be over on my side,’ she ventured.

  ‘Client maybe,’ Grinnell conceded. ‘Not the ones managing it, Inspector. Too delicate.’

  If she was honest, she had to take his point. ‘Two different cases.’

  He smiled, but it wasn’t smug.

  She smiled back. ‘You could call me Aliette.’

  ‘Aliette… Any more beer in there?’

  ‘I may be searching for someone who’s already dead.’

  A cold cop shrug. ‘Would it be the first time?’

  “No.” She went to Josephina’s kitchen.

  Beers replenished, back on the dusty sofa, another chin-chin… ‘And so?’

  The Swiss heaved a sigh. ‘And so I have to bring the prosecutor a feasible link to Aebischer — his work more than his killing. I need the people who’ve done business with Aebischer to come forward. Frau Federer, obviously. But she has already lost one of her disgusting doggies and can’t abide the thought of the Reubens becoming questionable and Rooten her lawyer backs her. He knows how to work the rules and he’s using every one of them to keep the thing under wraps. With her blessing. But I need an unequivocal link to that level before I can realistically ask a prosecutor to direct a magistrate to order certain people to open their vaults, accounts, not to say their mouths. It’s tricky.’ So saying, Hans Grinnell went to the ancient television facing Josephina’s shabby sofa.

  It took a while for the image to come. It was clear enough for an old machine. Two teams were lined up as the Swiss anthem played. Basel against Lucerne. A French cop perceived an opportunity to continue the game. Her game. Her mystery. ‘Are you hungry? Someone ought to eat those steaks. And I noticed a bottle of decent wine. Some salad…’

  Hans Grinnell did not take long to signal yes. He rushed to the bathroom before the kick-off.

  As she was preparing their meal she heard him on the phone, making his excuses to his wife.

  21

  Like Goldilocks on Sunday Morning

  The inspector’s Saturday evening was different from her Friday evening. Hans was not Rudi. Neither was he Claude (all that mattered at the moment). It was still very pleasurable. Suffice to say that before they parted Aliette had showed Hans how it was in the nature of the beast to be different things to different people in service of the job.

  When she awoke to a greyish Sunday morning in Agent Josephina Perella’s bed, she felt like Goldilocks. She knew this was an image left over from Hans Grinnell’s snidely amusing attack on his famous compatriot Jung while in the process of venting over the never-ending and very costly therapy his wife had become addicted to and applied at every turn of her life — which meant his life too. So the inspector enjoyed it as she showered in Perella’s shower, then made coffee and boiled the last of Perella’s milk. Why waste good milk? Why waste steak or wine? She made a thorough search through Josephina’s drawers and laundry hamper, found several synthetic-based bluish items she would offer to IJ for analysis against the one found thread. She knew Hans was right, Josephina Perella probably hadn’t been to France a week ago Friday, but she took them anyway. To justify a fantasy weekend in Basel? The inspector felt no guilt at all as she tidied up and left, locking the door behind her. Was someone already listening? Hans had promised not to restart the surveillance till after ten that morning.

  As she stepped into the wet street, the last traces of fantasy disappeared. It was the requisitioned car, waiting dutifully. The car would have to be returned — one could not simply drive away. To where? Deeper into the heart of Switzerland? In returning the car, she would in turn be delivering herself back to reality. Guilt would be waiting for her there. Likely several other painful emotions too. She knew this. But who can prepare for painful emotion?

  The car that would bring her back to reality was parked opposite the building where Hans Grinnell had received information about a woman in a pink coat briefly visiting Perella’s flat the evening she was killed. A lady, in a housecoat tightly bundled against the cool and humid morning air, came out as Aliette approached the car. She asked something in Swiss German. Aliette caught the word ‘police.’ She begged her pardon. The woman switched to French.

  ‘Are you with the police?’

  It was how Aliette’s mother would always say it. My daughter’s with the police. A corporate-like perspective. Really? My husband’s with the bank. But in that tiny twist of language there was a deep personal echo and the inspector sensed no harm in affirming that she was.

  ‘I saw her again last night,’ the woman whispered, though they were alone in the empty street. ‘The woman in that pink coat. She was just there,’ pointing to a spot below Josephina Perella’s salon. ‘She was watching the a
partment. I was too afraid to go out. To come and tell you. You and the other detective. I’m sorry. I suppose I might have run.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Then this man came along. He was watching too. The woman didn’t like it. She left.’

  ‘And the man?’

  ‘Left after you pulled the drape.’

  ‘You’re sure it was the same woman?’

  She was sure. ‘That coat. Pink…too pink. From forty years ago.’

  ‘And the man?’

  ‘Wretched. All bloody, like he’d been in a fight. Or maybe drinking, fell on his face.’

  ‘Thank you, Frau…?’

  She did not give her name. She looked into the French inspector’s Sunday morning face for an almost impolite duration. Then said, ‘You stayed up there a long time.’

  ‘All night,’ Aliette replied.

  ‘I know.’ Then whispering even lower. ‘You have a difficult job in such a horrid world.’

  Aliette Nouvelle felt the woman’s curiosity. It flowed out of her. It had a desperate energy, made the more so by the pinching armour of Swiss tact. She felt a reflexive urge to tell the woman the truth — that it was a very difficult job seducing Basel Lands Inspector Hans Grinnell. But how to describe it to a curious lady? Like time-travel. Forward, backward? More like a sudden step sideways through a rip in the years to the life that might have been, an interlude in normality. Saturday night in Basel. Blasting through an emotional sound barrier, from Claude Néon to Hans Grinnell. Doppelgangers? Not physically. But the one liked Lucerne, the other Paris-Saint-Germain. There were even the children Claude so badly wanted — Hans was a very proud father. There was something almost heroic in compelling a man like that to take his own step sidewise and meet her in Josephina Perella’s bed, something infinitely more profound than a whimsical Friday night with Rudi. The fantasy of wretched Rudi, the reality of Hans. And for many, a doppelganger portends ill fate. But could this lady who spent Saturday evenings at her lonely window understand? Right now, Aliette expected Hans Grinnell would be at mass with his family, praying for equilibrium — leaving her to face this good citizen who was desperately wanting to know. Aliette thought that if she could tell the lady, she would, but of course she could not. The public cannot know these things. She said, ‘Yes, but citizens such as yourself (i.e., looking out windows, into other windows) are a great help.’