The Freiburg Cabinet

by Thomas Charrington

  A short while later and Sasha was surveying him reproachfully as he perched himself on the suede seat of one of her chic chrome stools. Framed by a cascade of dark pre-Raphaelite curls, her pale face with its high cheekbones, strong jawline, and wide rouge lips gave her displeasure an added menace.

  “I don’t give a screw whether you saw her at lunch or at dinner,” she said, fixing him with angry grey eyes. “The fact is, Zoltan, you told me you’d avoid a face to face meeting!”

  He stood up and hugged her hard, before she could resist.

  “Kitten, just let it go,” he said softly. “You know I went over there to sort out the terms of our separation. Sometimes face to face meeting is the best way, the only way. Emails and phone calls always carry that possibility of misunderstanding.”

  “Misunderstanding … my arse! You think you can understand that crazy woman?” she said pulling away. “She’s a mind fuck and you know it!”

  “She was my wife … so yes, I do understand her.”

  “She hates me, Zoltan. She doesn’t want you, and she doesn’t want me to want you either. For Christ’s sake … she still thinks she owns you!”

  “Enough, Sasha, okay … enough!” he said, taking hold of her shoulders. “It’s all over … it’s signed! It’s just for the lawyers to finalise paperwork. I’m with you now, Kitten, and that’s the way it’s going to be. And I have some more good news,” he said, changing tack. Her sulky eyelids lifted.

  “I called Oliver Clasper earlier. I gave him an ultimatum. He now knows we’re on to his game.”

  “And?”

  “He tried to deny it at first … then tried to sweet talk me … and then … well, he got angry … very angry, and hung up.”

  “Oh … so you got round to doing it at last! Look, if he wants to act stroppy, let him. He’ll come to his senses soon enough,” she said, thawing. “But … do you really know what he’s doing yet?”

  “I … I think so,” he said unconvincingly.

  “But the point is, he now thinks you know … yes?”

  “Well, exactly … it’s the only way to scare the bastard into giving me payoff.”

  “And the only way to make you more popular with your father,” she added, giving him a sharp look.

  “Well … of course. Father thinks Oliver took me for fool … made me into idiot. The son of a bitch owes me … and he knows it!” Zoltan said passionately. “When I met that guy, he had nothing!”

  “You keep saying that, Zoltan … but where did you meet him?”

  “At a college on the south coast … one of the best. It must be … must be, sixteen years ago now,” he said, staring blankly across the room. “It was one of those English stately homes … in Sussex … West Dean College. It became part of the Arts and Crafts Movement. Viktor wanted to get me into the antique scene. Said there was big money in old furniture.”

  * * *

  And that’s where it all began. Under the guidance of his father, Zoltan had enrolled at that institution to learn about the “Trade”—the history, the periods and styles, the woods, the construction techniques and, of course, its restoration. Oliver Clasper had arrived some months later to do a short course in woodturning. They stumbled into each other in the grand, oak-panelled bar one evening and immediately hit it off.

  Oliver was short of funds in those days, and it wasn’t long before he realized the young Russian came from a wealthy family and was looking for business opportunities. If he could entice him on board, his fledgling antiques business could move up a gear and start trading at a higher end of the market. For his part, Zoltan was intrigued to meet an Englishman of an entirely different type to those in his usual London circle, and quickly smelt an opportunity. Oliver seemed the typical “old-fashioned” gentleman … the type from traditional British films he’d seen, and he was eager to tap into his new acquaintance’s social network.

  Within a year they had gone into partnership and opened a shop in Henley. With Oliver’s social skills and contacts, combined with Zoltan’s substantial funding and keen business acumen, they began to get noticed in the trade. Business was brisk. Melvyn then joined the partnership and brought his formidable experience to bear. Before long, he had gently introduced his two employers into a new, more lucrative “modus operandi”—the art of deception; in short, the tweaking and remodelling of old pieces so as to allow them an entirely different provenance. This, he assured them, was commonplace in the trade.

  Zoltan was keen from the start, but Oliver had hesitated, at least at the beginning. Then the money started to roll in and the business really began to flourish. Oliver felt the wind under his wings for the first time and was filled with a devil may care confidence. Life was sweet, and the delicacies of right and wrong were soon lost from his lexicon.

  But as time went by, the young Russian became increasingly headstrong and volatile and was apt to remind Oliver that it was his ideas that really brought in the cash. Oliver felt trapped; he was the tart to the ambitious Russian pimps. The partnership began to strain at the seams and it wasn’t long before Oliver wanted rid of him … of the shared decisions … of the split profits, and of course, the looming figure of Viktor just behind the scenes.

  He had learned what he needed by then, and with that confidence that springs from financial success, he wanted to go it alone. The Russian wasn’t really his cup of tea anymore—not quite his sort of fellow—so he moved on and took Melvyn with him. Little did he know, however, that twelve years later, at the apex of his powers and abilities, the Russian would return to seek vengeance.

  * * *

  It was late morning in early April. One of those cold spring days when the pavements are still damp from an overnight shower and a watery sun is trying to flex its adolescent muscles. Zoltan had arrived at the main entrance of the Wallace Collection, stopped briefly to scrutinize details of a new exhibition, and then carried on in.

  Reaching the first floor, he had taken a sharp left, wandered through the Damsel Gallery and on into the “Study.” As he had entered the quiet space, his eyes flicked briefly over the other milling visitors whose heals clicked noisily over the polished wooden floor. Suddenly a jolt stopped him dead. Crouched by the Freiburg Cabinet on the far side of the room near the window … was the unmistakable figure of Melvyn. Melvyn! Scribbling notes into a small book … Melvyn, who now worked for the most hated man in Zoltan’s universe, Oliver Clasper.

  His heart thumping fast, Zoltan watched … and watched a little more. Then he quietly turned and left. Two hours later he was breaking the news to his father.

  “Are you absolutely sure, Zoltan?” Viktor had said, staring hard at his son.

  “Of course I’m sure. He was in the ‘Study,’ eyeballing one of Marie Antoinette’s pieces. It was obvious to me what the son of a bitch was doing,” Zoltan had replied. “He had that look of someone searching for very specific information … little details. But now I’m wondering if it was that particular cabinet he wanted to copy, or if he was just moving round the room. No, it couldn’t be the Freiburg … that would be impossible. In hindsight, I should have stayed longer … but he could have turned so easily.”

  “No question it was him?”

  “Father, please! I know Melvyn when I see him,” Zoltan had said in exasperated tones. “Even if he’s wearing glasses and is looking thinner. The man has distinctive ‘way’ about him, not to say personal aroma.”

  “He smells?”

  “Yes, he smells, but not in the way you’re thinking. You’ve got to remember, that man has lived and breathed old furniture all his life, so of course he smells … of button polish, of lacquer, of glues and stains … of years of grafting and making money for that leech Oliver. But listen, I didn’t get that close this time.”

  “Ah ha! I understand,” his father had said with a rasping chuckle, showing a row of gravestone teeth. “Ha, ha … yes, that makes sense. Those chemicals absorb into the skin and stay forever! So that’s his eau de cologne, is it �
�� ha ha ha!”

  “Probably,” Zoltan had said, silently wishing his father would cut the humour.

  “Right, Zol, the joke’s over. We need to deal with our friend Oliver in the only language he might understand. He has insulted my family once, and it seems he now thinks he can do it again by using our ideas and strategies to make himself even richer. But I think you must make contact with him first and give him an option; either he pays you half of the expected proceeds, or you ‘shop him’!”

  “I will … I will—but not yet. Too much on my mind,” Zoltan had said warily.

  “You’ve got the man by the balls, Zoltan. What’s the matter with you?”

  “But have I, Father? This is the problem … I need to be sure. When I return from Munich, I’ll do it … believe me! But I need to give it more thought … and the divorce is taking my time. When are you leaving for St Petersburg?”

  “On the seventeenth.”

  “Are you staying for a couple of weeks or more this time?”

  “Questions, questions!” Viktor had replied irritably. “I’m not sure, it depends on a lot of things. We’ve just bought an even better press, and I want to be around to see the quality of the results. Scanning procedures at customs are getting more sophisticated by the year; we have to be ahead.”

  Sensing his father’s mood beginning to change, Zoltan had stood up. He was lighter than him, more boyish; he didn’t have the same solidity of frame and heavy face. Viktor was a bear of a man with heavy dark eyebrows, rouge complexion, and a thick intolerant mouth. His huge chest strained at the buttons on his loud checked shirt as he observed his son indifferently through hooded eyes.

  “Well, do your thinking, Zoltan,” he had growled, looking up from his armchair. “If he is copying something from that place, then there’s a lot at stake—those things are worth millions. It’s your chance to take back what the bastard took from us.”

  “You don’t need to tell me, Father! I’m shocked that he’s going for copy of this magnitude. When I suggested we copy piece of French royal furniture all those years ago, he said … he said it was impossible. But something has changed—they’ve found an opening … I’m sure they have!”

  “Mm, it would seem so,” Viktor had said, getting impatient. “Now Zoltan, go and deal with that woman, do what you have to do, but when you get back … make that call.”

  And with that clear directive, Zoltan had left.

  Chapter 4

  “That was delicious, darling,” Oliver said, stretching after a long lazy lunch. He ground the remains of his cigar into the pewter ashtray and made a perfunctory attempt to move the plates.

  “Leave those … you off already?” Lily said sadly, resting her chin on her folded knees.

  “Well, this issue we touched on earlier is rather on my mind, to be honest. I can’t relax right now. I need to have a chat with Melvyn and get his take on the whole thing,” he said, sliding his feet into a pair of scuffed deck shoes.

  “Melvyn … your workman?”

  “Believe it or not, he’s quite a shrewd old bugger. Not just a simple artisan.”

  “Oh I’m sure, I wasn’t meaning to demean him … just wish you could be here a bit longer, that’s all.”

  “Believe me, so would I, darling,” Oliver said, leaning toward Lily and laying his hand on hers. “It’s gorgeous here … I would stay if I could.”

  “Go and sort it out then,” she said, getting up. “And make sure you don’t disappear for weeks again. I enjoy your company, Olly, and it would be so nice to see more of you this summer.”

  She gave a shy smile and threw her arms around his neck.

  “I’ll call you,” he said, stroking her back and immediately sensing the heat of her skin through the gossamer fabric.

  “You had better,” she replied, gently pulling away. “It can get quite lonely here on my own.”

  “I can imagine,” he said quietly … and then hesitated. He allowed his eyes to meet hers for several more seconds before dropping very deliberately onto her slender lips. She stared at him unblinking … surprised, clocking a sudden change. Again he met her gaze, but this time with a look of steely determination. Stepping forwards, he took her temples in his open palms and kissed her urgently and passionately on the mouth. A sudden gust of warm wind coiled around them and then hissed noisily through the undulating seaweed fronds of the willow. She moaned quietly, one delicate hand curled behind his head, drawing him forwards and into a domain he had long resisted. After a minute or two, he gently pulled away.

  “I’d better be going, Lil,” he whispered, meeting her intense gaze. “I’ll … I’ll be in touch soon … promise.” Then he turned and headed back up the lawns to his car.

  * * *

  The driveway to Melvyn’s house was shabby. The wooden fence on the right was rotten and falling to pieces, and to the left, a rusting tractor and other pieces of disintegrating machinery gave a general stamp of squalor. This was contrived, however, and gave a deceptive impression. Once through the gate at the other end of the drive, and inside the high wall that surrounded the property, a very different picture emerged.

  A Victorian red-bricked building with wisteria in abundance around its walls stood, well groomed and pretty, overlooking an expansive lawn. A flagstone path led from the patio, across a corner of the lawn to a low out building, which was Melvyn’s workshop.

  Oliver had long since stopped registering the trip to the workshop. The bumpy, potholed drive with its huge winter puddles went completely unnoticed and his conscious mind only seemed to start functioning again when his nostrils smelt the unmistakable aroma of furniture chemicals. Mary waved cheerily from the kitchen window as the two men disappeared into the workshop.

  “So what’s all this about, Oliver?” Melvyn said with his usual bluntness, whilst pulling out a pair of chairs.

  “My God, Melvyn, this looks quite superb!” Oliver said with a raised voice, tapping the top of the Freiburg Cabinet fondly. “You’ve excelled yourself, man. It gets better every time I see it; the mirror image of its sister in the Wallace!”

  “Blimey, you’re in a good mood, for someone who’s got some bad news,” Melvyn said, eying Oliver.

  “Am I not allowed to express my delight, Mel?”

  “Thank you. It’s getting there, I suppose,” Melvyn said distractedly. “So?”

  “Well … after I spoke with you this morning, I was just organizing a few things back at the Hall, when the phone went. It was Zoltan!”

  “Zoltan?” Melvyn said, raising his tangled eyebrows, a shadow moving over his face. “What the hell is he calling you for? He doesn’t like you.”

  “Sure he doesn’t, and that hasn’t changed. His wife’s divorcing him, though, and he’s in a hell of a state.”

  “Too bad, that’s his problem. He’s a tricky bastard and probably deserves it,” Melvyn said with feeling.

  “My thoughts exactly, Melvyn. But there’s another problem which is much more serious and which is why I’m here. During the course of our conversation, he told me that he’d been in London some two months back … April sometime, to see Viktor … and, well, I’m sorry, Mel, but he said he saw you at the Wallace … purely by coincidence. Yes, I’m afraid he watched you taking notes on this”—Oliver tapped the cabinet—“and then put two and two together.”

  Melvyn looked at him speechless, his mouth open.

  “It’s not your fault, Mel. It’s just as I said … appalling bad luck,” Oliver resumed in a conciliatory tone.

  “But … but … surely I’d have seen him. I never forget a face,” Melvyn stammered.

  “Think about it; you’re concentrating on the cabinet in front of you …”

  “No! I always stand to the side. I don’t want to make it obvious.”

  “The point is, you’re concentrating hard; he was probably only there for a couple of minutes, at most three, and then gone! He saw what you were doing … it’s obvious … but it isn’t your fault, Melvyn. We just h
ave to decide how to proceed.”

  “Oh God!” Melvyn moaned, putting his hands up to his temples. “So what’s the situation at the moment, then?”

  “Well, he said he wants half the proceeds.”

  “Half the proceeds!” Melvyn said in a high-pitched outburst, colour growing in his cheeks. “That’s crazy! That’s just plain bloody mad! Anyway, he can’t be sure I was copying, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Mel,” Oliver said, staring at him, “he does know. He’s no fool. We all discussed this type of copy many times, if you remember, but there was no way we could authenticate it back then.”

  “But we haven’t even made any money yet!”

  “I know. He means he wants an agreement at this stage as to what his cut will be.”

  “Why the hell should we give that Russian bastard a cut, for Christ’s sake? He hasn’t done anything to deserve it. He may have wanted to make a cabinet of this standard, but he didn’t have the rat’s ass sense of how to do it! He’s done fuck all! You worked out the history, and I built the bloody thing … simple,” Melvyn implored.

  “Unfortunately, my friend, right and wrong have no bearing in this. He knows something extremely destructive. There was bad blood after we split—you know that—plus he thinks this copy was his idea in the first place. The guy’s always wanted revenge, and now … let’s face it … he’s got us over a barrel.”

  “Christ’s sake!” Melvyn muttered. “That was the last bloody visit … the last one. There was just one little thing I had to check …”

  “I know, Mel, but we have to look at the options. Close the project right now, or carry on and give him a cut, but much less than he’s demanding.”

  “We can’t close it now, Oliver, not after all this time and effort,” Melvyn pleaded.

  In a rare moment of physical expression, Oliver put his hand on Melvyn’s shoulder and patted him affectionately.