The Freiburg Cabinet

by Thomas Charrington

  As he gulped back the last sweet mouthful of coffee, the telephone rang.

  “Tarquin?”

  “Er … yes … speaking?” he said hesitantly.

  “It’s Patience, dearest. I just wanted to see how you were. We haven’t spoken for so long and it is so gorgeous down here at the moment.”

  Patience was Tarquin’s godmother, who lived in a small village in Wiltshire.

  “How lovely to hear you, Patience. Well, I’m fine actually. Doing this and that, as per usual. I … er …went to Covent Garden last night to see a rather raunchy play that’s just started. You probably won’t have heard about it. Sir Neville and the …”

  “Oh but I have heard. One of my new friends at the life drawing class in Salisbury saw it and said the ending was too rude for words!”

  “Well, it is fairly fruity, shall we say, Patience. As you can imagine, Diana’s choice!”

  “But do they, Tarquin?”

  “What?”

  “At the end …do they?”

  “Sorry, I’m not quite with you, Patience.”

  “Tarquin … are you being coy? I want to know … do they or don’t they?”

  “Oh … well … er … it certainly looked like it … but you can never tell, Patience, what with clever lighting and large cushions and … er …” Tarquin stumbled.

  “You’re not very observant, my dear Tarquin,” Patience said with a chuckle.

  “Look, sweetie, I am sorry, but I’m going to have to call you back later. I have someone at the door who wants … er … information about understreet cabling.”

  “Call me, promise.”

  “I will later, I promise.”

  Tarquin put the phone down and sighed heavily. Percy sat looking at him expectantly, wagging his tail.

  “I know, Percy, I know. Give me twenty minutes.”

  Next he dialed Diana, feeling distinctly nervous. She didn’t answer, and he was subjected to her rather brusque message, which didn’t sound like her at all. He hung up; this was no situation for a voice mail.

  He hesitated for a moment then called Constanta.

  “Hello, it’s Tarquin,” he said sheepishly.

  “So you didn’t die in the night, Mr Tarquin!” she answered, in a mocking hurried voice surrounded by the sounds of clinking china.

  “Did you sleep okay?”

  “No. I couldn’t sleep very well … drink, strange bed, but that’s not your fault. Percy looked after me,” she said with a little giggle.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I just wanted to say—”

  “Tarquin, sorry, I can’t speak now … very busy. Call me around four o’clock, please. Bye.”

  She put the phone down and he was left considering whether to call the police now or wait until he’d spoken with Constanta. He decided to wait.

  Chapter 10

  Zoltan’s father, Viktor, looking grey and unhealthy, gripped the greasy receiver of his bakelite telephone so tightly that his knuckles were white. His ample frame was slumped back in the huge scuffed leather chair in his office in St Petersburg, giving an appearance of relaxation—but Viktor was far from relaxed. His thick fingers agitated with the frayed phone cord, which intermittently flicked ash from an overloaded ashtray.

  “So he’s been given the treatment, uh?” he said, in a deep, intolerant voice down the telephone wire.

  “Yes, Father, last night in Piccadilly. He was enjoying an outing at the theatre with one of his girlfriends!” Zoltan said with a sense of accomplishment.

  “Was he now! Our man is enjoying the good things in life and thinking he can ignore us, like we don’t exist!” Viktor said with a snort.

  “Well, he won’t be thinking this now; he’ll be in shock, wondering how we found him in London!” Zoltan replied. “In fact, the boys tell me he’s in town all the time at the moment. They’ve been monitoring his activities.”

  “Let’s hope so, Zoltan. Oliver seems to be sleepwalking these days. He got the letter?”

  “Yes, they put it in his jacket pocket and told him to get in contact or things will turn nasty.”

  “And they will turn nasty, Zoltan, very nasty!” his father said, his voice lowering to a growl. “Oliver got started on our capital, our ideas. Then he got rich and decided to ditch us. Bad move. Without us, he’d be in a small shop dealing in low-grade tatt! He used to be a man who knew when to look after his skin,” he continued, “when to be smart and avoid trouble. He knows what I’m capable of. He must have got very confident and very stupid with it!”

  “Well, they put him on the floor and gave him a good kicking. Left him in the street. You know they don’t mess around; they enjoy it too much.”

  “Sure,” Viktor said flatly.

  “I think we can be certain of getting a call in a day or two, perhaps a week, when he’s come to his senses.”

  “Look, Zoltan,” Viktor said, suddenly flaring up. “Forget the days, the bloody weeks! We want the son of a bitch to respond now and make us an offer, or he’s going to spend long time in hospital. Stop being so bloody soft, boy, and get your hands around the man’s throat. I will not be treated like idiot! You’re going to lose a fortune with that bitch of a wife of yours running rings around you, so you need this money and you need it soon. For the love of Lenin, Zoltan, toughen up and stop relying on the company to sort your problems out.”

  “But I am not expecting …”

  “Cut the crap, Zoltan, and remember who you are and where you come from. Our family is strong, and it will remain strong, but only as long as we act brutally against people like Oliver—people who think they can muscle in on our affairs, our ideas … and make themselves rich on our backs. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “I told you that woman would screw you over. I saw it in her crafty little eyes, but you didn’t listen. Now stop expecting me to keep helping you out. I’ve had enough, okay! Do something dynamic, Zoltan … impress me, for God’s sake!”

  Zoltan heard the phone being slammed down and looked at his mobile dejectedly. When in Russia, his father was always in a bad mood; it never changed.

  Chapter 11

  At ten past four, Tarquin called Constanta.

  “Hello Constanta?” he said hesitantly.

  “Hi,” a sleepy cracked voice said, very different to the sharp delivery he’d grown used to.

  “Oh … I’m sorry. Have I woken you up? I’ll call again—”

  “Shut up, Tarquin! Stop being so polite. I said call at four and I meant it. It’s just last night made me tired and I been sleeping for the last hour. Some of us have to work, you know.” She laughed sleepily. “So what’s been happening in your crazy life, Mr Tarquin? More fighting in the street, uh? A bit of midafternoon fisticuffs before theatre?”

  “Look, that’s unfair. I am not a common yob,” Tarquin snorted. “Last night was an exception, which has me even more puzzled than I was earlier.”

  “Well, that’s no surprise. It doesn’t take much to puzzle you, Tarquin …or should I say Oliver!!”

  “Now come on, this is plain silly. I need to talk with you properly. I’m about to call the police, but I thought I’d wait until I’d spoken to you first.”

  “The police? You really are crazy, aren’t you? Rule one, leave the police out of it and take control of the situation yourself. You need to find out who is this Oliver and find out why you were mistaken for him. You may look like him. You may have taken his seat in the theatre after he cancelled.”

  “But I wasn’t attacked in the theatre!” Tarquin replied, his voice rising.

  “Tarquin, do you really think they would take you in the theatre with loads of people around … they probably followed you.”

  “Well, now you say it, the fellow my girlfriend went off with did say something about being followed.”

  “You see, I am not so stupid, am I? Check at the theatre if your seats were someone else’s who cancelled, and you may even get a name.”

  “This is ma
d. I feel I’m in a gangster movie.”

  “Perhaps this Oliver stole the cabinet and in some way left your details—you know, identity fraud—to try and put you in the way.”

  “But I wasn’t at my house, my address, I was attacked in the west end, which has nothing whatsoever to do with my address,” Tarquin said loudly.

  “Calm down, Tarquin. I was just giving you some suggestions, that’s all; perhaps they followed you from your house in the first place.”

  “What? To the west end for more privacy! Come on, this is just silly. Next you’ll—”

  “Psssssssst,” she said, stifling his flow. “Who is Oliver Clasping? You have his card on your board.”

  “Oliver Clasping?”

  “Yes, his card is on your wall board with the taxi numbers.”

  “Oh, yes him. I know who you mean. Clasper, actually. He’s a fellow I met on the street who’s just moved in to number five, and our dogs had a bit of a ding dong. He’s an antique dealer but lives mostly in Gloucestershire. He’s got a shop in Parkgate Street, I think, near the river. Look, I don’t know the fellow; just met him once and he gave me his card. You’re right though, he is called Oliver.” Tarquin chortled.

  “Gloucestershire?”

  “Yuh, a county in the west … Bristol direction.”

  “And he is involved with furniture and possibly cabinets,” Constanta said teasingly.

  “Oh come on, Constanta, you sound like Miss Marple!”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind; just a silly English joke.”

  “Tarquin, please don’t call the police yet. I want to discuss something with you, so why don’t you take me out tomorrow night and we can talk it through?”

  There was a pause.

  “Erm … well … it’s certainly a possibility that we could meet and … and have a little talk.” he stammered.

  “Good. Then I’ll see you at Marble Arch tube station at seven o’clock. Bye bye, I must sleep.”

  “Err … good-bye, Constanta,” Tarquin said, putting the phone down like a man in a trance.

  He sat staring out onto the street for a few moments, when there was a vibrating sound from his mobile. Picking it up, he saw that Diana had called and left a message.

  He felt a tension in his stomach as he listened.

  “Tarquin,” her voice said hesitantly, “I hope you got back all right. I’m sorry, but I’d had enough. I really had; was at my wits’ end, and … well, the taxi was there.” She hesitated. Tarquin heard her swallow. “Look, this isn’t easy at all; in fact, it’s hellish, but …well … Christopher’s asked me to join him in Sri Lanka. They’re flying out on Thursday for a three-week break on the south coast, a property he wants to look at. I’m going to go, Tarquin. I’m sorry, I’ve just sort of had enough. I need some time out, I really do. I can’t get through, Tarquin. I just cannot get through to you. I’m sorry, but I’ve tried; I really have. We’ll talk properly later. Be grown up about it. I’m not in the mood right now. I’m fragile. Please don’t call at the moment. I know it’s horrible …”

  Tarquin closed the phone. He felt sick, scared, and shocked. Percy jumped up next to him and stared at him expectantly. He sat, blindly watching the street for a further five minutes, not moving a muscle, oblivious to his surroundings.

  He reflected on his life and his failings. He hadn’t achieved very much, it was true. He was prone to start things and never really finish them. He had never really had a proper job; he’d inherited enough money to make him lazy, or perhaps unfocused. Yes, Diana was right; he probably wasn’t worth staying with. He had never really tried hard enough, never made a concrete commitment; and then there was that other realization. He simply wasn’t, and never really had been, in love with her.

  Suddenly he got up and grabbed the lead. “C’mon, Percy, let’s go for a walk.”

  Chapter 12

  Oliver sat in the “Friends Room” of the Royal Academy with a black coffee and a copy of the Times. He had arranged to meet Fabien here so they could talk through the forthcoming trip to France with the cabinet, but he had forgotten how quiet this place could be. People sat in furtive silence on deep leather sofas, hidden behind their newspapers. Any communication was conducted in muffled tones, as though conversation was a dirty habit.

  He quickly realized that this was no place to discuss the forgery of the decade. He’d buy Fabien a takeaway cappuccino at Pret a Manger and they’d have a “street” discussion … possibly find an appropriate bench somewhere. They’d already agreed never to discuss such matters over a landline or email, with all necessary communication being conducted on a “non-personal” mobile. Twenty minutes later, the two men were strolling along Piccadilly.

  “She’s a different person now,” Fabien replied to Oliver’s questions about Cecile. “Thanks to your help! She just keeps saying that these unexpected windfalls from the old fellow in Morocco are incredible … unbelievable … and that it means we were meant to be! I feel terrible. I must create this great story to back it up. I can’t just be vague and change the subject—it’s too obvious. I feel like the fraud; forget the cabinet!”

  “You won’t ever tell her though, will you, Fabien?” Oliver said, searching the young man’s face. “It’s important I’m out of the picture. And if it makes you feel any better, these advances are for my benefit as well. I needed you in that house. The whole project rests on that.”

  “Sure … I realize this—non, this is our secret, believe me. But Oliver, I am so incredibly grateful to you, it’s made all the difference. The Moroccan millionaire is perfect! It even has a certain mystery, and when you think about it, there are plenty of old lonely people sitting on fortunes, who don’t have relatives. I don’t need to go into details with my family; they took it at face value. They know I spent a year out, travelling around North Africa, so why shouldn’t I have struck up a friendship with a fellow traveller with a passion for antiques?”

  “Quite right Fabien, why the hell not!”

  “They just warn me about the tax side of things and to be careful.”

  “Well, quite right too! Now to get to the main point of our little meeting,” Oliver said, as Fabien prised the lid off his cappuccino and took a frothy gulp. “I want to meet in Troyes, so there’s no chance of us being connected. This is important to you too. I’ll be using a friend’s trusty van on this occasion. It’s quite roomy for longish trips, and we need the space. Remember it will need to take the three of us from the Troyes train station to the chateau.”

  “Of course,” Fabien agreed.

  “The outer chest, which will conceal the cabinet at the chateau, will be in pieces in the van and will simply look like a pile of rather scruffy planks. Your average customs man won’t concern himself about that. The assembling of this ‘chest’ will be done at the house by Melvyn, who has a meticulous knowledge of how it most likely would have been made. Of course, it’s already been assembled, and now it’s dismantled again.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “I will make arrangements to visit a French dealer whilst over there, to give our trip an independent reason. I’m planning to leave on an overnight ferry from Portsmouth to St Malo, drop in on this fellow in the morning, and then we’ll make our way to Troyes. We then pick you up and head on to the chateau. You’ll be taking the train, of course. The most dangerous part of this operation, or should I say one of the most dangerous, is getting the cabinet across the channel.”

  “Exactly, Oliver! You have to be really careful,” Fabien said anxiously.

  “Well … yes,” Oliver resumed, “but customs are not really focused on furniture in the same way as drugs, firearms, etcetera, and it’s French customs we’re really concerned with here. If we were coming into the UK, it would be a whole different ball game. Of course, I’ll have a couple of tricks up my sleeve, but the risk is there if they do a really thorough search.”

  “What sort of tricks?” Fabien probed.

  “Well … the ca
binet will be traveling in a softwood and plywood crate for the bulk of the journey, wedged against the bulkhead of the van. You know, the metal division between the front and back.”

  “Okay.”

  “However, Melvyn has arranged it so that anyone opening the sliding door only has to push the plywood to one side, and the underlying cabinet will be open for anyone to inspect. The reason for this is that we don’t want a large disguised object in the van if someone does want to take a look. We need to reveal the object inside, as well as imply that it doesn’t need much packaging or protection.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Fabien said frowning. “The cabinet in full view?”

  “Yes, because customs won’t be looking at the real cabinet, they’ll be looking at a scruffy, cheap-looking pine shell which Melvyn made months ago, and which fits snugly over our piece. And this battered shell will match other pine artifacts in the van, giving the appearance of a job lot.”

  “Oh, je comprends,” Fabien said, shaking his shoulders in an affected shiver. “This scares me!”

  “Don’t worry, Fabien. Have faith!” Oliver said, smiling. “Now another thing, of course, is that once the cabinet is revealed in France, it will quickly become a Monument Historique and will be restricted for export. Let’s face it, it’s a highly prized piece of French royal furniture … one that has incredible provenance.”

  “Well, I know this, I’ve been doing some investigation on these things.”

  “Good, and therefore you realize the downside is that it’ll have a reduced value compared to the same cabinet being auctioned in, say, New York.”

  “But of course.”

  “Fine. We understand each other. But Fabien, rest assured, it will still be worth a fortune!”

  “I know,” the young man said quietly, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder.

  “Okay … now let’s talk about travel details. What was it to Troyes from Paris by train … about an hour and a half, I seem to remember?”