The Freiburg Cabinet

by Thomas Charrington

  “Father,” Zoltan said, moving over to Viktor. “Anya’s here.”

  “Ah!” he said, closing the paper and swiveling round to face Constanta.

  He shook her hand, and gazed curiously at her for a few moments.

  “So, you are the clever person who tracked down Oliver?” he said with an avuncular smile on his thick mouth. “We have to thank you for winning where others failed!”

  Constanta looked at him and smiled awkwardly.

  “Well, we did our best,” she said, keeping it unspecific.

  “Your best is good. You cornered our squirrel and found his stash of nuts without him realizing!” Viktor said, smiling.

  “True,” Constanta said.

  “Followed him to France and then to a beautiful chateau?”

  “Well, I am not sure so beautiful,” she said. “It was falling to pieces!”

  “Ah! You gave yourself away then, Anya,” Viktor said smiling. “You cannot see the beauty in old things; it’s too reminiscent of home, where ‘old’ means poverty and squalor. I was like you once; everything had to be new and shiny to be worth anything. But now I’ve spent time here in Western Europe, you begin to see old, not as squalid, but as vintage world, romantic, and often very valuable! Do you follow me?”

  “Sort of,” she said, feeling out of her depth.

  “Zoltan says you are an acquaintance of Sergei?” he said suddenly, giving her a penetrating look. Zoltan moved uneasily on her left.

  “Oh, he’s more a friend of the family. He knows my parents better than me,” she said guardedly, following Zoltan’s instructions. “I’m not really sure of the full story, but we are in contact every so often.”

  “We don’t worry about the ‘hows,’ Anya,” he said, gazing out of one of the long side windows and across the water. “The less you say the better. Privacy is a very valuable commodity in these times, when everyone likes to crow from the rooftops about their boring lives. Wasn’t it Winston Churchill who said ‘loose lips sink ships’?”

  “Sounds familiar,” she said, lying.

  “Good, you have initiative and that Romanian determination. You are very focused, I can see that.” He stopped and studied her for a moment. “In actual fact, you could be very useful to us.”

  “Okay,” she said, wondering where this was leading.

  “This is very true,” Zoltan agreed, with a small laugh to relieve the tension.

  “Right, Anya, it is time to talk business,” Viktor said, lighting a cigarette. “You’ve done some excellent detective work and emphasized the stupidity of some of my men. So Zoltan and I have decided to pay you over the odds on this particular assignment. It is one off, so don’t expect the same level next time; that is, if you—and I hope you will—decide to become a more fixed member of the organization.”

  Constanta regarded him with a mixture of horror, greed, and excitement.

  “I … I think I must give some thought to this, and then we can discuss,” she blurted.

  “Of course, that goes without saying, but we will be making you an offer,” Viktor continued.

  “Okay.”

  “Now, with regards to this French trip, we have decided to give you £250,000. As you know, there were very large sums involved.”

  Constanta looked at him in absolute disbelief whilst also struggling to conceal it.

  “I … er … we … you said two hundred fifty thousand pounds?” she stammered, her eyes watering.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Viktor said, puzzled by her reaction. “You have a problem?”

  “Yes, I mean no! It’s just … it is more than I was expecting,” she said, cursing herself for allowing her shield to melt so publicly. “It is … er … a generous figure.”

  Viktor smiled. He could see she was overwhelmed and angry to let it show.

  “You deserve it,” he said, stretching over and gripping her arm forcefully. “You did well! We are going to give you a further £50,000 now in cash, and the balance of £175,000 will be delivered to Battersea tomorrow.”

  Zoltan stood up and went over to a locker. He opened it with a key and plucked a small black holdall from the interior. He handed it to his father.

  “Sign here, Anya,” Viktor said, proffering an open cash book to her with a string of entries.

  She momentarily panicked; how should she sign? Taking the pen, she hesitated for a second or two. Then she wrote “Anya,” whilst being sure to give the final “a” an extra twist.

  “I see you are discreet,” Viktor said, closing the book. “This is good sign.” He handed her the black bag.

  “Thank you,” she said, clutching it to her chest like a baby. “Thank you very much.”

  “Good ... We will be in contact with you in due course.”

  Zoltan put his hand gently on her shoulder to usher her out, but Viktor interrupted with one final question.

  “Anya, why did you get your hair cut so short? I can see it was done recently.”

  Constanta felt a stab of panic.

  “Well … it was … was getting in the way,” she blurted, “and …”

  “Grow it! You’re too pretty for such a short cut,” he said, slumping down onto the couchette with a grunt.

  Back on deck, the dusk was gathering and the lights up and down the river glittered more fiercely.

  “Okay, Anya,” Zoltan said, looking relieved, bordering on happy, “thank you for coming over. I’ll send you a message tomorrow morning with a time for the drop-off.”

  With that, Constanta went back down the ramp and started walking briskly along the pontoon. After a few minutes, she reached Tarquin. On seeing him, she fell to her knees laughing and crying hysterically.

  “What on earth’s going on?” Tarquin said, looking down at her in astonishment.

  “Tarquin, do you know what they fucking gave us?” she said, peering up through moist eyes.

  “What?”

  “Two hundred fifty fucking thousand pounds!”

  “What are you talking about?” he said frowning.

  “I just told you … two hundred fifty thousand pounds … that’s what they are giving us for finding the cabinet!” she said, staring at him defiantly through watery eyes.

  “What?” he said, pulling her upright. “Are you being serious?”

  “Yes, Tarquin, I am being serious,” she said defiantly. “He gave me another fifty thousand now in this bag, and … and the rest, the one hundred seventy-five thousand, is coming tomorrow!”

  Tarquin stared at her for a few seconds, and then flung his arms around her, in a gigantic bear hug. “Good God!” he muttered. “That’s just incredible.. you’re a genius!”

  Back in Tarquin’s car, the air crackled with an unbridled energy. Percy jumped from the back to the front repeatedly, trying to offload his pent up emotions. Giggling deliriously, Constanta demanded a tour of central London to see the best clubs, the celebrity restaurants, the most fashionable shops.

  So they cruised up Knightsbridge past Harvey Nichols and Harrods with her venting a constant stream of chatter about the fashions in the window displays; how ghastly some were … how beautiful others, and how she was going to come on a buying extravaganza and refit her wardrobe.

  As they passed Apsley House, Tarquin told her to shut up and pay homage to the ultimate address in the world … Number One, London, to which she accused him of being “full of shit.” He called her an ignorant peasant, and they took the corner into Park Lane at pace. Suddenly, the Stranglers burst from the speakers with “No More Heroes,” so Tarquin flicked the volume up and put his foot down in an outpouring of pure pleasure.

  She laughed at his crazy antics, and wedging her bare feet against the windshield, she clutched Percy tightly whilst leaning out into the rushing wind. His ears flapped madly as they weaved dangerously among the lanes, the majestic plane trees of Hyde Park flicking by on their left. Then, as they swooped around Marble Arch, she shouted at him above the noise of the music.

  “I’m hung
ry, Tarquin!”

  He turned his head.

  “Okay, McDonalds, it is!” he shouted, throwing her a wicked grin.

  “No! Take me to the bloody Ritz, you bastard, wherever the fuck that is!”

  Chapter 42

  Oliver, pale, unshaven, and reclusive, stood gazing out of the open drawing room sash, towards the copper beeches lining the drive. Over a year had passed since that fateful day when his world had collapsed, along with his self-esteem and ambition. Nothing really mattered anymore; a terrible listlessness had infected his every waking hour, and he struggled to keep track of time.

  Autumn had arrived, and a gusty southerly wind taunted the big trees, showering rusty leaves across the unkempt lawns and the overgrown flower beds. A line of swallows clung to a swinging telephone wire in readiness for their long flight south.

  In front of him, a bee wobbled drunkenly over the window ledge and toppled onto the scuffed parquet floor at his feet. He gazed down at it for a few moments through glazed eyes and felt a surge of empathy; it was disorientated, lost, a reflection of himself and his own life. Plucking an old card from a table, he squatted down and presented it to the struggling insect. After a moment or two, it clambered on board and he heaved himself up with a groan.

  Holding it close to his face, he studied the little creature with something akin to affection; those dark eyes, the agitated whiskery body, the exquisite gossamer wings … it was a kindred spirit in a hostile world. Presently, and with great care, he extended his arm through the open window and flicked it into the wind.

  Suddenly the phone leapt into life and made him jump. He ambled slowly over and picked it up.

  “Hello?” he said tentatively, gripping the old-fashioned black receiver.

  “Oliver?” a voice said.

  “Yes, speaking. Is that you, Fabien?”

  “Oh, it is you, Oliver!” Fabien said from Chateau Clery. “You sounded different; not quite yourself!”

  “Oh, sorry, must be the line,” he said flatly.

  There was a pause.

  “Oliver,” Fabien said in a strangely formal way.

  “Yes,” Oliver said, sensing trouble.

  “I have some quite extraordinary news for you.”

  “You do?” Oliver replied, guessing it was something to do with Cecile.

  “You know the Folly … in the garden?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, yesterday morning we cleared away the last of the undergrowth and debris at the bottom of those steps; there was half a meter of dirt down there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, there was a sort of recessed door at the bottom, tucked under a lintel; solid oak, very rotten lower down because of the wet. It took us a long time, but we eventually levered it open on some huge rusty hinges; that’s me, Bernard, and his friend Marc. It opened into a sort of cave-like room, a cellar; quite clean with a cobblestone floor.”

  “Oh?” Oliver said, waiting.

  “It had shelving in there; crude shelving, with loads of old pots, plates, glasses, and things, including some small tables and quite a stack of chairs, decorative chairs which obviously used to have upholstery on them. Very rotten, as you can imagine.”

  “Well, we always did think that the folly was more than just a visual delight, didn’t we, Fabien,” Oliver said, dropping his guard. “How intriguing. I look forward to taking a look when—”

  “No, Oliver! This is not why I’ve called you. Just … just let me speak.”

  Oliver stopped dead. He could hear the emotion in Fabien’s voice; he was struggling.

  “Inside the cellar there was a wood panelled wall, at the far side opposite the door. It was also rotten, especially towards the floor. The whole thing was covered in mildew and fungus. We began to remove it, and it just fell away in chunks. And behind this was a stone wall, as you would expect.”

  Oliver grunted.

  “But then we noticed a part of the wall behind this panelling—vaguely the shape of a door that looked different, like it had been filled in at a later date,” Fabien said, swallowing. There was another pause.

  “We all thought this was a bit strange, so I told Bernard to get a pick axe and see if he could knock it down. I actually wondered if it was a tomb or something crazy like that. When he came back, he gave the axe to Marc—he being younger—and he started swinging at it. We were all laughing a bit nervously as something seemed about to happen. Well, it did, Oliver. Something did happen.”

  Fabien stopped for a few moments to gather himself.

  “The false wall crumbled quite easily, and suddenly we … we shone the torch through and found ourselves looking into another room containing these bundles … linen bundles on an oak table. There were others propped against the walls. I was dumbstruck; we all were. So I climbed through this broken hole, and Marc handed me a knife. But I didn’t need it.

  “Very carefully I began to unwrap one of these things—it was big, ninety centimeters or so square—and realized there were other bundles inside wrapped individually. Very carefully, I opened one and … and mon Dieu, Oliver! They are paintings! Beautiful paintings … valuable paintings, some in massively ornate gold frames. These must have been the most valuable paintings in the house, and they had the sense to hide them at the outset of the revolution! Among them, there are two Fragonards, a Watteau, a pair of Bouchers, and Rubens … three of them!”

  “God, no! Rubens … Fragonard? No!” Oliver said, a great heat welling up inside him. “This cannot be true! Are you absolutely sure, Fabien?”

  “Yes, Oliver, I am, absolutely!” Fabien said emphatically. “I know the signature of Rubens; it’s plain to see! There’s a huge van Dyke, as well. I mean really massive. It must have been a nightmare to get it into that room!”

  “But … but … are they damaged?”

  “This is the whole point, Oliver. They are perfect. We’re sitting on some masterpieces here … a fortune. Just believe me … and I can …”

  But Oliver had gone, dropping the phone as he went. He half wriggled and half fell out of the sash window, landing like a plump bear in the flower bed three feet below. Titus catapulted through the window above him like a stag, eager to join in this new crazy game.

  With tears rolling down his face, Oliver staggered to his feet and, laughing like a madman, ran towards the big trees, only to fall flat on his face, having caught his foot on the shallow curb of the path.

  He lay on the ground convulsing as Titus tore round him in circles, barking hysterically, his claws sending clods of earth and grass flying. Again Oliver hauled himself up, laughing louder than ever, and staggered on and under the copper beeches where he flopped down on his back, his limbs akimbo like a starfish. As the salty tears rolled down his face, the thick fleshy tongue of Titus darted in and slapped his cheeks and eyes, whilst the wind mixed his manic laughter with the leaves and carried it across the lawns.

  The End