by Ian Hamilton
She got to 65th Street with ten minutes to spare. Hughes lived in the middle of a row of eight townhouses, each three storeys high. Ava couldn’t even begin to guess what they would cost — three million? six million? One housed a psychiatrist’s office. Two were lawyers’ offices. A brass plaque that read glen hughes, art consultant was screwed into the wall to the right of Hughes’ bright red door.
There was no knocker and no buzzer. Ava rapped on the door and waited. No answer. She rapped again. No answer. She was trying to extract her cellphone from her bag when the door was flung open.
Glen Hughes towered over her. He was at least six foot four, long and lean like his brother, but his blow-dried dark blond hair hung down over his ears. He was wearing blue silk pyjamas, and Ava wondered if she had woken him until she saw the cup in his hand. “Ms. Lee, right on time,” he said, and then stood aside to let her pass. “Go through to the first door on the left,” he directed.
The hallway had dark oak floors, pearl-white walls, and a ceiling that was a facsimile of the Sistine Chapel’s. Ava couldn’t help but stare, her mouth slightly ajar.
“It’s striking, isn’t it? I wish I could say it was my idea, but the previous occupant was a rabid Roman Catholic,” Hughes said.
She turned left into what was obviously his office. It had the same dark oak floor but was covered with a rich, glorious Persian rug. Rows of paintings hung three and four high. There was an antique desk, and behind it was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, every inch filled. In front of the desk were two delicate wooden chairs, their seats upholstered in white silk.
Ava couldn’t remember ever entering a room that was quite so opulent, so beautifully put together, and the words tumbled from her mouth before she could think. “This is stunning.”
“Why, thank you. We do try to represent our values and tastes in everything we do,” he said.
He was behind her, and when she turned, his face was not more than a foot from hers. She saw the long, pointed nose, the chin that ended sharply, the thin red lips. But it was his eyes that held her attention. Helga had said it looked as if he had one large eye, and at that close proximity Ava had the same sensation. The eyes were blue like his brother’s, but not so open, not in the least curious. Dead — that’s the right word, Ava thought.
She sat without being asked and he moved to the chair behind the desk. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked as he settled in.
“No, I’m fine.”
He smiled at her. “So here we have the vicious little Ms. Lee.”
“That isn’t a word I would choose to describe myself.”
“And what word would you choose?”
“I’m an accountant.”
“I know you are.”
He’s awfully casual, she thought, and remembered Edwin Hughes’ description of his brother as cocky. His reference to her as an accountant, his whole manner, was a bit unsettling. Had she told Edwin she was an accountant? She couldn’t remember.
“You quite panicked my brother, you know, putting ideas about prison — not to mention disgrace and bankruptcy — into his head.”
“This is a serious business.”
“A man selling newspapers on a street corner thinks he’s involved in a serious business. Isn’t it all a matter of perspective?”
Ava sat back in the chair and tried to engage Glen Hughes’ eyes, but they were wandering, almost blissfully, from painting to painting. She said, “Edwin told you about the information I have?”
“About the three paintings Maurice O’Toole did for us? About your threat to write to Harold Holmes and the rest? About the million dollars you intend to extort from us?”
Ava felt her stomach turn. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s an entire crock,” Hughes boomed.
“Mr. Hughes, I have proof positive that you and your brother commissioned and sold three fake paintings to some of the most prestigious collectors in the United Kingdom.”
“I know that, but that’s not why you’re here, is it, Ms. Lee? You have no interest in a million dollars.”
“What are you trying to say?” she asked.
“You’re here about the Fauvist pieces I sold to that ignorant amateur in Hong Kong. What was his name? Kwan? Wang? Wing?”
So Edwin told him absolutely everything, she thought. “Kwong,” she said.
“Yes, Mr. Kwong. That’s why you’re here.”
He stared triumphantly at her. A man full of himself, a man who loves to hear himself talk, she thought.
“I know all about what you’re up to,” he said, as if he had just scored a debating point.
“And what is that?”
“You want me to repay the money that some fool in China paid Kwong for that art.”
Ava closed her eyes. “Yes, that’s why I’m here,” she said.
“And my understanding is that you intend to use O’Toole’s rather excellent Manet and Modiglianis as your bargaining chips. Pay in China, save our skins in the U.K. and here. That’s the general idea, yes?”
“Yes,” she said, wondering what Edwin hadn’t told him.
He had been holding the cup in his hand, letting it hover in midair, a prop. Now he placed it gently on the saucer. Ava noticed a tiny dribble of saliva at the corner of his mouth. He’s more agitated than he’s letting on, she thought.
“Before we go down that rather complicated path I would like to see the proof you supposedly have. Edwin did go on about it, but he has less experience with this kind of thing and is prone to overreact. You have no objections, I assume?”
Ava removed the rubber band from the files she’d been carrying. She found the file with records of the Modigliani that had been purchased by Harold Holmes, and passed it to Hughes.
“I need to go to the toilet,” he said. “Do you mind if I take this with me?”
“It’s only a copy,” she said.
“I wasn’t going to flush it,” he said with amusement.
He didn’t look at her as he walked past, but when he brushed by she could smell perfume.
Ava opened her bag and took out the letters she had drafted to the Earl of Moncrieff, Holmes, and Reiner. She put them on Hughes’ desk, turned so that he could read them.
He is a presence, she thought, a man who can fill a room. Without him the room took on a different character: more serene, more exquisite. She admired the dark oak bookcase, which soared at least fourteen feet to the ceiling. Her eyes skimmed over the book titles — art tomes, all of them. Then she turned and looked at the walls, which were covered in paintings. Many of them were abstract, though scattered among them was an occasional object, a landscape, a portrait. She remembered Edwin Hughes saying that his brother had an eye for what would be hot. The paintings seemed to fairly represent that notion.
Glen Hughes re-entered the room with a burst of energy that put Ava on immediate guard. He saw her flinch and smiled. He swept past her and sat behind his desk, putting his feet, encased in Calvin Klein slippers, up on it. He held the file aloft before tossing it back to her. “Unfortunately for me, Maurice seems to have been as careful with his record-keeping as he was with his painting,” he said.
She hadn’t expected complete capitulation. “I left those letters on your desk,” she said slowly. “Those will be sent to the gentlemen mentioned if we can’t reach an agreement.”
“If I don’t concede to your extortion, you mean?”
“If you wish to put it like that.”
Hughes had long, slender fingers. His nails were manicured and lacquered. He put his index finger on the letters and slid them back to her. “I don’t need to read these. I am quite sure, as Edwin said, that they would result in our destruction,” he said casually.
“So where does that leave us?” Ava asked.
�
��Trying to make an arrangement,” Hughes said.
“I believe you have something in mind already,” Ava said.
“First of all, I’d like to know just how much money you think we’re talking about.”
“Seventy-three million.”
Hughes ran his fingers through his hair, only to have it flop immediately back into place. “That seems to be about right,” he said.
Is he playing with me? she thought. “Okay, then write me a certified cheque or send me a wire.”
He laughed. “Ms. Lee, I have not even close to that amount of money.”
Ava went quiet again. “I can’t give you a monthly instalment plan,” she finally said. “You have this townhouse, other assets.”
“Yes, we can talk about those.”
“And you have Liechtenstein.”
She expected the mention of Liechtenstein to at least give him pause, but without missing a beat he said, “I’ll give you Liechtenstein — all of it — if you’ll take it sight unseen and walk out that front door.”
“Mr. Hughes, I suspect you have some kind of plan. I mean, between the time your brother told you about my interest in the Fauvist forgeries and now, you’ve managed to come up with a proposal that you think will work. But instead of telling me what it is, you’d rather play this silly game.”
He turned towards her, his eyes looking in her direction without actually seeing her. “My brother didn’t tell me about the Fauvists. I figured that out myself. A Chinese woman poking around in Maurice O’Toole’s papers — what kind of sense does that make? This wasn’t some random search; this wasn’t a coincidence. And believe me, when I questioned Edwin, he did more sputtering than an old Vauxhall. It wasn’t too hard to reach the conclusion that the Hong Kong business had come unglued. I have done only one large piece of business in my entire life with someone Chinese, so it didn’t take any great intelligence to realize that your interest was in the Fauvists. Then when I got your name from Edwin, I did some research. There you were, Ms. Lee, an accountant aligned with a firm in Hong Kong that specializes in collecting odd debts for Asian clients.”
“You have me, and now I also know how smart you are,” Ava said. “So what’s your plan?”
He didn’t acknowledge her jibe. “That depends completely on what your priorities are.”
“I want my clients to be repaid.”
“And it depends on how practical you are.”
“I want the money repaid — that is exactly how practical I am.”
“Do you care how?”
“I won’t know that until I hear what you have in mind.”
“I have hardly any cash,” he said in a rush.
“So you’ve said.”
“I think if I maxed out all my credit cards and my lines of credit, borrowed from friends, I might be able to come up with three or four million, no more than that.”
“Ex-wives are a horrible thing,” Ava said.
“I own this townhouse, of course, and I think it’s now worth close to five million, but there’s a mortgage, and in this economy who knows how long it would take to sell.”
He’s playing with me, Ava thought, and decided to wait. Sooner or later he’ll tell me what he has in mind.
“You have nothing to say?” he said.
“This seems to be your meeting. I’m just a spectator.”
“If you want seventy-odd million, and if you want it sooner rather than later, then the resolution to both our problems is behind you on my walls.”
She looked up. “You’ll give us paintings?”
“Yes, and not just any paintings,” he said, standing up. “Come with me; I’ll show you something.”
He came to her side and extended a hand towards her. Ava ignored it as she got to her feet.
Hughes walked to the back of the room, Ava trailing. He stopped and pointed up. “That is a Picasso. To the left there, two over, a Gauguin. They would fetch you at least seventy million at auction. I’ll give them to you, today if you want, though I think it would be wise to let me manage their sale or consignment to auction.”
“Are they real?”
“Of course not,” Hughes said.
( 28 )
Ava left Hughes’ townhouse at twelve thirty, walked over to Fifth Avenue, turned right, and began the long walk around Central Park. It was close to two thirty when she arrived at the Mandarin Oriental, no more certain about what she was going to do than when she had left Glen Hughes.
In her ten years with Uncle she thought she had seen and heard just about everything. None of it came close to what Hughes was proposing. On the surface it was audacious, risky, and undoubtedly criminal. Yet, as Hughes explained to her how the process would work, how his checks and balances would come into play, how the Wongs would be insulated from any fallout if it all went south, she had come to admit that it was workable. It was still criminal, but it was workable. Ava hadn’t refused his offer.
“First things first,” she had told him. “I need to confirm that the Liechtenstein account is as barren as you claim. I need you to instruct Georges Brun to make available to me everything connected to the account.” He agreed, and offered to do it by conference call there and then. She took him up on it, listening as he called Brun to confirm a current balance of just over a hundred thousand dollars and to bemoan his bad run of luck.
She asked for his bank account information, PINs, and passwords. He gave the details to her and then sat next to her at his computer as she accessed the account and found minimal cash holdings. She then asked to see the deed to the house and his mortgage agreement. He had paid just over four million for it two years before and had mortgaged half.
“Those other paintings,” she said, motioning to the walls, “how many of them are real?”
“Most.”
“What are they worth?”
“In ten years, maybe millions. Right now, they’re investments in young artists.”
She did a rough calculation. If she took all his cash and sold the house she might net four million, but there was no guarantee, given the state of the housing market. “How did you burn through so much money?” she asked.
“I have three ex-wives. They all took a big chunk since, like you, I prefer a one-time payment rather than a monthly bloodletting. And then, of course, I have led quite a comfortable life.”
“Your brother mentioned some other assets, like a yacht.”
“You’re welcome to it, but you’ll have to pay some marina costs to get access to it, and then there’s the bank loan against it.”
“Stocks and bonds?”
“Dribs and drabs.”
“I’d still like to see the accounts.”
Ten minutes later she had found another few hundred thousand.
He sensed her frustration. “You do know, I hope, that what I propose is very practical and very doable. If your clients truly want their money back, this is the quickest and most direct way to make it happen.”
“You mentioned auction — that isn’t a dangerous route to take?”
“Not if you manage it properly, go to the right auction house.”
“Harrington’s, of course” she said.
He nodded.
“With Sam Rice authenticating whatever you want him to sign off on.”
His lips went taut and his eyes became more focused on Ava. “That isn’t a name we should be throwing about.”
“How many do you propose selling through Harrington’s?”
“I’d sell them both through Harrington’s, but only one — the Picasso — at auction. I believe they already have a private buyer lined up for the Gauguin. Not many Gauguins come onto the open market, so there’s a waiting list for his work.”
“So you’ve already talked this over with Sam R
ice?”
He looked annoyed. “Naturally.”
“What commission would they take?”
“At auction, probably twenty percent; on a private brokered sale it would be around ten percent.”
She stared at the wall. “Are the paintings that well done?”
“They are superb.”
“Who did them?”
“That doesn’t matter, does it? It wasn’t Maurice O’Toole, of course. This chap may actually be better than Maurice. They’re hard to find, people with this kind of talent. I found this one just eight months ago.”
“I’m surprised, given your financial situation, that you haven’t sold them by now.”
A painful grimace crept onto his face. “I haven’t had them that long. I was getting ready to send the Picasso to market, but then you unfortunately dropped into my life.”
“So why go through Harrington’s? Why not broker your own private sale, pocket the money, and pay us off?”
“We need the aura of respectability and integrity, the cloak of academic professionalism that Harrington’s provides. And then there’s Sam himself. If Sam Rice puts his reputation behind a piece of art, not many people in my business would challenge him.”
Questions kept popping into her head but there was no structure to them. She needed time to think, to put things into some kind of rational context. “I need time,” she said.
“I’ll be here,” he said.
“I’ll call before I come back, but expect it to be sooner rather than later. We can’t let this thing linger.”
She had turned off her cellphone while she walked, not wanting any disruption of her thought process. She turned it on while she was riding the elevator back to her room; her heart sank when she saw that May Ling Wong had called three times, twice in the past hour. It was two a.m. in Wuhan. Uncle had called as well, Ava guessing because May Ling and maybe even Changxing were all over him. And finally Frederick Locke had phoned, his voicemail message sounding nervous and guilty.
Sam Rice, Ava thought instantly. Frederick Locke had talked to Rice, Rice had called Glen Hughes, and Hughes had thrown her some bullshit story about tracking her down through Hong Kong. That was why Hughes was so prepared. He and Rice had had time to concoct their scheme.
