Art of Murder (37 page)

Then it was Albert Knopffer from Europol's turn to speak.

'We won't spare any effort, I can assure you. You are all well aware of the great interest the Community has shown in the life and work of Bruno van Tysch and the Foundation you represent.'

'Absolutely,' said Head Honcho. 'It's a matter of pride for all Europe, and for us as European citizens, that Mr van Tysch has chosen to create his works here in the Old Continent, unlike so many artists who have emigrated. Not that I would like you to think that I am criticising those artists. I repeat . . .' here he grabbed the last remaining sweets from their bowl and swallowed them.

'...
the Foundation is part of our European heritage, and we should therefore do all we can to protect it,' Knopffer finished his sentence for him.

While Benoit and Stein were returning the compliment, Bosch tried not to smile. He recalled that Gerhard Weyleb, who had been his boss before Miss Wood, had told him one day that the real masterpieces Van Tysch and Stein had created were the Europeans themselves. 'Don't you see: we're his finest hyperdramatic work. That's the secret of his incredible success.'

Harlbrunner, who at that moment was resting his hand on one of the varnished knees of the girl who was the dried fruit Table, quickly intervened.

'Art is an absolute priority. You must forgive me if
I
don't know how to express this any better, but I'm convinced that art is Europe's number one priority.'

As he spoke, he tapped the girl's knee for emphasis like an orator.

A majestic dark-blue limousine glided like a giant fish along the Ludwig Leopold Avenue in Munich. The chauffeur, positioned several metres from the people sitting on the rear seat, wore a uniform and a peaked cap. On the left sat April Wood. She looked thoughtful, and was tapping the back of one hand with the forefinger of the other. Next to her, Stein's personal assistant was busy tapping at the keys of a laptop. Beyond her, head tilted back against the seat, Stein was putting drops into both eyes. His suit and the onyx medallion round his neck were the same shiny black.

Anyone who ever saw Jacob Stein immediately agreed on what he looked like: a faun. His eyebrows stood out above a deeply lined face; his eyes were hidden under dark protruding arches, his nose was prominent, and his thick, sensual lips pushed plumply through the curls of his greying beard. What was more difficult was to assess his real importance in the Foundation. Some people claimed the Maestro dominated him completely, others that he was the one who really reigned. Miss Wood did not dismiss either possibility. One thing was certain: this New York Jew with his faun's features and square head was the chief architect of HD art's success,
the person who had turned hyper
dramatism into a world empire, a new form of culture. It was Stein who had designed the first human ornaments and objects, had organised the mass production of cheap copies of originals, and set up the pioneering academies for HD canvases. In spite of all this, he occasionally also found time to paint his own masterpieces.

'By a fortunate coincidence,' said Stein, screwing the top back on his eyedrops, 'it so happens that the excuse I used to get out of the meeting is strictly true,
fu
schus.
The Maestro is expecting me in Amsterdam to supervise some of the sketches for the "Rembrandt" exhibition. And to top it all, those aerosols I've been using to prepare the figures for
Jacob Wrestling with the Angel
have given me conjunctivitis
...
Oh, thanks, Neve.'

Stein's secretary had leaned over and dried his eyes with a silk handkerchief. Then she folded the handkerchief, took the eyedrops from him, and put everything away in her bag. The whole operation took place in complete silence. Staring down at the swirls in the car's carpet, Wood caught a glimpse only of Neve's high-heeled shoes and tanned calves as she came and went.

'Which means I hope that what you have to say to me, Miss Wood, is really important,
galismus,'
concluded Stein.

Stein was jokingly nicknamed Mr
Fuschus-Galismus.
Nobody had any clear idea of what the two words Stein was always repeating actually meant, and Stein had never bothered to explain. They were part of the slang he used when talking to painters and canvases. His disciples had invariably picked up the habit.

'Postpone the opening of "Rembrandt", Mr Stein,' Miss Wood said directly.

Stein coughed, and his faun's features darkened.

'Fus
chus,
we turned the wife of the last investor who suggested that into a work of art, didn't we, Neve?' The secretary bared a perfect set of shiny white teeth and laughed a tinkling laugh that Miss Wood found faintly nauseating.

'I'm being serious. If the exhibition goes ahead, there's a strong probability that one of the works will be destroyed.'

'Why is that?' the painter asked with genuine curiosity. 'There are more than a hundred of the Maestro's works and sketches in collections and public exhibitions throughout the world. The Artist could choose any of—'

‘I
don't think so,' Miss Wood interrupted him. 'I'm convinced that, whether we're dealing with a lone madman or an organisation, the Artist is following a plan. Until now, Van Tysch has created two great collections, with the third due to be inaugurated in July. "Flowers", "Monsters", and "Rembrandt". Apart from that, the rest of his works are individual pieces. The Artist has destroyed
Deflowering,
from the first collection, and
Monsters,
from the second.' She paused, and raised her clear eyes to Stein. 'The third will come from "Rembrandt".' 'What proof do you have?'

'None at all. It's my intuition. But I don't think I'm wrong.'

The painter stared silently down at the fingernails on his right hand. He had designed five special brushes to fit into his nails, so that he could keep them as long and tapered as a classical guitarist's.

'I know I can catch him, Mr Stein,' Wood went on. 'But the Artist is not merely a psychopath: he is a real expert, who has planned everything beforehand and moves at incredible speed. Now I'm sure he has his sights on a work from the "Rembrandt" collection, and we have to defend ourselves.' All at once, Miss Wood's voice became husky. 'You know how I work. You know I will not accept mistakes. But when they do occur, my only consolation is to judge they were unforeseeable. So please don't force me to accept a mistake that is
avoidable.
Postpone the exhibition, I beg you.'

'I can't. Believe me, it's not possible. The "Rembrandt" collection is almost complete. The press showing is in a fortnight, and the public opening is on 15 July, the date of the four hundredth anniversary of Rembrandt's birth. The work to install the Tunnel in the Museumplein is already well advanced. And besides, the Maestro has spent too long working on it. He's obsessed by it, and I'm the guardian of the paradise of his obsessions. That is what I've always been,
galismus,
and it's what I intend to go on being
...'

'And if we explain to the Maestro the danger his works are in?'

'Do you think that would worry him? Do you know any painter who would refuse to exhibit his works because they might be destroyed?
Galisinus,
we painters always create for eternity, so we're not worried whether our works last twenty centuries, twenty years, or only twenty minutes.'

Miss Wood studied the patterns on the carpet in silence.

'I'm not going to say a word to the Maestro
’
Stein went on. 'All my life I've acted as a buffer between him and reality. My own works are nothing compared to his, but I'm happy just to have helped him create them, by keeping him away from all the problems, by doing all the dirty work myself. . . My best work has been, and continues to be, the fact that the maestro can go on painting. He's a man ruled by the dictates of his own genius. An ineffable being,
galismus,
as strange as an astrophysical phenomenon - sometimes terrible, at others gentle. But if ever, at any moment, anywhere in the world, there has been a genius, then that person is Bruno van Tysch. The rest of us can only hope to obey and protect him. Your duty, Miss Wood, is to protect him. Mine is to obey him . . . ah!
galismus,
what a wonderful glow. Neve, look at the colour of the skin on your legs now, with the sunlight slanting in on them . . . it's lovely, isn't it? A touch of arilamide yellow dissolved in pale pink, varnish on top and you'd be perfect.
Fuschus,
I wonder why no one has thought of painting canvases for the interior of stretch limousines. We could use underage models. We've designed and sold all kinds of ornaments and objects for lots of places, but
...'

Tostpone the exhibition, Mr Stein, or there'll be another work destroyed,' Miss Wood insisted, without raising her voice.

But all Stein did was study her in silence for a long moment. Then he smiled and shook his head, as if he had seen something unbelievable in her face.

Tind the man responsible
’
he said, 'whoever he may be. Find the Artist, seize him, bring him back between your jaws, and everything will be all right. Or let Rip van Winkle do it for you. But don't try to put limits on art,
fuschus.
You're not an artist, April, you're just a hunting dog. Don't forget it.'

'Rip van Winkle won't be able to do a thing, Mr Stein
’
Miss Wood said. 'There's something you don't know.'

She paused and looked round. Stein understood exactly what her attitude meant.

'You can say what you like in front of Neve. She's like my eyes and ears.'

‘I’
d prefer there not to be so many eyes and ears present, even if they are yours, Mr Stein.'

The limousine had pulled up at the airport entrance. Another car was waiting at the roadside to take Miss Wood back into the city. Stein waved his hand, and his secretary left the vehicle and shut the door. Wood looked up towards the chauffeur: the glass partition meant he could hear nothing.

'This is something no one else knows - neither the authorities in Munich, nor the members of the crisis cabinet, not even Lothar Bosch. But I want you to hear it. Perhaps it'll make you change your mind.' She fixed her cold blue gaze on Stein. 'Yesterday, as soon as we heard about
Monsters
being destroyed, I called Marthe Schimmel to see if she could tell me anything. She said the Walden twins had asked her to provide a young man for Tuesday night. You know that in Conservation they like to keep them happy. They were demanding a platinum blond. Schimmel was desperately trying to find a suitable candidate when she received a call cancelling their request. It was a voice she did not know, but he repeated the private number of Conservation in Amsterdam, and said he was one of Benoit's assistants. He told Marthe that the boy was no longer needed. Marthe thought of telling Benoit about this, but I told her not to. I called Benoit's assistants in Amsterdam one by one, and then his secretary. Finally I called Benoit himself. Neither Benoit nor any of his assistants ever gave that order, Mr Stein.'

Wood was staring Stein directly in the eye, without blinking. Stein stared back at her equally unmoved. There was a silence, then she went on:

'It
cannot
have been the criminal who made that call, because at that moment he was disguised as the Gigli work. That leaves only one possibility.
Someone
prepared things for him from
inside
so that there would be no problems destroying the work of art. It must have been someone high up, at least sufficiently senior to have access to Conservation's private codes. That's why I'm begging you to postpone the "Rembrandt" inauguration. If you don't, the Artist is bound to destroy another work.

A plane had just taken off, and was soaring through the blue sky like a mother-of-pearl eagle. Stein studied it, then turned to look at Miss Wood once more. A gleam of anxiety, almost fear, veiled the chilly depths of the Head of Security's eyes.

'However incredible it may seem, Mr Stein,
one of us
is helping that madman.'

6

When Clara awoke on that 28 June, Gerardo and Uhl had already arrived. She thought she could tell from their faces that this was going to be a very special session. They left their bags on the floor and Gerardo said:

'We're not going to try out colours on you today. We want to draw polygons.'

Polygons was the name for the posture exercises designed to test the canvas' physical capabilities. Clara ate a frugal breakfast and took the pills recommended by F&W to improve her muscle tone and reduce her bodily needs as much as possible. Gerardo warned her she had a difficult day ahead of her.