Pandora (80 page)

Rupert’s helicopter landed outside Searston County Court at half past ten. Leaping out, Jonathan lifted down Jean-Jacques Le Brun, settling him on the daisied lawn, straightening his beret, then waving an expansive hand towards the pale gold town, with its river sauntering round the castle walls and its cathedral spire piercing the lowering navy blue cloud as if to unleash a shower of rain.

‘I told you it was beautiful.’

‘Good God!’ Willoughby Evans nearly fell out of the window of the judges’ chamber. ‘He really has brought Jean-Jacques Le Brun. I’ve got two of his watercolours at home. I wonder if he’d sign them.’

Sienna raced across the grass into Jonathan’s arms.

‘Thank God you’re here. Sorry I was such a bitch.’

‘But you’ve grown so beautiful,’ said Jonathan in amazement, and, aware of scowling Zac taking a breather on the tarmac outside the court, he kissed Sienna lingeringly on the mouth before introducing Jean-Jacques.

‘This is my fabulous new best friend, M. Le Brun, you’ve got to look after him while I go into the witness box.’

Knowing he could be relied on to stir things up, the press and public gave Jonathan a great cheer as he was sworn in. He was still wearing Emerald’s now torn blue shirt and ripped combats. His big laughing mouth was set in a hard line, his dark eyes glittered dangerously. Two spots of colour glowed on his blanched cheeks like red sold stickers.

Sold to the devil, thought Zac savagely. Jonathan his Nemesis, the one Sienna loved.

Up in the gallery, having portrayed Zac as the sleek long-eyed unicorn, Sienna was now drawing Jonathan with his wild mane and furious eyes as the snarling lion. No two men could think more evilly of one another.

Helped along occasionally by Sampson, Jonathan gave evidence rather like a one-man show, his conversation confiding, almost chatty.

‘With the high profile of this case,’ he explained, ‘people have emerged from the woodwork. Zachary Ansteig’s charismatic Great-uncle Jacob was certainly deported to Mauthausen but recalled after a few months. This was because the Nazis had embarked on the biggest looting spree in history and they needed his expertise in identifying and valuing the pictures they’d bagged.’

Then, over the rumble of amazement, smiling round at the flabbergasted faces, Jonathan continued: ‘Jacob had
such
impeccable contacts in Europe, he was able to lead the Nazis to the best collections. And when this happened’ – Jonathan shook his head ruefully – ‘their Jewish owners were packed off to the death camps.’

‘That’s a lie!’ Zac had leapt up, yelling abuse until two policemen shoved him back in his seat.

‘You’ll have to leave the court if you can’t restrain yourself, Mr Ansteig,’ reproved Willoughby Evans. ‘Let Mr Belvedon have his say.’

‘Later,’ went on Jonathan, ‘Jacob settled in Paris where the Nazis allowed him to trade as long as he produced the pictures they wanted. War in fact was a godsend in France for those dealers who collaborated.

‘Jacob also vowed, as the court has been told, to avenge his murdered father by hunting down the Raphael. How convenient that whilst he was working for Hermann Goering, he stumbled on his beloved Pandora. There are, as you’ve also been informed, records of the picture going to Goering’s palace, Karinhall, but a question mark over its whereabouts after that. Great-uncle Jacob was the question mark. As Pandora belonged to his family, he naturally felt justified in repossessing it.’

Zac was unable to contain himself.

‘Bullshit,’ he shouted.

‘What was less understandable,’ said Jonathan in mock sorrow, ‘was that two years later Jacob sold the Raphael on to another Nazi, Colonel Feldstrasse, who hung it proudly in his distant château, fantasizing it had been given him by the Reichsmarschall.’

‘M’lord, this witness has been misinformed,’ cried Naomi, terrified Zac was going to leap across the court and strangle Jonathan. Why the hell had Si shoved off instead of staying here to control Zac? ‘This is groundless speculation unbacked by any evidence,’ she added furiously.

‘Except this.’ Smiling gently, Jonathan brandished some torn faded sepia papers. ‘Here’s a letter dated the eighteenth of April, 1942, from Jacob to Feldstrasse arranging for them to meet in Paris. Here’s Jacob’s invoice and copy of the receipt for the looted Pandora: a picture Colonel Feldstrasse bought in good faith, not perhaps for a mess of pottage, but for five hundred thousand Swiss francs, which was about thirty thousand pounds in those days. So,’ Jonathan added coolly, ‘it is no longer Abelman property.’

The stunned silence was only broken by a car backfiring, which made everyone jump. The press were poised to bolt for the doors.

Somehow Zac had regained control of himself, but his face had shrivelled as if struck by lightning. Sienna couldn’t bear to look at him.

As Jonathan leant over, took a pile of photographs from Sampson and started flipping through them, it was as if SS guards were systematically kicking Zac to death with their jackboots.

‘Here,’ Jonathan told the court amiably, ‘are pictures of Great-uncle Jacob showing Pandora to Colonel Feldstrasse, who clearly liked his own sex, particularly when they were as handsome as Jacob. And here’s Jacob with Goering – make a nice couple, don’t they?’ Jonathan waved the photograph. ‘Jacob was so charming, so amusing, no wonder he was one of Goering’s pets, and he was as good at exploiting women as his great-nephew Zachary.’

‘My lord, that is totally inappropriate,’ interrupted a furious Naomi.

‘I agree,’ said Willoughby Evans firmly. ‘Please stop making wild accusations, Mr Belvedon. There is no jury for you to impress.’

‘All that guff about Jacob wanting to join his wife Leah in America was crap too,’ went on Jonathan unrepentantly.

‘Your language, Mr Belvedon,’ snapped Willoughby Evans, who nevertheless like everyone else was transfixed with interest.

‘Sorry, my lord,’ drawled Jonathan. ‘Here is a last photograph of Goering, Jacob and Jacob’s French mistress, Georgette Le Brun . . .’ With raised eyebrows, Jonathan repeated the name: ‘
Le Brun
, at a Nazi party in 1943.’

‘You’ve been working very hard,’ admitted Willoughby Evans, as he and David examined with ill-disguised approval the photograph of ravishing Georgette, ‘but I hope you have other evidence substantiating these claims.’

With so much evidence piled against her, Naomi had an uphill struggle, particularly when Jean-Jacques Le Brun went into the box.

He had taken off his beret; his bald head freckled with liver spots looked like a robin’s egg. He wore a red-andblack silk bow tie and had combed his neat triangle of moustache and goatee beard. On the lapel of his frock coat was a red Légion d’honneur. He refused to sit down.

‘Just like darling M. Poirot. Don’t these old Froggies keep themselves nicely?’ murmured Anthea.

‘I remember Le Brun staying at Foxes Court in the Sixties,’ Lily whispered to Jupiter, ‘such a sweet, sad man, who used to compare notes with Raymond about being cuckolded.’

What on earth had happened to Rosemary? she wondered. They were supposed to be lunching at the George. Lily was looking forward to beef and ale pie.

In excellent English, Le Brun proceeded to inform the court that Jacob Abelman had been a highly respected dealer.

‘When the Nazis confiscate and burn my pictures, regarding them as degenerate and obscene, he had the great courage to show them in his gallery in Vienna.’

‘There.’ Naomi smiled round as tears of gratitude filled Zac’s eyes.

‘In 1942,’ went on Le Brun, ‘my wife Georgette and I were living in Paris, and met Jacob again. He was staying at the Ritz, a favourite haunt of the Nazis, and from his beautiful coat with a fur collar and the open car he was driving around on black-market petrol, he was doing well. My pictures were banned. I was not prepared to collaborate. Georgette and I were very poor. Jacob suggested we took him as a lodger, and was very generous. Georgette was beautiful. She loved silk stockings, pretty clothes, delicious food. I was out a lot, painting in an underground studio, working for the Resistance . . .’ Le Brun’s voice dropped. ‘I didn’t realize she was falling in love with Jacob.’

Poor old boy. Everyone was shaking their heads.

‘What a darling,’ murmured Anthea.

‘How long did Jacob Abelman stay with you?’ asked Sampson.

Le Brun took a sip of water and his time.

‘Until he was killed by the Resistance.’

A gasp went round the court. Naomi jumped to her feet.

‘With respect, m’lord, this witness has also been misinformed. Jacob Abelman was murdered by the Gestapo.’

‘
Non
, the Resistance,’ persisted Le Brun.

‘How d’you know this?’ asked Sampson gently, praying the old boy hadn’t lost it.

‘Because I killed him,’ said Le Brun.

Zac jumped to his feet, then slumped back. Lily dropped her handbag. Hip flask and glacier mints crashed to the ground.

‘He was having an affaire with my wife,’ went on Le Brun. ‘You can see them with Hermann Goering in the picture Jonathan show you.’

‘Was that why you killed him?’ asked Sampson.

‘No, no.’ Le Brun smiled wryly. ‘I am Frenchman, we accept these things.’

The killing, he went on, had occurred on 8 March 1943. Love had made Jacob and Georgette careless.

‘She tell me she was going to spend the night with her mother in Illiers.’

‘Proust holidayed there as a child,’ murmured Willoughby Evans, peering over his glasses, ‘very built up now.’

‘It is, my lord. While she was away, Georgette’s mother rang joyfully to tell Georgette her sister had had a six-pound baby boy. I summoned three colleagues in the Resistance, one a safe-breaker. They all suspected Jacob was the notorious “Le Tigre”. We raided his room and found a chest hidden. We broke it open like Pandora’s Box.’

‘Bloody hell!’ Jupiter accepted a slug from Lily’s flask.

‘We found letters of authority,’ went on Le Brun sadly, ‘from Goering, from Field Marshal Walther von Brauchitsch, one of the first military commanders of occupied France, allowing Jacob to travel as a purchasing agent throughout Europe. There was even one from the East Tyrol Resistance. Jacob was clearly playing a triple game. We suddenly heard the roar of his car . . .’ Le Brun had gone yellow. He clutched the brass rail.

‘Would you like a break?’ asked Willoughby Evans in concern.

‘
Non!
’ like a rifle shot. ‘I must finish. We heard the exhaust of Jacob’s car, one of the few running in Paris. We shoved everything back and met him in the hall in his beautiful fur coat, smelling of Chanel No. 5, my wife’s perfume.

‘We took him to the forest of Fontainebleau,’ said Le Brun bleakly, ‘where we held brief kangaroo trial. He deny everything, only as we raised our guns, he ask: “Who betray me?”’ Le Brun put a shaking hand to his forehead. ‘To my eternal shame, I lied that it was Georgette. “Then I am ready to die,” said Jacob, so we killed him.’

Glancing across the aisle, Jonathan noticed tears like snails’ trails glittering on Zac’s face and was enraged that he suddenly felt sorry for him.

‘For the rest,’ sighed Le Brun, ‘Jacob’s collaboration was total. I have records of all his dealings with the Nazis, lists of paintings he looted and their owners who he betrayed. Being Austrian, he kept impeccable records: including love notes from Georgette. Already they were making plans to escape to South America if the Nazis lost the war.’

Sampson Brunning was so fascinated by the story, he had turned into Michael Parkinson, asking the questions that everyone wanted answering.

‘Why was Jacob nicknamed “Le Tigre”?’

‘Because he was a killer and prowled when he walked and was
beau comme un dieu
,’ added Le Brun almost wistfully, ‘like his great-nephew over there.’

Zac gazed stonily into space.

‘How did your wife react when you told her?’

‘She shout that she love Jacob and didn’t care how many Jews he kill. They would meet in another life and she would tell him I’d lied. Then she leave me.’ Le Brun closed his eyes in sudden anguish. ‘Today for the first time I tell the truth.’

Naomi couldn’t dent Le Brun, even when she tried to prove he had killed Jacob in a fit of jealousy, because the Austrian was handsomer, richer, more successful and had stolen Georgette.

‘According to official reports,’ she went on accusingly, ‘Resistance papers were found on Jacob, so he couldn’t have been working for the Gestapo.’

‘We put them there,’ said Le Brun wearily. ‘The Gestapo had already killed forty-one thousand people in reprisal. “Le Tigre” was so valuable to the Nazis, they would have butchered scores of us in retaliation. So we put the letter of authorization from the East Tyrol Resistance in his inside pocket. Maybe he had worked for them at some time, but not when we knew him. He was a turncoat of many colours.’

Then Le Brun squared his little shoulders and with a great effort, raised his voice.

‘I am here today because Raymond Belvedon is a good and honourable man, whom I have known for fifty years, who, having saved Pandora from the flames, acted as any art lover would have done. I am deeply sorry, however’ – he turned to Zac – ‘to have destroyed a young man’s hero.’