Secret Combinations (17 page)

“And the Kenyon Art Gallery?”

“There are about one hundred galleries in London that do ten to one hundred million pounds. Lydia's gallery would fall into that range.”

The waiter returned with an oval baking dish. “What's this?” Kenyon asked.

“Terrine of foie gras,” replied deWolfe. “It is made from the liver of a goose. Try some with the fig chutney.”

Kenyon spread some paté onto a cracker and topped it with the chutney. The meat was spicy and sweet, with a rich, gamey flavor. Kenyon chased it with a sip of the Bordeaux.

“Tell me,” Kenyon asked. “Is art profitable?”

“It is one of the most profitable businesses around,” said deWolfe. “If Lydia was grossing 21 million pounds a year, she would have a pre-tax profit of around 33 per cent, or 7 million pounds, and a post tax profit of 3.5 million pounds.”

“Whoa. That's like winning the lottery every year.”

“That it is, only a lot easier.”

“Tell me, who can afford to buy this art?” asked Kenyon. “I mean, there's stuff hanging in Lydia's gallery worth over a million bucks.”

DeWolfe spread some paté onto a cracker. “There are several thousand people worldwide who can pay 100 million pounds for a painting by Van Gogh or Monet without a moment's hesitation.”

The two men finished the appetizer, and a busboy whisked it away. The waiter then returned with their soup, a rich, rose-colored lobster bisque. Kenyon spooned up some; it was filled with succulent meat. “I know I'm going to sound like a hick, but why do they pay that much for a scrap of canvas with paint on it?”

DeWolfe savored his soup for a few moments before replying. “That is actually a very good question, one that the art industry devotes a lot of time and energy pondering.”

He put down his spoon. “There are three main categories of buyer. The first is the aesthete, who buys art for the pleasure. Art for him is a hobby, a passion.”

“What's the second category?”

“The investor, who buys for value. The art market has outperformed all stock exchanges in the last twenty years.”

“And the third?”

“The nouveau riche.”

“Who?”

“The new money; the recent arrivals who wish to buy credibility by owning something famous and valuable.”

“How does a gallery connect up with all these people?” Kenyon asked.

“Through a mix of socializing and networking. Ascot and opera for old money, night clubs, film openings, and rock concerts for new.”

“What did Lydia do?”

“Lydia cultivated the new crowd: software billionaires, rock musicians, and movie stars. They all trusted her.”

The waiter returned, wheeling a silver carving trolley. With a flourish, he opened the lid to reveal a roast rack of lamb. He carved the roast into separate chops, serving them with rosemary potatoes and buttered carrots.

Kenyon ate hungrily; deWolfe with more restraint. After the main course, they paused for a few moments, in silence.

“Is trust important?” Kenyon finally asked.

“Extremely important. Most people don't know how to recognize whether a painting is genuine or not. That's why they go to a gallery, because they are paying for the expertise and reputation.”

“Did Lydia have a good reputation?”

“
Ja
. All of her catalogue is first-rate quality.”

Kenyon felt relieved to hear it. He hadn't wanted to believe that Lydia would knowingly sell a forgery.

The waiter returned to remove the plates. They both declined dessert, and ordered coffees.

“Have there been many scandals recently?” Kenyon asked.

DeWolfe thought for a moment. “A forgery ring infiltrated the Tate gallery's files a few years ago and authenticated false paintings.”

“Did they catch the guys?”

“No, it was only discovered accidentally, several months later. They were long gone by then.”

“Have there been any scandals involving modern stuff?”

“Oh, yes. A gallery in Hawaii was caught selling counterfeit Dali prints.”

“I heard about that. What about modern originals?”

“That is very uncommon.”

“Why?”

“Modern originals are very difficult to pass off. Any potential buyer with suspicions can simply contact the artist to authenticate it.” DeWolfe eyed Kenyon. “What are you getting at?”

Kenyon tried to look innocent. “What do you mean?”

“There is something you are not telling me. I insist that you explain.”

“I can't right now.”

DeWolfe gazed shrewdly at Kenyon. “Then, let me guess; Lydia's gallery has a forgery.”

The agent couldn't conceal his surprise. “How did you know?”

DeWolfe lowered his voice. “Lydia called me last year. It was all very hush-hush. She was concerned about the provenance of a modern painting.”

“What did you find?”

“It was a fake.”

“Did you catch the crook?”

DeWolfe shook his head. “It had passed through too many owners to know who had made the switch. We couldn't prove who was the culprit.”

“Well,” replied Kenyon, “whoever it is, I think they're back. A fake showed up at Lydia's gallery, and I need to know if there's any more. I need your help.”

DeWolfe nodded solemnly. “I will do anything for Lydia. And you can count on my utmost discretion.”

“What should we do?” asked Kenyon.

“We should go to Lydia's gallery and look at the rest of the paintings, immediately.”

Happy Harry's taxi was waiting
out on Piccadilly when Kenyon and deWolfe emerged from the Ritz hotel.

The cabby took them north for several blocks on Bond Street, then turned onto the side road housing Lydia's gallery.

Tigger buzzed the two men through the front door. The receptionist looked carefully at Kenyon as he entered, clearly concerned about his abrupt departure the day before. “Is everything all right, Mr. Kenyon?”

“Yeah, I'm okay, Zoë,” he said. He turned to his companion. “This is Hadrian deWolfe. He's going to help me evaluate some art. We'll be down in the storage room.”

Hearing Kenyon's voice, Bruno Ricci emerged from his back office and approached the reception area. “Oh, there you are, Kenyon,” he called, languidly pushing back the locks of curly black hair that had fallen over his forehead. “My banker is a pig. There is an overdrawn account, you can help, no?”

Suddenly, Ricci noticed deWolfe. Without another word, he exited the gallery and strode swiftly down the street.

Kenyon scratched his head. “What the hell got into him?

DeWolfe's eyes grew wide in perplexity. “Perhaps, I look like his banker,
ja
?” He shrugged, then turned and headed toward the back of the gallery.

Kenyon glanced briefly out the window at the rapidly retreating form of Ricci, then followed deWolfe. He would ask the gallery manager about his rude behavior later; right now, he had more important concerns.

The storage room was located in the basement of the gallery. Kenyon pulled out Lydia's ring of keys and unlatched the two deadbolts that firmly fixed the door to the frame. He flicked on the light switch and the two men descended the heavy wooden stairs.

The basement walls of the gallery were bare concrete. A workshop was situated on the near side of the cellar, with a long, flat table and a toolkit holding a saw, hammer, and various other implements.

DeWolfe ignored the workshop and headed directly for the far wall, which was covered by a long storage cabinet. Constructed of steel, the cabinet held twenty vertically mounted drawers. He strolled slowly up and down the length of the cabinet, carefully reading the contents list on each drawer. He finally turned and came back to the center of the cabinet. “Please, unlock this one,” he said, pointing to a drawer. DeWolfe then went to the workbench and fished through the toolkit. He returned with a portable fluorescent light in one hand, a blacklight in the other, and a jeweler's loupe on a chain around his neck.

Finding the correct key, Kenyon unlocked the first vertical drawer and slowly drew it out. Four paintings hung on a steel-mesh frame. They depicted various English outdoor scenes, including a fox hunt and a young, cherub-cheeked boy eviscerating a grouse for his master.

Kenyon glanced dubiously at the dark, lacquer-encrusted paintings. “Why are you looking at these?”

“These landscapes are 19th-century oils after the school of Constable.” DeWolfe tapped a stag hunting scene with a long finger. “Remember, I mentioned a forgery that we uncovered in Lydia's gallery last year? It was by this artist, Johnson. It had already passed through several hands before we caught it.”

“How did you spot the fake?”

DeWolfe turned on the fluorescent light. “Fortunately, it is easy with 19th-century works. The lacquer used to preserve the surface remains clear under daylight, but glows yellow when exposed to fluorescence.”

He held the light close to the painting, and the surface glowed a distinct amber.

“Well, it appears that this one is authentic—hardly surprising, considering Lydia's experience in the past.”

Kenyon closed the first drawer and pulled open the second. It held four paintings depicting cattle skulls resting in various desert landscapes. “I recognize these from art class in high school,” he said. “They're by an American artist.”

“Georgia O'Keeffe,” agreed deWolfe. “Early and mid-20th century. A very prolific painter, and quite desired by you Americans, hence the popularity among forgers.”

DeWolfe peered closely at the horn on one painting. “O'Keeffe used a white pigment with a high calcium content that glows purple under ultraviolet light. They don't concoct it anymore, and only the most dedicated forgers go to the bother of mixing authentic pigment.” He sniffed. “Lazy lot.”

The evaluator turned on the black light and held it up to the paintings; on every work, the white pigment glowed a healthy violet hue. He looked at Kenyon and shook his head; the paintings were genuine.

“You sure?” said Kenyon. “Every single one of these works is okay?”

DeWolfe glanced down the long row of drawers. “I could go through the rest, but I would need more sophisticated equipment, and a lot more time.”

Kenyon leaned against the workbench, dejected. “Well, thanks for trying.”

DeWolfe walked over and joined Kenyon beside the workbench. “Of course, if you were to be more explicit, it might help me narrow the search considerably.”

Kenyon stared hard at the evaluator. How much could he really trust deWolfe? If word got out that Lydia's gallery had a plague of fakes, it would ruin the reputation of the business. On the other hand, he felt he had to trust somebody. What good was the gallery if Lydia's killer went free?

Kenyon made up his mind. “Lydia got a call the week before she died. A client claimed she sold him a fake. She bought it back.”

DeWolfe leaned toward Kenyon. “Who was the artist?”

“Some Frenchman named Maggote.”

“Ah,” replied deWolfe, straightening. “It is beginning to make sense.”

“What is?”

“Lydia rang me a few weeks ago in Zurich. I cannot remember when, exactly. She asked me to come in and have a look at one of Maggote's works, when I had the time.”

“Did she say why?” asked Kenyon.

“No, but that is not unusual. You do not want the evaluator to come in with any preconceived notions.”

“What did you find?”

“I never made it here,” replied deWolfe. “I was just leaving to examine a collection of 19th-century lithographs in Hungary when she called. By the time I returned, Lydia was dead.”

Kenyon walked over to the cabinet and examined the content lists. “There's a couple of drawers with Maggote's stuff in it. Do you want to have a look now?”

The evaluator looked dubious. “Well, post-modern is not exactly my cup of tea . . .”

“I think I can help. Maggote had a secret way of identifying his works. I know what it is.”

“Indeed?” said deWolfe. “I am already intrigued.”

Kenyon unlocked the first of the drawers containing Maggote's work and drew it out. There were four paintings, all done in the same style that Kenyon had seen in Lump's collection: bits of electronic hardware affixed to a plywood surface and splashed with paint.

Kenyon bent over the first painting. “Maggote would paint a cartoon character behind a microchip and hide it on each work.” The agent pried off a memory chip from the upper left corner. A profile of the French cartoon character, Tintin, had been neatly painted on the rear. “See?”

DeWolfe placed the loupe back in his right eye and examined the character. “How did you discover this?”

“I have my sources,” said Kenyon.

DeWolfe turned to Kenyon. “There is more to you than meets the eye, Herr Kenyon.” He tested the three other paintings. All of the works in the drawer had a hidden character. “It appears as though all these ones are authentic,” said deWolfe. “Let's look at the rest.”

There were a total of fifteen Maggote works in the storage room. They worked their way down through the drawers, but each painting contained a hidden cartoon character.

Kenyon pushed the last drawer shut, strangely disappointed that they were all real. “I guess that shoots that lead down.”

“Not necessarily,” said deWolfe. “Sometimes, what's not there is just as important as what is.”

“What do you mean?”

The evaluator tapped a list on one of the drawers. “This inventory says that there should have been four paintings in this drawer, but there are only three.”

Kenyon glanced at the list. “That's right.” They pulled open the drawer again, and deWolfe checked the numbers on the back of each work against the list.

“
Techno 69
seems to be the one missing,” said deWolfe. “Odd name; it sounds familiar.”