A Twist of the Knife (25 page)

‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ she said. ‘Lot of sirens outside.’

But he barely registered what she was saying – he was thinking for a moment about a tricky client meeting he was due to have this afternoon. A major client who was threatening to move a large amount of money to a rival firm.

His meetings with Marcie were affecting his work, he knew. Ordinarily he’d be at his desk by 7.30 a.m., and would begin his day by updating himself on all the overnight changes to the market positions of his clients, then scan the morning’s reports from the analysts. Recently, two days a week, he had been neglecting his work – and that was why he now had one very pissed-off client.

He listened some more to Van Morrison, savouring these last moments with Marcie and feeling too relaxed to care. He heard another siren outside. Then another.

Suddenly, his cell rang.

He rolled over and looked at the display. ‘Shit’, he said. It was Elaine. He pressed the
decline call
button.

Moments later, it rang again.

He declined the call again.

It rang a third time.

He put a finger to his lips. ‘It’s
her
,’ he said. ‘Third time. I’d better answer in case there’s a problem.’

She rolled over and silenced the music. And now, outside, they could hear a whole cacophony of sirens.

‘Hi darling,’ he said into the phone. ‘Everything OK?’

Elaine sounded panic-stricken. ‘Larry! Oh my God, Larry, are you OK?’

‘Sure! Fine! Never better – why?’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m in the office – just about to go into a board meeting.’

‘In the office?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘You’re in the office?’

‘Yeah, I’m in the office, hon.’

There was a long silence. Then she said, her voice almost a shriek, ‘You’re in
your
office?’

‘Yeah, I am. What’s the problem? What’s going on? Is everything OK? Is Max OK?’

‘You haven’t been hit on the head?’

‘Hit on the head?’

‘You’re in your office?’

‘Yes, shit, I’m in my office!’

‘What can you see?’

‘What can I see?’

‘Tell me what you can see out of your fucking window?’ she demanded.

‘I see beautiful blue sky. The East River. I—’

‘You goddamn liar!’ The phone went dead.

Marcie, rolling over, said, ‘What’s with all the sirens?’ She picked the television remote up from her bedside table, and pressed a button on it. The television came alive. She clicked through to a news channel. A panicky looking female news reporter, holding a microphone in her hand, was standing with her back to the building Larry recognized instantly. It was where he worked. Up on the eighty-seventh floor of the South Tower of the World Trade Center.

The newscaster had not seen, yet, the horror unfolding behind her as the skyscraper collapsed in on itself. Terrified people were running past her, some with blood on their faces, many covered in grey dust.

‘Shit . . . what . . . what the—?’ he said, shooting a glance at his Tag Heuer watch, on which the time and the date were clearly displayed.

It was 9.59 a.m., 11 September 2001.

This is a true story. It was told to me by a friend whose father was a well-known art dealer in Mayfair, and it took place in 1962. I have changed the names, but little else.

The Denempont Gallery was located on Albermarle Street in Mayfair where, along with neighbouring Cork Street, many of London’s smartest art dealers were housed. The gallery specialized in French Impressionist paintings with impeccable provenance, and it was generally acknowledged that no London dealer knew more about this particular period than its proprietor, James DeVere Denempont.

Sellers would come to him as their first port of call, because of his reputation for either paying the highest prices, or arranging the sale of important works at what were regularly record prices. Potential buyers came to him because they knew they would always get the real deal.

Denempont was a portly, balding, bon viveur of fifty-five, who had a penchant for chalk-striped, double-breasted Savile Row suits, Turnbull and Asser shirts and hand-made shoes from Lobb. He usually wore the salmon pink and cucumber green tie of the Garrick Club, and lunched there without fail every day of the working week. In fact, on this particular Thursday in June, he was just about to leave his stately office on the floor above the gallery, and take a stroll in the fine sunshine over to Garrick Street, a leisurely fifteen minutes away, just past Leicester Square, when his intercom buzzed.

It was his secretary. ‘Mr Denempont, a lady’s just come into the gallery who is very anxious to speak to you.’

‘Could she come back later, Angela? I’m just on my way to lunch.’

‘I did suggest that, but she says she has to catch a plane to Italy this afternoon.’ Then, in a tone of voice that she used when something was important, she said, ‘I think you should have a word with her.’

‘All right,’ he said, slightly irritated. He was lunching with an old friend and important client, Angus Hobart, a hereditary peer, whom he did not want to keep waiting. ‘Tell her I can only spare five minutes. Shall I come down?’

‘She’d like to see you in private.’

‘Very well, show her up.’

He crushed out the stub of his morning Montecristo in his ashtray, buttoned up his waistcoat, stood up, pulled on his jacket and went around his desk towards the door. Moments later his secretary opened it and a tall, elegant and very classy-looking lady of about fifty entered. She was dressed in that almost impossibly stylish way that only rich Europeans knew how, and she was extremely beautiful. And despite the warmth of the day she was wearing gloves.

‘Mr Denempont?’ she said in an exquisite Italian accent. ‘My name is Contessa Romy Di Valieria Massino.’ She proferred her hand and he shook it, then offered her a seat in front of his desk.

He sat back down behind it, shooting a discreet glance at his Patek Philippe watch. ‘How can I help you, Contessa?’ he asked.

‘I understand you have an engagement,’ she said, ‘so I will not keep you for more than a few minutes. Your name was given to my husband by Marcus Leigh-Hoye as someone we should talk to.’

Leigh-Hoye was a friend and fellow art dealer, who specialized in early Dutch masters, a man who was very definitely not a time-waster. Denempont’s interest was immediately piqued. And it was about to become even more so. ‘Ah, yes, Marcus is a good man,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘My husband and I have bought many pictures from him over the years.’

If she had said that she had bought just
one
painting from Marcus Leigh-Hoye, Denempont would have been impressed – and he was not a man who impressed easily. But the word
many
set all kinds of positive connections firing off in his synapses. Mostly to do with money. For, while he loved fine art, he loved money even more. If you went shopping in Marcus Leigh-Hoye’s Cork Street gallery, your entry level purchase wasn’t going to leave you with much change from a quarter of a million pounds.

He leaned forward. ‘So how can I help you?’

‘My husband and I need to raise some money – we have very expensive repairs to our palazzo in Firenze, but more importantly we are faced with some very heavy taxation which, if my husband cannot pay, could be ruinous for us. We could have many of our assets seized. One of our biggest is our collection of French Impressionist pictures. Marcus Leigh-Hoye told my husband you are the best man to sell such a collection.’

‘And what pictures do you have?’ he asked. ‘And by which artists?’

She opened her Hermès bag and pulled out a sheath of papers, clipped together, which she handed to him.

He pulled on his half-moon tortoiseshell glasses and began to read. She lit a cigarette and waited patiently, watching him.

Within less than a minute his eyes were almost out on stalks. This was some collection! Almost every great name among the Impressionist painters was included. Monet; Renoir; Pissarro; Manet; Cézanne; Matisse; Sisley. Included amongst them were some incredibly rare and valuable unfinished works.

When he had finished reading he looked back at her. She stubbed the lipsticky butt of her cigarette out in the ashtray alongside the stub of his cigar and crossed her legs in a sudden display of anxiety. ‘What do you think, Mr Denempont?’ she asked in a charming, almost innocent voice.

Millions! That’s what he was thinking. Millions! This was potentially one of the most important sales in years. He was already calculating his potential commission. But there was a problem. A big, big, problem. ‘May I ask where these paintings are housed?’

‘In our home in Firenze,’ she said.

‘Excuse me one moment, please,’ he said, and pressed the intercom. ‘Angela, see if you can get hold of Lord Hobart and tell him I’m going to be a bit late.’ Then he turned his attention to the Contessa. ‘Forgive me if you already know this, but it is almost impossible to get an export licence for works of art housed in Italy. There would, of course, be a certain value for this collection sold within Italy – but nothing remotely comparable to their value here or in the United States. I’ve tried before for Italian clients, and even with –’ he held up his right hand and rubbed his fingers together, not wanting to actually say the word
bribery
– ‘it’s impossible.’

‘Where are they worth the most?’ she asked, unperturbed. ‘Here or in the United States.’

‘Undoubtedly the States at present. There are a number of fabulously wealthy collectors there who will pay a premium for rare works of art, just to have them in their private collections for their eyes only. Some of them will even buy stolen works – not that I would deal with those people,’ he hastened to add.

She pursed her lips. ‘So you could arrange the sale of these in the United States?’

‘There are plenty of potential buyers there. In New York, Los Angeles and elsewhere. I could get you the best prices for them in New York. But . . .’

He watched her tap another cigarette out of an expensive-looking holder. ‘I’m being impolite,’ he said. ‘Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee? A glass of Champagne?’

‘If you have Champagne, that would be very nice,’ she said.

He pressed the intercom again and requested two glasses of Pol Roger. Winston Churchill’s favourite and good enough for him as his house standard.

‘I’m afraid Lord Hobart has already left to meet you,’ his secretary said.

‘Call the Garrick and tell them to apologize, and for him to start without me.’ He looked back at the Contessa.

‘And the
but
is?’ she asked.

‘It’s rather a big
but
, I’m afraid. The
but
is that you would have to get the pictures to New York yourself. I couldn’t be involved in that.’

‘You mean, smuggle them?’

‘That’s your only option.’

He saw her eyes widen. She drew on her cigarette, holding it in her gloved fingers. She was without doubt not only a very beautiful and smart lady, but tough, too.

‘So, OK, how would I do that?’

‘You’d be taking a big risk. If you got caught you could end up forfeiting the lot.’

She shrugged. ‘If we do nothing, we are going to lose much of what we have, Mr Denempont.’ Then her eyes narrowed. ‘Marcus Leigh-Hoye told my husband that you are a man he trusts completely. And that you are a man who is prepared to – how you say in your country – bend the rules? That is good enough for us. We need to bend the rules. How are we to do this?’

‘You really want to know?’

‘Yes.’ She was emphatic.

Their Champagne arrived.

‘OK, I’ll tell you what I would do if these were my pictures and I wanted to get them out of Italy.’

She raised her glass and sipped. ‘Yes?’

‘Your biggest problem is the countries signed up to the Unidroit Convention on Stolen or Illegally Exported Cultural Objects.’

‘Which are?’

‘Every European nation.’

She looked unfazed. ‘So what would you propose?’

‘I’d take all the canvases off their stretchers, put them in the bottom of a suitcase and set off on what looks like an innocent motoring trip across Europe. The key to this being a success would be the timing of your arrival at the borders. I would suggest crossing frontiers in the middle of the night, when customs officers are tired and not so alert – at 4 a.m. no one is at their best. Get to London, where they are the least diligent about exported arts – there are no export customs at London’s Heathrow Airport, for example – then fly to New York from there.’

‘With the paintings at the bottom of my suitcase?’

‘Precisely. Their weight will be insignificant. But you are taking a massive risk.’

‘In our situation, is that a risk you would take, Mr Denempont?’

He hesitated. ‘If I had no other option then yes, I think I would. But you must understand, Contessa, I cannot advise you to do this. I’m simply telling you what I would consider doing. The risk you face in any European country is serious. Confiscation of the entire collection. You could lose millions.’

‘As I pointed out, we are going to lose millions if we do nothing,’ she said.

‘It has to be your decision.’

‘So, OK, let us suppose we succeed in arriving in New York with the pictures. Will we have a problem with potential buyers because we do not have an export licence from Italy?’

‘Not with the collectors I know there,’ he said. ‘No problem at all.’

He began once again to compute his potential commission. It would be a big sum. A very big one indeed!

She smiled and raised her glass. ‘I think, possibly, we may have a plan – no?’

He raised a defensive hand. ‘
Your
plan, Contessa. I know nothing about it!’

She raised her glass again and drained it. ‘You know – nothing!
Nada!
’ She grinned, then stood up. As she reached the door she turned and said, ‘I look forward to seeing you in New York. One of my favourite cities.’

‘I’ll be more than happy to carry your suitcases, Contessa.’

‘I might hold you to that. Marcus was right, I think, when he said you were our man. I appreciate your honesty.
Arrivederci!
’