The Flanders Panel (6 page)

“Why? That’s more or less what it is. The fact that it happened in the fifteenth century doesn’t change anything.”

“Right. But that word ‘murder’ throws a much more sinister light on it all.” She smiled anxiously at Cesar. “Maybe I was too tired last night to see it that way, but up till now I’ve treated it all as a game, like deciphering a hieroglyph… a personal matter, in a way. A matter of personal pride.”

“And now?”

“Well, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, you talk about solving a
real
murder, and I suddenly understand…” She stopped, her mouth open, feeling as if she were leaning over the edge of an abyss. “Do you see? On the sixth of January 1469, someone murdered Roger de Arras, or had him murdered, and the identity of the murderer lies in the painting.” She sat up straight, carried along by excitement. “We could solve a five-hundred-year-old enigma. Perhaps find the reason why one small event in European history happened one way and not another. Imagine the price
The Game of Chess
could reach at the auction if we managed to do that!”

“Millions, my dear,” Cesar confirmed, with a sigh dragged from him by the sheer weight of evidence. “Many millions.” He considered the idea, convinced now. “With the right publicity, Claymore’s could increase the opening price three or four times. It’s a gold mine, that painting of yours.”

“We must go and see Menchu. Now.”

Cesar shook his head with an air of sulky reserve.

“Oh no. Anything but that. Out of the question. You’re not going to involve me in any of your friend Menchu’s shenanigans. Though I’m quite happy to stand behind the barriers, as bullfighter’s assistant.”

“Don’t be difficult. I need you.”

“I’m entirely at your disposal, my dear. But don’t force me to rub shoulders with that resprayed Nefertiti and her ever-changing crew of panders or, if you want it in the vernacular, pimps. That friend of yours gives me a migraine” - he pressed one temple - “right here. See?”

“Cesar…”

“All right, I give in.
Vae victis.
I’ll see Menchu.”

She planted a resounding kiss on his well-shaven cheek, conscious of the smell of myrrh. Cesar bought his perfume in Paris and his cravats in Rome.

“I love you, Cesar. Very much.”

“Don’t you soft-soap me. Fancy trying to get round me like that. At my age too.”

*       *       *

Menchu bought her perfume in Paris too, but it was rather less discreet than Cesar’s. She arrived, in a hurry and without Max, and in a cloud of Balenciaga’s Rumba, which preceded her, like an advance party, across the foyer of the Palace Hotel.

“I’ve got some news,” she said, tapping her nose with one finger and sniffing repeatedly before sitting down. She had obviously just made a pit stop in the Ladies, and a few tiny specks of white dust still clung to her upper lip. That, Julia thought, explained why she was so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

“Don Manuel is expecting us at his house to discuss the matter,” she said.

“Don Manuel?”

“The owner of the painting. Are you being dense? You know, my charming little old man.”

They ordered mild cocktails, and Julia brought her friend up to date on the results of her research. Menchu opened her eyes wide as she rapidly worked out percentages in her head.

“That really changes things.” On the linen cloth that covered the low table between them she was busily etching calculations with a blood-red fingernail. “My five per cent is far too little. So I’m going to suggest a deal with the people at Claymore’s: of the fifteen-per-cent commission on the price the painting reaches at auction, they get seven and a half and I get seven and a half.”

“They’ll never agree. It’s way below their usual profit margin.”

Menchu burst out laughing. It would be that or nothing. Sotheby’s and Christie’s were just around the corner, and they’d howl with pleasure at the prospect of making off with the Van Huys. It would be a question of take it or leave it.

“And the owner? Your little old man might have something to say about it. What if he decides to deal directly with Claymore’s? Or with someone else.”

Menchu gave her an astute look.

“He can’t. He signed a piece of paper.” She pointed to her short skirt, which revealed a generous amount of leg sheathed in dark stockings. “Besides, as you see, I’m dressed for battle. If my Don Manuel doesn’t fall into line, I’ll take the veil.” As if trying out the effect, she crossed and uncrossed her legs for the benefit of the male customers in the hotel. Satisfied with the results, she turned her attention back to her cocktail. “As for you…”

“I want one and a half of your seven and a half per cent.”

Menchu gave a pained yelp. That was a lot of money, she said, scandalised. Three or four times the fee they’d agreed on for the restoration work. Julia allowed her to protest while she took a pack of cigarettes from her bag and lit one.

“You don’t understand,” she explained, as she exhaled. “The fee for my work will be deducted directly from your Don Manuel, from the price the painting gets at auction. The other percentage is in addition to that, to be deducted from the profit that you make. If the painting sells for one hundred million pesetas, Claymore’s will get seven and a half, you’ll get six and I’ll get one and a half.”

“Who’d have thought it?” said Menchu, shaking her head in disbelief. “You seemed such a nice girl, with your little brushes and varnishes. So inoffensive.”

“Well, there you are. God said we should be kind to our fellow man, but he didn’t say anything about letting him rip us off.”

“You shock me, you really do. I’ve been nurturing a serpent in my left bosom, like Aida. Or was it Cleopatra? I had no idea you knew about percentages.”

“Put yourself in my place. After all, I was the one who made the discovery.” She waggled her fingers in front of her friend’s nose. “With my own fair hands.”

“You’re taking advantage of my tender heart, you little snake.”

“Come off it. You’re as tough as old boots.”

Menchu heaved a melodramatic sigh. It was taking the bread out of her Max’s mouth, but she was sure they could come to some agreement. Friendship was friendship, after all. She glanced towards the door and put on a conspiratorial look. “Talk of the devil…”

“Do you mean Max?”

“Don’t be nasty. Max is no devil, he’s a sweetie.” She gave a sideways flick of her eyes, inviting Julia to sneak a look. “Paco Montegrifo, from Claymore’s, has just come in. And he’s seen us.”

Montegrifo was the director of the Madrid branch of Claymore’s. He was in his forties, tall and attractive, and he dressed with the strict elegance of an Italian prince. His hair parting was as immaculate as his tie, and when he smiled he revealed a lot of teeth, too perfect to be real.

“Good afternoon, ladies. What a happy coincidence!”

He remained standing while Menchu made the introductions.

“I’ve seen some of your work,” he said to Julia when he learned that it was she who would be working on the Van Huys, “and I have only one word for it: perfection.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sure your work on
The Game of Chess
will be of the same high standard.” He showed his white teeth again in a professional smile. “We have great hopes for that painting.”

“So have we,” said Menchu. “More than you might think.”

Montegrifo must have noticed the edge she gave to that remark, because his brown eyes became suddenly alert. He’s no fool, thought Julia as he gestured towards an empty chair. Some people were expecting him, he said, but they wouldn’t mind waiting a few minutes.

“May I?”

He indicated to an approaching waiter that he didn’t want anything and sat down opposite Menchu. His cordiality remained undented, but there was a measure of cautious expectation, as if he were straining to hear a distant note of discord.

“Is there some problem?” he asked calmly.

Menchu shook her head. No problem, not really. Nothing to worry about. Montegrifo didn’t seem in the least worried, just politely interested.

“Perhaps,” Menchu suggested after a moment or two, “we should renegotiate the conditions of our agreement.”

There was an embarrassing silence. Montegrifo was looking at her as he might at a client unable to control his excitement in the heat of the bidding.

“My dear lady, Claymore’s is a serious establishment.”

“I don’t doubt it,” replied Menchu resolutely. “But research on the Van Huys has uncovered some important facts that alter the value of the painting.”

“Our appraisers did not find anything.”

“The research was carried out after your people’s examination. The findings…” - Menchu seemed to hesitate, and this did not go unremarked - “are not immediately apparent.”

Montegrifo turned to Julia, looking thoughtful. His eyes were cold as ice.

“What have you found?” he asked gently, like a confessor inviting someone to unburden their conscience.

Julia looked uncertainly at Menchu.

“I don’t think I…”

“We’re not authorised to say,” Menchu intervened, coming to her rescue. “At least not today. We have to await instructions from my client.”

Montegrifo shook his head pensively and, with the languid mien of a man of the world, rose slowly.

“I’ll see what I can do. Forgive me…”

He didn’t seem worried. He merely expressed a hope - without once taking his eyes off Julia, although his words were addressed to Menchu - that the “findings” would do nothing to alter their present agreement. With a cordial good-bye, he threaded his way amongst the tables and sat down at the other end of the room.

Menchu stared into her glass with a contrite look on her face.

“I put my foot in it.”

“What do you mean? He’d have to find out sooner or later.”

“Yes, but you don’t know Paco Montegrifo.” She studied the auctioneer over her glass. “You might not think so to look at him, with his nice manners and good looks, but if he knew Don Manuel, he’d be over there like a shot to find out what’s going on and to cut us out of the deal.”

“Do you think so?”

Menchu gave a sarcastic little laugh. Paco Montegrifo’s curriculum vitae held no secrets for her.

“He’s got the gift of the gab and he has class. Moreover, he’s got no scruples and he can smell a deal thirty miles away.” She clicked her tongue in admiration. “They also say that he’s involved in illegally exporting works of art and that he’s a real artist when it comes to bribing country priests.”

“Even so, he makes a good impression.”

“That’s how he makes his living.”

“What I don’t understand is why, if he’s got such a bad track record, you didn’t go to another auctioneer.”

Menchu shrugged. The life and works of Paco Montegrifo had nothing to do with it. Claymore’s itself was an impeccable organisation.

“Have you been to bed with him?”

“With Montegrifo?” Menchu roared with laughter. “No, dear. He’s not my type at all.”

“I think he’s attractive.”

“It’s your age, dear. I prefer them a bit rougher, like Max, the sort that always look as if they’re about to thump you one. They’re better in bed and they work out much cheaper in the long run.”

“Naturally, you’re both too young to remember.”

They were sitting drinking coffee round a small Chinese lacquer table next to a balcony full of leafy green plants. Bach’s
Musical Offering
was playing on an old record player. Occasionally Don Manuel Belmonte would break off as if certain passages had caught his attention. After listening for a while, he would drum a light accompaniment with his fingers on the metal arm of his wheelchair. His forehead and hands were flecked with the brown stains of old age. Plump veins, blue and knotted, stood out along his wrists and neck.

“It must have been about 1940,” he continued, and his dry, cracked lips curved into a sad smile. “Times were hard, and we sold off nearly all the paintings. I particularly remember a Munoz Degrain and a Murillo. My poor Ana, God rest her soul, never got over losing the Murillo. It was a lovely little virgin, very like the ones in the Prado.” He half-closed his eyes, as if trying to conjure up that painting from his memory. “An army officer who later became a minister bought it. Garcia Pontejos, his name was, I think. He really took advantage of our situation, the scoundrel. He paid us a pittance.”

“It must have been painful losing all that.” Menchu adopted a suitably understanding tone of voice. She was sitting opposite Belmonte, affording him a generous view of her legs. The invalid gave a resigned nod, a gesture that dated from years back, the gesture of those who only learn at the expense of their own illusions.

“There was no alternative. Even friends and my wife’s family turned their backs on us after the war, when I was sacked as conductor of the Madrid orchestra. At that time, if you weren’t for them, you were against them. And I certainly wasn’t for them.”

He paused for a moment and his attention seemed to drift back to the music playing in one corner of the room, amongst the piles of old records that were presided over by engravings, in matching frames, of the heads of Schubert, Verdi, Beethoven and Mozart. A moment later, he was looking once again at Julia and Menchu with a blink of surprise, as if he were returning from somewhere far off and had not expected to find them still there.

“Then I had a stroke, and things got even more complicated. Luckily we still had my wife’s inheritance, which no one could take away from her. And we managed to keep this house, a few pieces of furniture and two or three good paintings, amongst them
The Game of Chess.”
He looked sadly at the space on the wall, at the bare nail, the rectangular mark left on the wallpaper, and he stroked his chin, on which a few white hairs had escaped his razor. “That painting was always my favourite.”

“Who did you inherit the painting from?”

“From another branch of the family, the Moncadas. A great-uncle. Moncada was Ana’s second family name. One of her ancestors, Luis Moncada, was a quartermaster general under Alejandro Farnesio, around 1500 or so… He must have been something of an art enthusiast.”

Julia consulted the documentation that was lying on the table.