Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less Page 13

  Stein had continued to paint Impressionist pictures, but now signed them with his own name; thanks to his indubitable talent he was still making a handsome living. He had known and admired Jean-Pierre for several years and when he heard the story of Metcalfe and Prospecta Oil, he agreed to produce a Van Gogh for $10,000 and to sign the painting with the master’s famous “Vincent.”

  Jean-Pierre had gone to considerable lengths to identify a Van Gogh that had vanished in mysterious circumstances, so that Stein could resurrect it to tempt Harvey. He had started with de la Faille’s comprehensive oeuvres catalog, The Works of Vincent Van Gogb, and selected from it three pictures that had hung in the National Gallery in Berlin prior to the Second World War. In de la Faille, they were entered under Nos. 485, Les Amoureux (The Lovers), 628, La Moisson (The Harvest), and 766, Le Jardin de Daubigny (The Garden of Daubigny). The last two were known to have been bought in 1929 by the Berlin Gallery, and Les Amoureux probably was bought around the same time. At the start of the war, all three had disappeared.

  Jean-Pierre then contacted Professor Wormit of the Preussischer Kulturbesitz. The Professor, a world authority on missing works of art, was able to rule out one of the possibilities, Le Jardin de Daubigny; soon after the war it apparently had reappeared in the collection of Siegfried Kramarsky in New York, though how it got there remains a mystery. Kramarsky had subsequently sold the painting to the Nichido Gallery in Tokyo, where it now hangs. The Professor confirmed that the fate of the other two Van Goghs remained unknown.

  Next Jean-Pierre turned to Madame Tellegen-Hoogendoorm of the Dutch Rijksbureau voor Kunsthistorische Documentatie. Madame Tellegen was the acknowledged authority on Van Gogh and gradually, with her expert help, Jean-Pierre pieced together the story of the missing paintings. They had been removed, along with many others, from the Berlin National Gallery in 1937 by the Nazis, despite vigorous protests from the Director, Dr. Hanfstaengl, and the Keeper of Paintings, Dr. Hentzen. The paintings, stigmatized by the philistinism of the National Socialists as degenerate art, were stored in a depot in the Kopenickerstrasse in Berlin. Hitler himself visited the depot in January 1938, and legalized the proceedings as an official confiscation.

  What happened to the two Van Goghs after that, nobody knows. Many of the Nazi-confiscated works were quietly sold abroad by Joseph Angerer, an agent of Hermann Goering, to obtain much-needed foreign currency for the Führer. Some were disposed of in a sale organized by the Fischer Art Gallery in Lucerne on June 30th, 1939. But many of the works in the depot in the Kopenickerstrasse were simply burned, stolen, or are still missing.

  Jean-Pierre managed to obtain black-and-white reproductions of Les Amoureux and La Moisson: no color positives survive, if they were ever made. It seemed to Jean-Pierre unlikely that any color reproductions of two paintings last seen in 1938 would exist anywhere. He therefore settled down to choose between the two.

  Les Amoureux was the larger of the two, at 76 × 91 cm. However, Van Gogh did not seem to have been satisfied with it. In October 1889 (letter No. 556) he referred to “a very poor sketch of my last canvas.” Moreover, it was impossible to guess the color of the background. La Moisson, in contrast, had pleased Van Gogh. He had painted the oil in September 1889 and written of it, “I feel very much inclined to do the reaper once more for my mother” (letter No. 604). He had in fact already painted three other very similar pictures of a reaper at harvest time. Jean-Pierre was able to obtain color transparencies of two of them, one from the Louvre and the other from the Rijksmuseum, where they now hang. He studied the sequence. The position of the sun, and the play of light on the scene, were practically the only points of difference. Jean-Pierre was therefore able to see in his mind’s eye what La Moisson must have looked like in color.

  Stein agreed with Jean-Pierre’s final choice and he studied the black-and-white reproduction of La Moisson and the color transparencies of its sister paintings long and minutely before he set to work. He then found an insignificant late-nineteenth-century French work, and skillfully removed the paint from it, leaving a clean canvas except for a vital stamp on the back which even Stein could not have reproduced. He marked on the canvas the exact size of the picture, 48.5 × 53 cm. and selected a palette knife and brush of the type that Van Gogh had favored. Six weeks later La Moisson was finished. Stein varnished it, and baked it for four days in an oven at a gentle 85°F. to age it. Jean-Pierre provided a heavy gilt Impressionist frame and it was well ready for Harvey Metcalfe’s scrutiny.

  Harvey, acting on his overheard tip, could see no harm in dropping into the Lamanns Gallery. He was about five paces away when he first caught sight of the picture being taken out of the window. He could not believe his eyes. A Van Gogh, without a doubt, and a superlative one at that. La Moisson had actually been on display for only two minutes.

  Harvey almost ran into the gallery, only to discover Jean-Pierre deep in conversation with Stephen and James. None of them took any notice of him. Stephen was addressing Jean-Pierre in a guttural accent.

  “170,000 guineas seems high, but it is a fine example. Can you be sure it is the picture that disappeared from Berlin in 1937?”

  “You can never be sure of anything, but you can see on the back of the canvas the stamp of the Berlin National Gallery, and the Bernheim Jeune have confirmed they sold it to the Germans in 1927. The rest of its history is well chronicled back to 1890. It seems certain that it was looted from the museum in the upheaval of the war.”

  “How did you come into possession of the painting?”

  “From the private collection of a member of the British aristocracy who wishes to remain anonymous.”

  “Excellent,” said Stephen. “I would like to reserve it until 4 P.M. when I will bring around a check for 170,000 guineas from the Dresdner Bank A.G. Will that be acceptable?”

  “Of course, sir,” replied Jean-Pierre. “I will place a red dot on it.”

  James, in the sharpest of suits and a dashing trilby, hovered knowledgeably behind Stephen.

  “It certainly is a marvelous example of the master’s work,” he remarked ingratiatingly.

  “Yes. I took it around to Julian Barron at Sotheby’s and he seemed to like it.”

  James retreated mincingly to the end of the gallery, relishing his role as a connoisseur. At that moment Robin walked in, a copy of the Guardian sticking out of his pocket.

  “Good morning, Mr. Lamanns. I heard a rumor at Sotheby’s about a Van Gogh which I’d always thought must be in Russia. I’d like to write a few paragraphs about the history of the painting and how you came into possession of it for tomorrow’s paper. Is that O.K. by you?”

  “I should be delighted,” said Jean-Pierre, “although actually I have just reserved the picture for Herr Drosser, the distinguished German dealer, at 170,000 guineas.”

  “Very reasonable,” said James knowingly from the end of the gallery. “I think it’s the best Van Gogh I have seen in London since Mademoiselle Revoux and I’m only sorry my house won’t be auctioning it. You’re a lucky man, Mr. Drosser. If you ever decide to sell it, don’t hesitate to contact me.” James handed Stephen a card and smiled at Jean-Pierre.

  Jean-Pierre watched James. It was a fine performance. Robin began to take notes in what he hoped looked like shorthand and again addressed Jean-Pierre.

  “Do you have a photograph of the picture?”

  “Of course.”

  Jean-Pierre opened a drawer and took out a color photograph of the picture with a typewritten description attached. He handed it to Robin.

  “Do watch the spelling of Lamanns, won’t you? I get so bored with being confused with a French motor car race.”

  He turned to Stephen.

  “So sorry to keep you waiting, Herr Drosser. How would you like us to dispatch the picture?”

  “You can send it to me at the Dorchester tomorrow morning, room 120.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Stephen started to leave.

  “Excuse me, sir,�
�� said Robin, “can I take the spelling of your name?”

  “D.R.O.S.S.E.R.”

  “And may I have permission to quote you in my article?”

  “You may. I am with my purchase very pleased. Good day, gentlemen.”

  Stephen bowed his head smartly, and departed. He stepped out into Bond Street and to the horror of Jean-Pierre, Robin and James, Harvey, without a moment’s hesitation also walked out.

  Jean-Pierre collapsed heavily on his Georgian mahogany desk and looked despairingly at Robin and James.

  “God Almighty, the whole thing’s a fiasco. Six weeks of preparation, three days of agony, and then he walks out on us.” Jean-Pierre looked at La Moisson angrily.

  “I thought Stephen assured us that Harvey would stay and bargain with Jean-Pierre. It’s in his character,” mimicked James plaintively. “He’d never let the picture out of his sight.”

  “Who the hell thought up this bloody silly enterprise?” muttered Robin.

  “Stephen,” they all cried together, and rushed to the window.

  “What an interesting maquette by Henry Moore,” said an impeccably corseted middle-aged lady, her hand firmly placed on the bronze loin of a naked acrobat. She had slipped unnoticed into the gallery while the three had been grumbling. “How much are you asking for it?”

  “I will be with you in a minute, madam,” said Jean-Pierre. “Oh hell, I think Metcalfe’s following Stephen. Get him on the pocket radio, Robin.”

  “Stephen, can you hear me? Whatever you do, don’t look back. We think Harvey’s only a few yards behind you.”

  “What the hell do you mean he’s only a few yards behind me? He’s meant to be in the gallery with you buying the Van Gogh. What are you all playing at?”

  “Harvey didn’t give us a chance. He walked straight out after you before any of us could continue as planned.”

  “Very clever. Now what am I meant to do?”

  Jean-Pierre took over:

  “You’d better go to the Dorchester just in case he is actually following you.”

  “I don’t even know where the Dorchester is,” yelped Stephen.

  Robin came to his rescue:

  “Take the first right, Stephen, and that’ll bring you into Bruton Street; keep walking as straight as you can until you reach Berkeley Square. Stay on the line, but don’t look back or you may turn into a pillar of salt.”

  “James,” said Jean-Pierre, thinking on his feet not for the first time in his life. “You take a taxi immediately to the Dorchester and book room 120 in the name of Drosser. Have the key ready for Stephen the moment he walks through the door, then make yourself scarce. Stephen, are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you hear all that?”

  “Yes. Tell James to book 119 or 121 if 120 is not available.”

  “Roger,” replied Jean-Pierre. “Get going, James.”

  James bolted out of the gallery and barged in front of a woman who had just hailed a taxi, a thing he had never done before.

  “The Dorchester,” he hollered, “as fast as you can go.”

  The taxi shot off.

  “Stephen, James has gone and I’m sending Robin to follow Harvey so he can keep you briefed and guide you to the Dorchester. I’m staying put. Everything else O.K?”

  “No,” said Stephen, “start praying. I’ve reached Berkeley Square. Where now?”

  “Across the garden then continue down Hill Street.”

  Robin left the gallery and ran all the way to Bruton Street until he was only 50 yards behind Harvey.

  “Now about the Henry Moore,” said the well-corseted lady.

  “Screw Henry Moore,” said Jean-Pierre, not even looking around.

  The steel-reinforced bosom heaved.

  “Young man, I have never been spoken to in…”

  But Jean-Pierre had already reached the lavatory, and closed the door.

  “You’re crossing South Audley Street now, then continue into Deanery Street. Keep going, don’t turn right or left and don’t whatever you do look back. Harvey is still about 50 yards behind you. I’m a little more than 50 yards behind him,” said Robin. Passersby stared at the man talking into his little instrument.

  “Is Room 120 free?”

  “Yes, sir, they checked out this morning, but I’m not sure if it’s ready for occupancy yet. I think the maid may still be clearing the room. I’ll have to check, sir,” said the tall receptionist in the morning suit, which indicated that he was a senior member of the floor staff.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” said James, his German accent far better than Stephen’s. “I always have that room. Can you book me in for one night? Name’s Drosser, Herr—um—Helmut Drosser.”

  He slipped a pound over the counter.

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “That’s Park Lane, Stephen. Look right—the big hotel on the corner straight in front of you is the Dorchester. The semicircle facing you is the main entrance. Go up the steps, past the big man in the green overcoat, and through the revolving door and you’ll find reception on your right. James ought to be there waiting for you.”

  Robin was grateful that the annual dinner of the Royal Society for Medicine had been held at the Dorchester last year.

  “Where’s Harvey?” bleated Stephen.

  “Only 40 yards behind you.”

  Stephen quickened his pace, ran up the steps of the Dorchester and pushed through the revolving door so hard that the other residents coming out found themselves on the street faster than they had planned. Thank God, James was standing there holding a key.

  “The lift’s over there,” said James, pointing. “You’ve only chosen one of the most expensive suites in the hotel.”

  Stephen glanced in the direction James had indicated and turned back to thank him. But James was already heading off to the American Bar to be sure he was well out of sight when Harvey arrived.

  Stephen left the lift at the first floor and found that the Dorchester, which he had never entered before, was as traditional as Claridge’s, its thick royal blue and golden carpets leading to a magnificently appointed corner suite which overlooked Hyde Park. He collapsed into an easy chair, not quite sure what to expect next. Nothing had gone as planned.

  Jean-Pierre waited at the gallery, James sat in the American Bar and Robin loitered by the side of Barclays Bank, Park Lane, a mock-Tudor building fifty yards from the entrance of the Dorchester.

  “Have you a Mr. Drosser staying at this hotel? I think it’s room 120,” barked Harvey.

  The receptionist looked through the card index.

  “Yes, sir. Is he expecting you?”

  “No, but I’ll have a word with him on the house phone.”

  “Of course, sir. If you’d be kind enough to go through the small archway on your left you will find five telephones. One of them is a house phone.”

  Harvey marched through the archway as directed.

  “Room 120,” he instructed the operator, who sat in his own little section, wearing the green Dorchester uniform with golden castles on the lapels.

  “Cubicle No. 1, please, sir.”

  “Mr. Drosser?”

  “Speaking,” said Stephen, summoning up his German accent for a sustained effort.

  “My name is Harvey Metcalfe. I wonder if I could come up and have a word with you? It’s about the Van Gogh you bought this morning.”

  “Well, it’s a little inconvenient at the moment. I am about to take a shower and I do have a lunch appointment.”

  “I won’t keep you more than a few minutes.”

  Before Stephen could reply, the telephone had clicked. A few moments later there was a knock on the door. Stephen’s legs wobbled. He answered it nervously. He had changed into a white Dorchester dressing-gown and his brown hair was somewhat disheveled and darker than normal. It was the only disguise he could think of at such short notice as the original plan had not allowed for a face-to-face meeting with Harvey.

  “Sorry t
o intrude, Mr. Drosser, but I had to see you immediately. I know you have just purchased a Van Gogh from the Lamanns Gallery and I was hoping that, as you are a dealer, you might be willing to sell it on for a quick profit.”

  “No, thank you,” said Stephen, relaxing for the first time. “I’ve wanted a Van Gogh for my gallery in Munich for many years. I’m sorry, Mr. Metcalfe, it’s not for sale.”

  “Listen, you paid 170,000 guineas for it. What’s that in dollars?”

  Stephen paused.

  “Oh, about $435,000.”

  “I’ll give you $15,000 if you release the picture to me. All you have to do is ring the gallery and tell them that the picture is now mine and that I will cover the bill.”

  Stephen sat silent, not sure how to handle the situation without blowing it. Think like Harvey Metcalfe, he told himself.

  “$20,000 in cash and you’ve got a deal.”

  Harvey hesitated. Stephen’s legs wobbled again.

  “Done,” said Harvey. “Ring the gallery immediately.”

  Stephen picked up the telephone.

  “Can you get me the Lamanns Gallery in Bond Street as quickly as possible please—I have a lunch appointment.”

  A few seconds later the call came through.

  “Lamanns Gallery.”

  “I would like to speak to Mr. Lamanns.”

  “At last, Stephen. What the hell is happening your end?”

  “Ah, Mr. Lamanns, this is Herr Drosser. You remember, I was in your gallery earlier this morning.”