A Fine Imitation (36 page)

Marguerite came into the dining room early the next morning while Vera was finishing her breakfast. Arthur had already left for work, and Vera was planning to go out early to get in a little shopping before lunch with her mother. After the excitement of the past few days, she wanted nothing so much as to get back into her routine. But Marguerite's troubled expression meant something was likely about to prevent that.

“Madam? Excuse me, you have a visitor.”

“Who is it?”

The maid paused. “It's Mr. Hallan.”

Vera's pulse drummed in her temple. She stood and threw her napkin on the table. She stormed to the entryway, but Evans pointed her to the library.

“Evans,” Vera said, her voice strained. “Mr. Hallan is not welcome here. If he returns in the future, please send him away. And he's not allowed to leave any notes.”

Evans bowed slightly. “Madam, I'm terribly sorry, I didn't know.”

“No, it's my fault. I ought to have told you. I'll deal with him for now.”

She walked into the library, where Hallan was waiting. The note she had sent him to say good-bye was crumpled in his hand, and there were dark circles under his eyes. His skin was ashen, his hair tousled and flecked with paint.

“Goodness,” she said. “You look awful.”

“I was up all night.” His eyes shone, the note temporarily forgotten. “I finished it. I finished the painting.”

A thrill ran through her, but she spoke calmly. “That's very nice. I hope you'll take your payment and be on your way.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “I'm not going anywhere until you see it. You think this little note was enough to keep me from you?” He crossed to her and pulled her into his arms. Her lips burned for the touch of his, but she slipped away.

“Not in my home. Not anywhere, never again. I tried to make that clear.” She lifted her chin. “I think you'd better leave, Mr. Hallan.”

He barked out a laugh. “Yes, I know, I read the note.” He held the paper up. “ ‘Dear Mr. Hallan'—so we're back to that, are we? ‘I have come to an important decision regarding our friendship. It is with a heavy heart that I must ask you to cease all communication with me—' ”

Vera pressed a hand to her stomach. “Stop, please stop.”

His expression softened, and he dropped the note on the table. “Come with me. You must see it.”

She straightened her back, jaw set. “I want to know the truth first. Everything. About who you are. If you want me to look at your painting, you'll have to tell me.” She sat on the couch and motioned for him to join her.

“Can anyone hear us?” he asked.

“There's no one here but the servants, and I imagine most of them are on the other side of the house.”

“May I lock the door?”

She nodded. He closed the door, then turned the key and removed it from the lock. After placing it on the table, he sat on the couch beside Vera.

“I don't know where to begin,” he said. His eyes took on a distant look, as if reaching into his memory.

“You could start with your real name,” she said in a gentle tone. “Or where you're really from. Or why you have the need to hide all these things in the first place.”

He clenched his jaw, letting out a long, steady breath. “I'm German. I was born and raised in Leipzig.”

She furrowed her brow. “German? But your accent?”

“My grandmother was from London. My mother, her daughter, moved to Germany and married there. What I told you about my family was true. My grandmother came to help when my mother was ill. After my mother died, my grandmother stayed to raise us. Her German was poor and never improved, so Peter and I spoke English at home from a young age. The man she worked for was from London—Westminster—so we spoke English with him, too. Peter always spoke with a German accent, maybe because he was older when he learned, but I was able to speak both languages like a native.”

Vera sat back against the couch cushion. Surely something as benign as his nationality was not his secret. “So you're German. Is that all? Why should that matter?”

“You know why it matters.”

“You fought in the war, I assume.”

“More than that.” He rubbed his hands together, then glanced at her. “I want to explain it, from the beginning, so that you understand.”

“All right. Wherever you'd like to start.”

He thought for a moment. “My grandmother was a lady's maid to the wife of an art collector and professor from Westminster. He came to the art academy in Leipzig shortly after my grandmother moved there to care for us, and she went to work for him then.” Hallan smiled faintly. “I loved his house. Huge, sunny place, full of paintings and sculpture, beautiful pieces. One day—I was young, I must have only been seven or eight—he found me staring at one of the paintings. He asked if I painted, and I told him I'd never tried. So he gave me a set of paints and some brushes. He encouraged me, and when I was old enough, he paid my tuition at the art academy. I started there when I was fourteen.”

“He sounds like a wonderful man,” Vera said. “He must have thought a lot of your work.”

“He thought I had promise, anyway.”

“What was his name?”

“Allen. James Allen.”

She tilted her head in thought. “So that's where you got the name Hallan.”

“Yes. He took a special interest in me, and in Peter. I suspect it's because he and his wife had a child, but the boy died in infancy, and they never had any other children.”

“Is Peter an artist, too?”

“No, even from a young age he favored being outdoors, working with his hands.”

Vera considered this. “So you were studying art when the war broke out? Were you called to action right away?”

Hallan shook his head. “I was so grateful. So stupidly grateful. Neither Peter nor I was called up in the beginning. I really began to believe the war would end quickly, and we wouldn't have to go. But then, after that first year, things got worse. The German army struggled. They started calling up draft years earlier and earlier. Peter wasn't supposed to be called up until 1916, but he got his letter in 1915.” He cleared his throat. “I knew it wouldn't be long for me after that, and I was right. I should have had until 1917, but they called me up in the spring of 1916. Fortunately, after about six months or so, I was able to join Peter's division.”

“You were together?”

“We were both in France, you see.” He covered his face with his hands and spoke in a dry whisper. “God, it was awful. You can't even imagine it. That smell of earth and blood and explosives. Men torn apart, just an arm left, or some gruesome mound of flesh that used to be human. Someone with a name, with thoughts and desires, with a family and friends.”

Hallan placed his hands on his knees, and Vera covered one with her own. He jumped at her touch, as if he had forgotten she was sitting there.

“But that…” he continued, “that was different. That was war. I might have been able to move on, I might have been able to go on and live my life. But then we got the orders to move back. Strategic, they called it. Not a retreat. We were to destroy everything in the towns we left behind.” He turned to her. When he spoke again, his voice was strangled with exhaustion and emotion. “The top command, they said to destroy—they meant wells, trees, crops…things like that. But my commander was a cruel man. He had the devil in his eyes. And we had to do as we were told, dump refuse in the wells, burn barns, blow up roads. But he wanted more.

“He shot horses, though he knew we could have used them or left them behind. He burned coops with the chickens boarded up in them. They died screaming. The men who lived in these towns had left, for fear of being taken prisoner or killed to weaken the French. But they left behind women and children. And, finally, killing animals was not enough for this man, our commander. He sought bigger prey.”

He halted, and a cold chill ran up the back of Vera's neck. She did not want him to continue. Had he been made to kill an innocent civilian? He shut his eyes tightly and struggled to finish his story. The blood had drained from his face.

“He kicked open the door to a house and found an old woman in it. The poor woman was confined to a chair, and she was alone. He called Peter over and told him to shoot her. Peter refused. The commander asked why, said she was no good to anyone. Peter refused once more. And then…I could not stop it. It was too fast.” Hallan gasped out a sob. “The commander took Peter's gun from him and shot him in the head.”

“Oh my God,” she said. Her fingertips tingled and dizziness washed over her.

He turned to her, eyes wild and ringed with red. “Vera, I tell you all these things I have never told another living soul. I tell you because you must understand what I did next.”

Her mouth and throat were dry. She stared at the floor, unable to look at him. “Did you kill him?”

“No. I should have. I should have shot him where he stood. No. What I did was worse.” He swallowed hard. “I ran.”

“You deserted.”

He nodded.

She sighed with relief. “Oh, Emil, I think anyone would understand that.”

“Not anyone. I saw them line up the deserters and pick them off without a second thought. You ran, you died. Even now, if they find you, you're off to the gallows.”

“But…then…how did you get out?”

“I knew of a friend Mr. Allen had in Paris. An instructor at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. I thought if I could make it to Paris, I would be safe. I knew we were somewhere near Arras, a few days' walk at least. I broke into a store at night and took clothes so my uniform would not give me away immediately. I hid well, I was never seen. I slept in barns, in ditches, wherever I could conceal myself, during the day. I ate whatever I could find, though sometimes that was only an egg stolen from a nest, or scraps from a trash heap. I walked, I don't know how many nights, until I was in Paris. I found the school, and Mr. Allen's friend, Mr. LeBlanc, took me in. We sent Mr. Allen a telegram, and he sent a good deal of money for my expenses. I can never…I owe him everything.” He took a few deep breaths to calm himself. “Mr. LeBlanc convinced me to start painting again. I studied with him, in his home. Even after the war ended, I was too afraid to leave. I had to wait until I could come to America. And I wanted to keep studying. I worked odd jobs, and saved up.”

“And that's why you weren't on the ship. You were already here, in the city,” she said, the pieces falling into place in her mind.

“Yes. A friend told me about the job here in the building, and I knew it had to be enough money for me to finally go out west. I sent the letter to Clarence through Mr. LeBlanc, so the postmarks would be correct. On the day the ship was to arrive, I went out to the dock and waited. But my paintings, the photos you saw—those were real. The mural wasn't mine, but I expect you knew that already.”

Vera let the story sink in. “So your plan was to paint the mural and then use the money to start over. Change your name again.”

“Yes. I already have new papers. Your investigator might reveal me, and then I'm sure I'll have a one-way ticket back to Germany.”

“But none of that can possibly matter,” she said. “I read a story in the newspaper, back when the war was on, about a German deserter who escaped to America. He was treated kindly. You deserted, yes. But you deserted our enemy. The men in this building won't be in a rush to turn you in.”

Hallan laughed bitterly. “They might have been friends to me during the war, but the war is over. I heard Clarence Bloomer's opinion of Germans. He would happily give me up for nothing more than the pleasure in knowing he had gotten rid of me. As for the others, the opinion of me in this building has soured, to say the least. They'd have me on the next boat back in chains.”

“It wouldn't be that simple, would it? They may not like you, but I doubt they want you dead.” She looked up at him, going over his words in her mind. His crime, his flight…elements of the story made sense, fit neatly. But her rational mind protested at the way the parts came together to form a whole. Something was missing.

He wasn't on the boat. He was already in the city. Before he knew about the mural, he was in the city.

She stood and whirled to face him. “You were already here. There's still something you haven't told me. There's more, isn't there?”

He rubbed his eyes and sank back into the cushions of the couch. “Vera…”

She perched on a chair across from him and folded her hands on her knees. “I think you'd better finish your story.”

“Well?” Vera continued. “I want to hear the rest. You weren't on the ship. You came to the States before you'd even heard of the mural. If that wasn't what brought you here, what did?”

Hallan sat up, but his shoulders still drooped. “Please, come see the painting first. I don't want to tell you before you see the painting.”

“The painting, the painting.” She shook her head. “If the rest of the story is that awful, do you really believe the painting will make everything all right?”

“It's not that. I want you to see what I can do before I tell you what I've done.”

“I saw the photographs. Unless those were someone else's paintings, I know what you can do.”

A faint light appeared in the back of Hallan's eyes. “Those paintings…those were mine.”

“The ones you painted after the war.”

He nodded. “And the war was in them. But now, at last, I'm able to paint again like I used to. With color. With light.”

She paused. “And I'm glad. I really am.”

He stared at his hands. “I never wanted you to think—when I tell you what I did, who I am, I want you to know…” He met her gaze. “I want you to know those were real.”

“All right. I know. Tell me the rest. What were you doing in the city?”

Hallan heaved a sigh. “In Paris, a man visited the school. He happened to see a work of mine Mr. LeBlanc had on display. He found my name, found me, and offered me a job. It seemed like the solution to all my problems—work, free passage to New York, papers. And money. I knew it was wrong, but I wanted to get away more than I wanted to do the right thing.” He snorted. “I guess that's a pattern of mine, isn't it?”

“What did this man want you to do?” Vera could not imagine—theft? Something darker? Why seek out a painter? The answer hit her squarely in the chest as Hallan's earlier words came back to her.
My paintings, the photos you saw—those were real. The mural wasn't mine, but I expect you knew that already.
She bit her lips together, phrasing her question. “How did you know? That I would know the mural wasn't yours. Why did you say that?”

He looked up at her. His whole face relaxed with the relief of the truth. “The day we met on the docks…that wasn't the first time I saw you. It was Fleming who came to me in Paris. I painted for him. I saw you in the gallery. In the back room, when you came to look at the Vermeer.”

Heat and cold rushed through her chest. “You were there?”

“He bought me a ticket to the States, said he'd pay me a commission after the fare was paid off. I only cared about getting away. Away from the war, the terrible memories, the nightmares. And he had a good plan. He knew there were people, rich people, looking to buy class. He's not the first to take advantage of that, he won't be the last.” Hallan shook his head with a laugh. “I saw pretty quickly that he had no intention of paying me much. Every time I mentioned it, he said I was still working off my ticket. I knew I had to find another plan. A friend from the gallery told me about the job here, so I acted. Besides—”

“You knew I was here.” Snippets of her conversation with Fleming came back to her.
The Angelus Bellingtons. Arthur is my husband.
Bea had said Fleming could not help but brag about his important guest. “Were you looking for me?”

He shrugged. “After I saw you…well, I was desperate to talk to you, had to know how you knew the painting was forged. Never dreamed anyone would be able to tell. I needed to meet you. The job was a happy coincidence. I needed money, too.”

She thought of Bea greeting her in Fleming's gallery. The
Bon Ton
cover. The letters. “But you can't be the forger. I know who it was. It wasn't you.”

He leaned back. “What? I can assure you, I painted the Vermeer, along with others.”

“But it had to have been Bea. I saw her there, in Fleming's gallery. She was…” Vera paused. “We were friends, long ago.”

Hallan turned to her. “Bea? No, she had nothing to do with the paintings. She provided letters, documents, things like that. I didn't realize you knew her. Why would you think it was her? Does she paint?”

Vera cast about for an answer. “She…she drew. But she and I aren't in touch anymore.”

“She never said she knew you. She was the one who made the papers to get me into the States, and she made the ones I'm taking to California. Couldn't tell them from the real thing. She's the one who found out about the job here and encouraged me to send the letter to Clarence through Mr. LeBlanc, so it would come from France. She's clever. When we saw her at the Rialto, I was afraid she'd speak to me, and you'd put the pieces together. Me and the Vermeer.”

“How did she find out about the job?”

“She saw I was curious about you after you came into the gallery. She said she'd find out more about you. Though I guess she didn't have to dig far, if you knew each other.” He frowned. “Strange she wouldn't just tell me that, though. She even met me for lunch a few times, to see how I was getting along here. Sweet of her, really.”

“As I said, she and I hadn't seen in each other in a long time.” Vera could not continue. Her thoughts churned at the explosion of new information the past few minutes had yielded. She expected to feel renewed fury at the confirmation that Bea had not given up the tricks that had caused them both such misery years ago. Instead, a reluctant respect overcame the anger. After all, Bea had used her gifts to find a way out of her disgrace. She had not been satisfied with being shipped home after Vassar, hanging her head, and marrying someone her mother deemed appropriate. She had carved out a life for herself, while Vera had quietly given in. Bea had taken the braver path. Vera could not begrudge her that. By the time they had spoken, Bea had already created a new identity, one that would keep her safe from prison. That's why she had not been afraid. Bea created her solutions before she had a problem. She would never be trapped, she would never cower. Vera realized her mother had been entirely wrong. Bea's boldness was not her undoing. It protected her.

And, with that same unstoppable audacity, Bea had helped Hallan get the job at the Angelus, precisely because Vera would be there. She could not doubt that. They had not been friends long, but Bea knew Vera almost better than she knew herself. Bea knew Vera would be drawn to him, and she clearly already knew he was intrigued by Vera. Did she send him in hopes of ruining Vera? Or did she see the loneliness of Vera's situation, know at last what desperation came with the gilded life they had both wanted?

That was why Bea had asked about Hallan when they collided on the street, why she had been near the building at all that day. She had checked in with him. She wanted to know how her plan was working out. As much as Bea might want to see Vera ruined, they had cared for each other once. Some vestige of that connection must have told Bea that the artist was not just the man who might destroy Vera's carefully constructed life. Hallan was also a man she could love. A man who could see through to the real Vera.

Hallan, the forger. Everything made sense now. She could see every detail.

“So it was you,” she said, breaking the silence and turning back to him. The distraction of Bea had kept her from piecing it together, but she realized a clue had been there all along, under his nails, in his hair, flecked on his arms. The blue. The light sky blue. Not Vermeer's blue, but Hallan's. The color had not been a mistake, but a signature.

Hallan's voice broke into her thoughts. “I knew you could spot a fake. I didn't want you to see one in me,” he said. “I forged those paintings, but I'm not a fraud. I'm the man you know, even if you know me by another name.”

“Fleming's been arrested,” she said.

“I know. He didn't know I'd gotten this job—I left without telling him I was going, and Bea's probably gone by now, too—”

“I'm sure she's not ‘Bea' anymore,” Vera said.

Hallan nodded an agreement. “But I'm sure he'll tell them I made the paintings. He only sold them. They'll want to know who painted them. It's only a matter of time until the authorities track me down, I know it.”

And then arrest, jail time, possible extradition. The consequences were obvious; he did not have to name them. The forgeries being exposed would certainly have embarrassed some of the wealthiest families in the area, compounding the problem. With Stanton working from one end and the police from the other, the clock had only accelerated. And the risk of finishing the mural seemed to swell far beyond any possible gain from it.

“Then why did you stay when they hired the private investigator?” Vera asked. “Surely you knew he'd make the connection sooner or later.”

He crossed to her, grasped her hands, and lifted them to his lips. “Because of you. I planned to paint this thing, maybe slap up some silly pattern, collect the money, and go. My plan was always to move on as soon as possible, to go to California. I didn't expect to fall in love with you. But I did.” He pulled her to her feet. “And now that I've told you everything, you must see what I've made for you. That I'm no fraud. And then I want to go together, start a new life.”

She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “I…I can't go. I explained it to you—”

“I know, I know, in that letter. I know Arthur and your mother and probably every other person under this roof has told you why you must stay. But if you stay here, you will never be that woman you were supposed to be. I know her. She deserves to be free.” He stepped in closer, wrapping his arms around her waist. “I'm sorry. Sorry I lied, especially to you. Sorry I didn't tell you the real reason I fell in love with you.”

She searched his face. “You said it was the art.”

“It was, but it was more than that. It was because you knew. You cared if the painting was real, you could see that it wasn't. I knew there was a fire inside you, even if it was only flickering. On the docks, when you first saw me, you looked at me like I was water in the desert. That's why I pushed to speak with you from my first day in the building. I had to find out who you were, what made you different from the rest. I saw in you someone who knows what it's like to need to be free. I vowed to free you. You're right, I should have been gone by now. Falling in love with you changed everything. This job, this plan was going to be the easy way out.”

Vera cast her eyes down. “There is no easy way out.”

“No. But there is a way out. It may not be easy. But there's a way.”

She gazed into his blue-green eyes, and saw the sky. What had been a firm decision the night before, almost the moment before, melted at the edges. She began to doubt.

“Take me to the painting,” she said.

His weary face brightened. He unlocked the door and started for the front entrance, but she held him back.

“No,” she said. “This way.”

They went through the kitchen to the stairwell door, leaving the confused cook behind them. Together, Hallan and Vera raced down the stairs, both a little giddy and overwhelmed. They arrived at the pool level under the lobby out of breath. He took a key from his pocket, then turned.

“Close your eyes.”

Vera closed them, and let him lead her by the hand into the pool room. The pool had been drained while he was there, but the sting of chemicals still hung in the air, winding around the thick smell of new paint. Her shoes echoed on the tile as he took her shoulders and guided her into position.

“All right. Open them.”

She opened her eyes and gasped. The painting took up the entire wall, one full story floor to ceiling. A few warm tears slid down her cheeks. She turned and kissed him fiercely.

“You see?” he said when they parted. “That's the woman you can be.”

And it was.