A Sudden Change of Heart (21 page)

“Thanks for saying that, Laura,” he said, smiling faintly. “I like the idea of Nattie being in New York, of continuing her education here. After all, she is an American.”

“Yes,” Laura replied, thinking that he made it all sound
like a foregone conclusion. But then, as he had just said, he was a doctor and he was not blinded by hope; he looked at the facts and made a judgment. Clearing her throat, Laura continued. “If I end up taking care of Natasha, I’d like you to be involved in every part of her life, and especially her education.”

“I would be, and that brings me to another, point.
Money.
I would take care of her financially. I wouldn’t want her upbringing to be a burden to you. And all take care of the cost of her education as well. I hope all that goes without saying.”

“Yes, anyway, you more or less indicated that when we spoke on the phone.”

“I also want you to feel you can phone me whenever you need to, Laura, if there’s anything to discuss about Natasha and her well-being.”

She nodded. “I think we understand each other, Philippe. But I’m glad we’ve had a chance to talk face-to-face, as you said. How’s your mother? I suppose you’re staying with her?”

“She’s good, and, yes, I am at her apartment. How’s Doug?”

Laura stared at him, wondering how to answer this question. She suddenly felt awkward, and she wasn’t sure why. She said, “He and I, well, actually, we’ve separated, Philippe. We’re getting a divorce.”

“Oh, I’m sorry” was all he could think of to say, taken by surprise as he was. What a fool Doug Casson must be, to let a fabulous woman like Laura Valiant go. He had always thought her to be exceptional, so intelligent yet a compassionate woman with an understanding heart. Deep down it had always troubled him that she appeared to
dislike him, when he had felt just the opposite. But then, he knew she had been influenced by Claire’s turbulent emotional view of him.

As he continued to regard Laura steadily across her desk, Philippe was struck again by the vividness of her eyes. She was a beautiful woman.

Before he could stop himself, he said, “Are you going to be working here much longer, Laura?” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost four o’clock. Do you feel like having a cup of tea?”

For a second Laura hesitated, and then she said, “All right, why not? I’d like that, Philippe.” I might as well be cordial with him, she thought as she stood up. After all, Natasha is going to be a common bond between us.

21
     

L
aura was used to being kept waiting by tycoons, and Norman Grant was no exception to this rule.

She sat in the grandiose, cold-looking reception area of his humongous offices on Fifth Avenue, wondering why he had allowed the architect to use so much white marble. It was the most unflattering material, unless it was gracing a villa in a hot climate, and it made the reception area look like a mausoleum. Or a giant-sized toilet, perhaps.

As she idly flipped through a beauty magazine, she wondered how long she would have to wait this time. On the last occasion she had been there, it had taken Grant almost half an hour to admit her into his presence.

Glancing away from the blond receptionist, who sat at a glass-and-steel desk facing her, Laura smiled to herself. The only one who never kept her waiting for longer than a few minutes was Maximilian West. But then, he was quite different from all the other businessmen she dealt with. He was unique, and a gentleman.

Glancing at her watch, Laura saw that she had been sitting on this sofa for half an hour now. Under different circumstances she would have risen and departed without wasting another moment of her valuable time. But she could not do that today. Keep your cool, she told herself.
You’ve got to win this. And today’s your last chance to pull it off, to succeed.

As she placed the magazine on the coffee table in front of her, Norman Grant’s secretary finally came to fetch her. There was no apology, greeting, or smile of recognition, and she had been there twice. The grim-faced woman simply said, “He’ll see you now,” and led the way down the corridor to his suite of private offices situated at the end.

Norman Grant, sixtyish, silver-haired, red-faced, and portly in his dark blue suit, rose from behind his huge modern desk as she entered.

He nodded to her as she was ushered in, and indicated the chair facing his desk. “Good morning, Miss Valiant. Please sit down.”

“Good morning, Mr. Grant, and thank you,” she replied politely, then lowered herself into the chair.

“I don’t know why I’ve agreed to see you a second time, since I’ve said everything I have to say about
Tahitian Dreams,”
he announced, getting straight to the point at once, without preamble.

“I think I can answer that for you, Mr. Grant. You agreed to meet with me today because you want to avoid a lawsuit at all cost.”

Norman Grant glared at her. “I bought the Gauguin in the most legitimate way. There won’t be a lawsuit,” he said, and laughed.

“Oh, but there will be, Mr. Grant. Sir Maximilian West plans to file suit at, the end of this week. His lawyers are poised to do so, and they have been for months.”

“The case will be thrown out of court because it’s not a legitimate case,” Norman Grant shot back.

“Yes, it is. Similar situations regarding Nazi-looted art are coming to light, and a number of cases have already been filed. Not only in Europe but in the United States. Also, an American museum that is in possession of a painting, a Matisse, looted by the Nazis from a Jewish family in France, is prepared to give it back to the family it was stolen from. If the family’s ownership of it can be proven. As I told you when I came to see you a few weeks ago, Sir Maximilian West can prove that the Westheim family owned the Gauguin. He can prove provenance because he has the
catalogue raisonné,
which you have been shown.”

“I’m not a museum. Furthermore, I’m not going to
give
him the painting. I bought and paid for it. It belongs to me, Miss Valiant. Any reasonable person would agree with that.”

“Would you really want to embark on a long and tedious litigation? You’re a businessman, Mr. Grant, these things can become very costly. And time-consuming.”

“I know. But as I just said, the case will be thrown out of court. Because it’s not a legitimate case.”

“I think it is, and so do Sir Maxim’s lawyers, not to mention a number of museum curators and art experts.” Laura leaned back in the chair and crossed her long legs, outstaring Norman Grant.

He blinked finally, and wondered how to get rid of this unusually beautiful woman in her severe black suit who made him uncomfortable. He felt uneasy in her presence, and, yes, he had to admit it, inferior. “We’re just wasting each other’s time,” he snapped. “I made a mistake agreeing to see you again. I’ve nothing further to say. I won’t change my mind. So don’t threaten me.”

“Sir Maximilian and I have discussed this matter at
great length, and he’s given me the authority to deal on his behalf. I’m prepared to make you an offer. And I’m not threatening you, by the way. I was merely pointing out that he will start litigation if we, that is, you and I, do not resolve the problem today.”

“What’s the offer?”

“We will pay you what you paid when you bought the painting from Anthea Margolis five years ago. We’ll pay you the 6.4 million dollars.”

“I paid more than that!”

“Not according to Mrs. Margolis. I went to see her in Boston, and she showed me all the relevant documentation.”

Caught out in a foolish lie, Norman Grant flushed. “I won’t take 6.4,” he said, and leaned back in his swivel chair, his face set.

“I know you want to triple what you paid, that you want to get nineteen or twenty million dollars. Mark Tabbart told me. But we’re not going to pay that.” Laura gave him a long, hard stare and finished. “And you won’t get it anywhere else. I don’t think there’s a market for this painting anymore. It’s tainted.”

Ignoring her last point, he said confidently, “Sure there’s a market.”

“If there is, which I doubt, it will rapidly diminish. The painting will lose its value after my press conference next week.”

“Press conference? What press conference?”

“I am going to hold one next week on behalf of Sir Maximilian West,” Laura explained softly. “As his art adviser, I am going to tell the world about the Westheim Collection, how it was started, how it was illegally confiscated,
stolen by the Nazis in 1939. I’m going to tell them all about
Tahitian Dreams,
show them the sequence of ownership, take the press on the journey of the Gauguin, from Friedrich Westheim’s purchase of it in 1897, to its looting and illegal sale by General Josef Schiller of the SS, to the Herman Seltzer Gallery in Vienna.” She smiled, nodded. “It will make fascinating reading. I am also going to show them the
catalogue raisonné,
tell them the story of how Princess Irina Troubetzkoy found it only very recently in a bookshop in Paris. It’s all wonderful stuff. The press will love it.”

“For what reason would you have a press conference? It sounds ridiculous to me,” Norman Grant muttered, giving her a baleful look.

“I don’t agree. The story will get the public interested, and certainly there’s going to be a lot of sympathy for Sir Maxim, not to mention all kinds of opinions. The Gauguin will become famous. But nobody will buy it.”

“Who cares about the Gauguin except us and other collectors?” He laughed at her. “The general public doesn’t care about art.”

“Oh, really? Is that why museums are filled? Lack of interest on the public’s part?” Laura moved slightly, leaned forward, and continued. “From a moral point of view, the painting does not belong to you, Mr. Grant. And so this must be a moral decision on your part, not a legal or financial one. I did point out to Sir Maxim that you too are a victim in a way, and that is why he is willing to pay for the painting. But you cannot in good conscience make a profit on this art stolen from his parents. Both of them were Holocaust victims who perished because they were Jews. His mother was tortured and beaten to death in
Ravensbruck, and his father was shot in cold blood in Auschwitz.” Laura paused. “No, no, no, you’re not going to make a profit on the dead, Mr. Grant.”

“No deal,” he said coldly.

“You’re being very unwise. The press will have a field day, especially when they know you’re Jewish.”

Grant turned bright red. “What are you saying?” he spluttered.

“That you’re Jewish, Mr. Grant. You may go to the Unitarian Church on Lexington Avenue and you may have changed your name … and why not? There’s no reason why you shouldn’t do either. But you
were
born Norman Gratowski and you grew up on the Lower East Side, a nice Jewish boy, of Jewish parents who luckily escaped the Warsaw Ghetto before it was too late.”

Laura gave him a long, pointed look and sat back.

Grant was silent. He appeared to be floored.

“How will it look to the world if you, a Jew, try to make a profit on art stolen by the Nazis from a couple who lost their lives in the death camps of the Holocaust? I don’t know if it would affect your business, probably not.” She shrugged lightly. “But you never know.”

Norman Grant said nothing. He sat there in his black leather swivel chair, looking sick.

Laura stood up. “You bought a stolen painting. The rightful owner wants it back. He’s prepared to pay you what you paid … isn’t that eminently fair?”

“No deal,” Norman Grant said again.

T
he moment Alison heard the front door slam, she shot out of her office and flew into the reception area.

“What happened? Did it work?” she cried, her eyes pinned on Laura.

Laura shook her head. “Not yet.”

“Damn,” Alison said, and motioned for Laura to follow her into her office. Once they were both seated, Alison continued. “I thought your strategy was brilliant, I was positive it would do the trick. So was Sir Maxim. All that hard work you did investigating Norman Grant’s background … down the drain.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Laura murmured, shifting in the chair. “I think we’re going to win this. Let’s give it time to sink in. Norman Grant’s going to wrestle with it for a while, but I have a feeling he’s going to come around in the end.”

“I’m not so sure about that. He’s a tough guy, and he’s not about to budge, in my opinion. He wants a lot of money for the Gauguin. He’s going to sit,” Alison muttered, her expression suddenly dour.

“No, he won’t,” Laura answered swiftly. “Trust me on this, Alison. First of all, he knows the painting’s tainted already. If he didn’t before, he does now, because I made that clear. Mark Tabbart turned it down because he didn’t want problems, and Grant understands that. Nobody’s going to buy
Tahitian Dreams
for twenty million dollars, or indeed for 6.4 million, not after my press conference next week. It’s a painting that’s about to be jeopardized. Then again, Norman Grant doesn’t want to be embarrassed, he doesn’t want the world to think he’s a Jew who’s insensitive … to the Holocaust victims whose art was stolen by the Nazis.”

Alison shook her head. “I don’t agree with you, Laura.
He’s one tough son of a gun, and I don’t believe he gives a hoot in hell what people think of him.”

“Let’s see what happens, Alison, let’s stay cool and wait.”

“Aren’t you going to call Sir Maxim?”

“Yes, I will. In a minute. From my own office.”