Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less (19 page)

Outside, James had been keeping a patient
vigil.

“Ten-thirty–no sign of
him.”

“Roger.”

“Ten forty-five–still no sign of him.”

“Roger.”

“Eleven–he’s still inside.”

“Roger.”

“Eleven-twelve–action stations, action
stations.”

James slipped quickly into the Lamanns
Gallery as Jean Pierre once again removed the Sutherland watercolour of the
Thames and the boatman, and placed in the window a picture by Van Gogh, as
magnificent an example of the master’s work as a London gallery had ever seen.
Now
came
its acid test: the litmus paper walked
purposefully down Bond Street towards it.

The picture had been painted by David Stein,
who was notorious in the art world for faking 300 paintings and drawings by
well-known artists, for which he had received a total of $864,000 and later
four years. He was exposed when he put on a Chagall exhibition at the Niveaie
Gallery in Madison Avenue in 1969. Unknown to Stein, Chagall was in New York at
the time for a visit to the new Metropolitan Opera at the Lincoln Center where
two new works of his were on display. When Chagall was informed of the Niveaie
exhibition he furiously reported the pictures as fakes to the district attorney’s
office. Stein had sold one of the imitation Chagalls to Louis D. Cohen at a
price of nearly $100,000, and to this day there is a Stein Chagall and Picasso
at the Galeria d’Arte Moderna in Milan. Jean Pierre was confident that what
Stein had achieved in the past in New York he could repeat in London.

Stein continued to paint in the style of
famous artists, but signed them himself and because of his undubitable 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 Discovery Oil, he
agreed to produce the Van Gogh for $10,000 and to sign the painting with the
master’s famous “Vincent.”

Jean Pierre had gone to great trouble to
identify a Van Gogh, vanished in mysterious
circumstances,
that
Stein could resurrect to tempt Harvey. He started with De la Faille’s
comprehensive oeuvres catalogue, “The Works of Vincent Van Gogh,” 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 numbers 485 “Les
Amoureux” (The Lovers), 628 “La Moisson” (The Harvest), and 776 “Le Jardin de
Daubigny” (The Garden of Daubigny). The last two had been bought in 1929 by the
Berlin
Gallery, and “The Lovers”
probably around the
same time. At the start of the war, they had all three disappeared.

Jean Pierre contacted Professor Wormit of
the Preussischer Kulturbesitz. The professor, a world authority on missing
works of art, ruled out one of the possibilities. “Le Jardin de Daubigny” had
after the war apparently reappeared in the collection of Siegfried Kramarsky in
New York, though how it got there was a mystery. Kramarsky had subsequently
sold it to the Nichido Gallery in Tokyo, where it now hangs. Of the fate of the
other two Van Goghs, the professor had no knowledge.

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, 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, stigmatised by the philistinism of the National Socialists as
degenerate art, were stored in a depot in the Köpernickerstrasse in Berlin.
Hitler himself visited the depot in January 1938, after which these illegal
proceedings had been legalised by an official confiscation.

What happened to the two Van Goghs is simply
not known. Many of the confiscated works were quietly sold abroad by Joseph
Angerer, an agent of Hermann Goering, to obtain much-needed foreign currency.
Some were disposed of in a sale organised by the Fischer Art Gallery of Lucerne
on June 30, 1939. But many of the works in the depot in Köpernickerstrasse were
simply burned or stolen.

Jean Pierre managed to obtain
black-and-white reproductions of “Les Amoureux” and “La Moisson”: no colour
positives survive, even if they were ever made. It seemed to Jean Pierre
unlikely that any colour 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 x 91 cm. However, Van Gogh did not seem to have been satisfied with it. On
October 1889 (letter no. 556) he referred to “a very poor sketch of my last
canvas.” Moreover, it was impossible to guess the colour of the background. “La
Moisson,” in contrast, had pleased Van Gogh. He had painted it 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 obtained colour
transparencies of two of them from the Louvre and the Rijks-museum, where they
now hang, and 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 saw in his mind’s eye what “La Moisson” had looked like
in colour.

Stein agreed with Jean Pierre’s final choice
and he studied the black-and-white reproduction of “La Moisson” and the colour
transparencies of its sister paintings long and minutely before he set to work.
Then he found an insignificant late nineteenth-century French work, and removed
the paint from it, leaving a clean canvas. He marked upon it the exact size of
the picture, 48.5 x 57
cm.,
and selected a palette
knife and brushes of the type that Van Gogh had favoured. 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 finally he showed the picture to Vincent, Van Gogh’s
grandson and a connoisseur of his illustrious forebear’s work. Vincent was not
willing to say it wasn’t the original, which gave Jean Pierre confidence that
the picture would pass Harvey Metcalfe’s scrutiny.

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

Harvey walked into the gallery 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.

“A hundred and seventy thousand guineas
is
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 chronicled back to 1890. It seems
certain that it was looted from the museum in the upheaval of the war.”

“How did you obtain it?”

“From the collection of a
member of the British aristocracy who wishes it to be sold privately.”

“Excellent,” said Stephen. “I would like to
reserve it until four o’clock this afternoon, when I will bring round my cheque
for 170,000 guineas from the Dresdner Bank, A.G. Will that be acceptable?”

“Of course, sir,” replied Jean Pierre. “I
will put a green dot on it.”

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

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

“Yes. I took it round to Julian Barren 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, Adrian walked in,
a copy of
The Guardian
sticking out
of his pocket.

“Hello, Mr. Lamanns. I heard a rumour about
a Van Gogh, which I thought was in Russia, and I would like to write a few
paragraphs about 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, a 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
and I’m only sorry my firm will not be auctioning it. You’re a lucky man, Mr.
Drosser. If you ever want to auction 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. Adrian began to take notes in what he hoped looked like shorthand
and addressed Jean Pierre:

“Do you have a photograph of the picture?”

“Of course.”

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

“Do watch the spelling of Lamanns, won’t
you? I get so tired of being confused with a French motor 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 the Dorchester tomorrow
morning, Room 120.”

“Certainly, sir.”

With that, Stephen started to leave.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Adrian, “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?”

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

Stephen bowed his head smartly, and
departed. He stepped into Bond Street and to the horror of Jean Pierre, Adrian
and James, Harvey, without a moment’s hesitation, followed him.

Jean Pierre sat down heavily on his Georgian
mahogany desk and looked despairingly at Adrian and James.

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

“I thought Stephen told us that Harvey would
be bound to stay and bargain with Jean Pierre,” said James plaintively. “He
wouldn’t let the picture out of his sight.”

“Who the hell thought of this bloody silly
enterprise?” muttered Adrian.

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

“What an interesting piece by Henry Moore,”
said an impeccably corseted middle-aged lady, her hand 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, Metcalfe’s following Stephen. Get him on the pocket
radio, Adrian.”

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

“What the hell do you mean he’s a few yards
behind me? He’s with you in the gallery buying the Van Gogh, isn’t he? What are
you all playing at?”

“Harvey didn’t give us a chance. He walked
straight out after you before any of us could get a word in.”

“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.”

“Where in
hell’s name
is the Dorchester?” yelped Stephen.

Adrian came to his rescue. “Take the first
right, Stephen, and that will take 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 for not the first time in his life. “You take a taxi immediately for the
Dorchester and book Room 120 in the name of Drosser. Have the key ready for
Stephen the moment he arrives 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 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 am sending
Adrian to follow Harvey so he can keep you briefed and guide you to the
Dorchester. I am staying here.
Everything else O.K.?”