Stolen (15 page)

A
FTER
R
ACHEL HAD LEFT WITH
Irwin, who was driving her home, Molly studied the picture and tried to divine Simon's interest. All she got was frustrated.

“If you keep staring at the monitor like that, your face will freeze with that expression.” Iris gathered up the tea service.

Molly shot the woman a grimace.

“That one would be even worse, if you want my opinion.”

“Not particularly. But I would appreciate your insight about this picture. Why would Simon be so captivated by it?”

Iris came to stand behind Molly and gazed at the image for a time in silence. “It's seven elderly people. That's all.”

“Seven very extraordinary people when you consider that train wreck.” Molly tapped a fingernail on her keyboard. “But Simon had already seen this. Why would he want to look at it again?”

“Maybe he didn't have a copy of it.”

“Miss Abernathy and I kept all the files, so why would he need one? And if he did, why would he ask Mrs. Whiteshire to bring it to him instead of me? Or Miss Abernathy for that matter?”

Frowning a little, Iris inclined her head. “That is a question, isn't it?”

“Did anything Simon ever talked to you about strike you as odd?”

“Not really. He questioned me about what I remembered from the train wreck, but of course it wasn't much. I was far too young. And I didn't have a story like Abigail and Rachel.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wasn't pulled from the wreckage by the teenage hero, Audrey Cloverfield.”

A connection skittered through Molly's thoughts and she tried to grab it. “Rachel mentioned her, too. Who was Audrey Cloverfield again?”

“She was the nanny for Chloe Sterling.” Iris sighed. “Poor child. And I mean both of them, actually. I think Audrey was only sixteen at the time.”

“What happened to her?”

“She was injured, but she survived. But I can't imagine how devastating it was to lose that little girl.”

“Where is she now?”

“I've no idea. She'd be almost ninety, if she's still alive.”

 

“S
HE'S STILL ALIVE
.”

Pausing in his packing, Michael glanced up at Molly. His wife was smiling and excited, which was a grand change from earlier in the day. However, something this dramatic warranted an explanation.

“Are you all right, love?”

“No, not even. Truthfully, I'm more incensed than ever.” Molly looked at the open gym bag on their bed. “What are you doing?”

“Packing. We're taking a road trip to London. I'm meeting with Keith. You're dodging the media and going shopping to relax. Does any of that sound familiar?”

“Yes. Sorry. Let me help.” Molly crossed the floor and took over the packing. She immediately removed everything Michael had put in the bag and began reorganizing it.

Michael lay on the bed and watched as she arranged his bag to her specifications. Thankfully she left all his choices. Though she did add some of her own from his closet.

“You should look your best meeting Mr. Helfers tomorrow.”

“The man's a retired thief.”

“But you're not. Dress nice.”

Michael rolled his eyes, turned over onto his back, and feigned being mortally wounded.

Molly held up a blue silk shirt with an abbreviated collar. “If it's overcast in London tomorrow, wear this.”

Michael realized he'd diverted Molly from her earlier excitement. “Who's alive?”

Molly folded the shirt and carefully put it into the gym bag. “Audrey Cloverfield. And she lives in London.”

“Chloe Sterling's nanny?” That surprised Michael.

“I know I shouldn't be amazed that you can just pluck her name from the air like that, but I am.”

“I have mad researcher skills, love.”

“That mutant ability is still bothersome to the rest of us normal people.”

“What's so interesting about her?”

“I believe she is the only adult survivor remaining from the train robbery.”

Michael rifled his mental files and came to the same conclusion. “Probably.”

“But it's strange that Simon didn't ask her to be part of the documentary….”

“Did he even know she was alive? You obviously didn't until a few minutes ago. I hadn't considered it, either.”

“I hadn't thought about it. She might not be healthy enough to travel.” Finished with the bag, Molly zipped it closed and sat on the bed. “I'm sure Simon would have discovered her in his research and you'd think he would want some kind of input from her.”

“Maybe she didn't want to relive the tragedy of losing that little girl again.” Michael reached for Molly and pulled her back into his arms. “That's not the kind of thing you ever get over. Not even after all this time.”

“Probably not. Still, I'd like to ask her. She lives in London, and we're going there anyway.” Molly kissed him and pushed him away. “Let's go.”

“Y
OU SO SHOULD HAVE KEPT ME
from getting knackered last night, mate. You're supposed to look out for me.” Keith stopped at the door of his apartment complex and pulled on a pair of dark sunglasses. He tugged back his jacket sleeve to reveal a bare arm. “And, God, look at this—it's still morning.”

Keith Larkin was a weight lifter and spent several evenings a week in the gym. He was cut and chiseled, brown haired and brown eyed. He wore a short-cropped full beard.

“Not hardly.” Michael stepped out onto the stoop into the city's familiar overcast. “It's quarter past ten. I've been up for three hours.”

Despite the lack of sleep, he'd spent the time going over his notes regarding August Helfers and the paintings Oakfield-Collins had told him about. The insurance agent had forwarded other relevant newspaper stories about artwork from the Blackpool Train Robbery that had proven to be forgeries, as well. Apparently they were working on shared knowledge at the moment, but Michael was certain that would change the instant Oatfield-Collins decided sharing didn't benefit his agency.

“I haven't willingly seen a quarter past ten unless I stayed up that long since you moved from London. Seriously, mate, I don't know how you do it.” Keith yawned.

“I like to work, and when I'm not working, I like to play.
One of those two things will get me up and going every morning.”

“And you have Molly.” Keith grinned. “As I recall, she's changed some of your layabout ways. Morning person and all.”

Michael smiled. “Maybe a little.”

The flat where August Helfers lived was in Mayfair. They took the tube out and Michael had to endure the press of bodies standing in the car. The mixture of body odor, soap, perfume and bad breath cascaded over him. The crowded environment was another thing he'd been glad to get away from.

After a brisk twelve-minute walk, they stepped inside the building foyer, buzzed Helfers's flat and were let in. Helfers met them at the door. He was dressed in tan slacks and a dark red smoking jacket that had gone out of style years ago, but he wore it with accustomed ease.

“Mr. Graham?” Robust and in his early eighties, Helfers had a firm grip and an easy manner. He was bald except for a fringe of gray hair, and he had a perfectly groomed mustache.

“I'm Michael Graham. Please call me Michael.” Releasing the man's hand, Michael stepped into the flat while Helfers greeted Keith.

Wood paneling in the living room made the room dark, and heavy drapes kept the sun at bay to prevent damage to the numerous paintings that filled the wall.

“You've got quite the collection, don't you?” Michael stepped over to one of the paintings he recognized. It showed a boy with a pipe sitting in front of a wall of roses. A garland of blossoms circled the boy's head. “Picasso. From his Rose Period.”

Helfers joined Michael in front of the painting. “Very good.
Garçon à la Pipe. Boy with a Pipe.
”

“Not an original, I assume.”

Helfers chuckled. “No. A very good copy, but not the original. That one sold at Sotheby's not long ago for one hundred four million. It set a new record.”

Keith cursed good naturedly. “I'm in the wrong business.”

“You're an artist?”

“I am.” Keith pointed at the painting. “And I could have painted you one of these where the boy's arms were symmetrical. His left is a lot longer than his right.”

“Ah, but then you wouldn't be Picasso, now would you?” Helfers studied the painting. “It was his use of color and shape that really made his career.”

“Maybe so.”

“And he was a workaholic. He created over fifty thousand works during his career. More of Picasso's paintings have been stolen than any other artist.”

Michael shook his head. “Really?”

“I've got a Van Gogh Sunflowers on the other wall.” Helfers smoothed his mustache and looked across the room. “Not the original, either, of course, but a nice copy. Personally, I believe it is one of the copies Van Gogh made of his own work, but I haven't been able to prove it. That inability has been one of my greatest disappointments.” He smiled. “Maybe one day.” He returned his gaze to Michael. “But you didn't come here to hear me talk about this art. You have some paintings you're interested in.”

“You're familiar with the Blackpool Train Robbery?”

Helfers waved at them to accompany him to the couches in the center of the room. A tea service sat waiting on the table. “Of course. One of the better stings in the art world.” He sat and poured tea into cups.

“You say it like it's common knowledge.” Michael ac
cepted his cup and said thank you. He took out a micro-recorder and asked if he could use it.

Helfers nodded permission. “At the time, it wasn't widely accepted or known. Let me assure you of that. It wasn't till later, when the forgeries started popping up in the hands of collectors and the law enforcement people, that the truth came out. Or, at least, guessed at. And everyone involved just as quickly started burying it because no one wanted to deal with such an issue during the war. Afterward…well, afterward no one wanted to deal with it in the public eye, either. A bunch of rich people crying over their losses when the country was in tatters wouldn't have gone over well. Especially since insurance paid off so handsomely. Philip Crowe did a very good job of covering up his operation.”

“You know for a fact that Philip Crowe was behind the robbery?” Michael asked.

“I can't prove it. Neither can any of the insurance agents that worked the robbery. But everyone assumed Philip Crowe was guilty of masterminding the whole thing. After all, he had access.”

“Because he was working with the military to secure the train.”

“Exactly.” Helfers leaned back in his seat and sipped tea.

“But he didn't have art on the train.”

“The speculation was that Philip Crowe had organized the whole robbery to get a few people a payoff from the insurance agencies. And then he stole the art from his friends. Since their losses were eventually recovered through insurance policies, he could claim there was no foul.”

“And he got the original paintings.”

“If it happened like that, yes.”

“Then why did the forgeries start surfacing?”

Helfers played with an onyx ring on his right hand,
sliding it on and off. “The art business is very incestuous and narcissistic.” He waved at the room. “You only have to look at this collection to realize that. After the robbery, there would have been people wanting to buy the stolen art. There always are. Avid collectors will hover like vultures, hoping to get a bargain before the original owners or the insurance agencies can arrange a buy-back. Obviously someone sought to capitalize on the potential created by the robbery. Because the event was highly publicized, other art collectors knew what had been taken. And they knew that at least some of what was taken couldn't be insured. Trust me when I say that not all of those people were scrupulous. A great opportunity to market forgeries.”

“But eventually the buyers discovered they were getting ripped off.”

“Yes.”

“Would you have handled something like this?” Michael felt uneasy and embarrassed to ask the question, but he needed a point of reference.

“No. I was convicted for being in receivership of stolen art. Art, not forgeries.” Helfers smiled at the memory. “I have never and would never pass off a forgery as an original. However, I have brokered deals for several successful forgeries clients wanted. In fact, several museums have forgeries in their collections and are fully aware they have them. There are just too many circulating these days.”

Keith leaned forward. “My uncle Morrie told me you might have an idea of the artist that did these.” He opened the folder Michael had brought and spread out the pictures.

Helfers took a pair of glasses from the inside of his jacket pocket and slid them into place. He pointed to
An Afternoon at the Fair.
“Ah, yes. I thought I recognized this
one when you mentioned the piece. Especially when you told me it had been found twice.”

Helfers took his time examining the other photos and made appreciative noises.

“These are very good. It's hard to be sure how many painters were involved. Could be as few as one, but no more than three or four.”

“Do you know who copied
An Afternoon at the Fair?
” Michael curbed his enthusiasm, but it was difficult.

“I believe I do.” Helfers picked up the photo and studied it a little more. “There was a man named Byron Kirkwell. Not a particularly inspired painter. He lacked the eye for original work, but he was an excellent reproductionist.”

“Forger, you mean.” Keith grinned. “I mean no offense. Just trying to keep it simple, mate.”

“Skills are always for sale, young man. And talent is what it is. Comic book artists are highly regarded in some circles, and I've seen their original art sell for high prices.” Helfers put the picture back on the table. “I take no offense, nor do I apologize for my career choice. Kirkwell was a child prodigy by all accounts, but he was also egotistical. He couldn't help signing his work.”

“The signature is there…” Michael leaned in more closely and inspected the picture of the painting. “It was of the original artist. Not Kirkwell.”

“Here. In the tower.” Helfers used his manicured forefinger to indicate a small section of the girders in the Eiffel Tower. There, barely detectable even after Helfers pointed it out, were two letters formed by the hollows between girders:
BK.

“I hadn't noticed that.” Michael took out his camera and snapped a close-up shot of the “signature.” “I'm impressed.”

“Kirkwell's initials, of course.” Helfers leaned back and picked up his tea.

“You spotted that rather quickly, mate.” Keith kept the brunt of accusation out of his voice, but Michael was certain his friend was as suspicious as he was.

Helfers shrugged and didn't seem guilty or offended. “I've developed a trained eye. Once I recognized the handiwork, I knew what I was looking for. You came here today to take advantage of my expertise.”

“What can you tell us about Byron Kirkwell?” Michael asked.

“Not a lot, I'm afraid. His personal life was very closed off. Most of the people in this trade try to avoid the limelight, you see.”

“Of course.”

“Is there anyone else I could ask about him?”

“Up until last week, you could have talked to him yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kirkwell was still alive until last week. Then, last Friday, he was struck and killed by a car when he stepped off the curb.”

Michael turned cold. Abigail Whiteshire had been murdered last Friday. Byron Kirkwell had also been killed. And now Simon.

Michael wasn't a big believer in coincidences. Video game players didn't like them and he personally felt that coincidences were a crutch.

So if everything was connected, what had the catalyst been?