His eyes narrowed, assessing me anew. ‘You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel.’ His tone was still playful on the surface, but there was a cool undercurrent. ‘Didn’t know you were such a scholar.’
‘I was up Eltham way yesterday and I met someone called Giles Aubrey. He used to be Victor Szabo’s dealer.’
At the mention of Aubrey’s name, Eastlake leaned forward, beginning to take me seriously. ‘Giles Aubrey,’ he said. ‘There’s a blast from the past. So, tell me, what’s the old bugger been whispering in your ear?’
‘He said Our Home was painted by someone else.’
‘Oh, did he just?’ Beneath the flippancy was a tinge of irritation he couldn’t quite hide. ‘Did he say who?’
‘Szabo’s illegitimate son,’ I said. ‘Marcus Taylor.’ Eastlake gave me a blank stare. ‘The guy they fished out of the National Gallery moat.’ It all sounded a bit far-fetched. ‘Anyway, that’s what he told me.’
Eastlake drew back and deliberately widened his eyes, like I was pulling his leg. When he saw that I was serious, the amusement drained from his expression. He pursed his lips and rubbed his chin, as though digesting the significance of what I had just told him.
A waiter arrived and put cappuccinos in front of us. Eastlake studied me carefully, as though attempting to discern my reliability. Then he made up his mind. Picking up his spoon, he leaned forward. When he spoke, it was in hushed, confidential tones. ‘Can you keep a secret, Murray?’
I didn’t reply, but he was welcome to continue.
‘I’m not the one being had,’ he grinned. ‘You are.’
Eastlake built a floating island of sugar on the froth of his cappuccino and watched it slowly sink. ‘Giles Aubrey is a bitter and twisted old man,’ he said. ‘And he’s been spinning you a line. I don’t suppose you happened to mention to him how much we’re paying Karlin for the picture, did you?’
‘I might have said something about it,’ I allowed.
‘And that’s when he came out with his story?’
‘He was very convincing.’
‘Aubrey can be, by all accounts. You wouldn’t be the first he’s taken in. Lots of authentic Szabo embroidery, I imagine. This bit about the suicide in the National Gallery moat, this whatsisname…’
‘Marcus Taylor.’
‘That’s a nice topical touch. Aubrey saw the story on the news, no doubt, and grabbed the opportunity to make a little mischief.’
‘Why would he want to do that?
‘Ancient history,’ said Eastlake. ‘Old wounds. Aubrey genuinely believed in Victor Szabo, but he never succeeded in making anything of his career. Szabo probably even cost him money. Seeing the sort of figures Szabo’s pictures are currently fetching must really piss him off. But the money, I suspect, is the least of it. He’s jealous of Fiona Lambert getting all the credit for securing Szabo’s posthumous reputation. It was Fiona who found Our Home in Karlin’s collection, pegged it as a benchmark work and suggested that the CMA acquire it. Casting doubts on the authenticity of Our Home would be the perfect way to undermine her reputation.’
This made a certain amount of sense. Perhaps Aubrey had seized on my phone call as an opportunity to exact a little belated revenge on Fiona Lambert. But that still didn’t explain everything. ‘The drowned guy, Taylor,’ I said. ‘He left a note. A manifesto, the press were calling it. Angelo thought they might beat something up. So I went to his studio yesterday morning, just before Max Karlin’s brunch, and took a look around. He’d painted a perfect copy of Our Home.’
Eastlake slowly sipped his cappuccino, studying me over the rim of his cup. ‘You’re quite the eager beaver, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘But I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’
‘Neither am I,’ I admitted. ‘It just seemed like an odd coincidence, given what Aubrey told me later.’
‘It’s not unusual, you know, for younger artists to make copies of landmark paintings. Just proves what I said. Our Home is a masterpiece.’
‘But Taylor also had a photograph of himself with Victor Szabo. Doesn’t that tend to corroborate Aubrey’s story?’
Eastlake indulged me, amused by my persistence. ‘I’ve got a picture of myself with the Prime Minister. That doesn’t make me his love child.’
Put like that, my concerns were all starting to feel a bit farfetched. ‘Looks like I’ve been wasting your time,’ I said, burying my face in my own coffee.
‘On the contrary,’ said Eastlake. ‘You did the right thing coming to me. We have got a problem. The art world thrives on gossip. Giles Aubrey’s malicious inventions could do a lot of damage.’
‘Aubrey can say what he likes,’ I said. ‘But he can’t prove anything. By his own admission, Taylor was the only other person who could confirm his story-and he’s dead.’
‘You miss my point,’ said Eastlake. ‘We’re talking perceptions here. The value of a work of art is a fragile abstraction. If word gets around that doubts exist about the authorship of Our Home, similar speculation could easily arise about the integrity of other works in Max Karlin’s collection. Suggest that one picture isn’t what it’s purported to be, people might wonder about the others. A person in your position, close to the Minister for the Arts, has a certain credibility. What you say gets heard, passed on, amplified.’
‘I think I understand the situation, Lloyd,’ I said pointedly, resenting the implication that I needed to be warned not to go blabbing Aubrey’s story all over town. ‘But I’m more concerned about potential embarrassment to Angelo than the market value of Max Karlin’s art collection. In either case, the question is to make sure Aubrey stays quiet. He agreed to keep the story to himself yesterday, but who knows how long that will last.’
Eastlake had already figured this out. ‘Call his bluff. Make him put up or shut up. If he took Karlin’s money knowing that Our Home wasn’t authentic, that’s criminal fraud. Mention the prospect of prosecution and I bet he’ll fall over himself to sign a statement confirming the picture’s authenticity.’
A more informed discussion with Giles Aubrey was certainly on the agenda. ‘I’ll go and see him tomorrow,’ I said.
‘You do what you think advisable, Murray.’
Business done, I accepted a second cup of coffee and eased back into my surroundings. The Deli’s cafeteria decor was obviously not its prime attraction, no more so than the quality of its profiteroles or the freshness of its juices. The customers were there for each other. As we were talking, Eastlake had been fielding social signals from the other booths. Spotting his opportunity, the beetroot-faced realtor table-hopped over, cup in hand. ‘Hey, Eastie,’ he said, wagging his tail. ‘How’s that new Merc of yours running?’
Eastlake introduced us, first names only. Malcolm was wearing a Gucci shirt that might have done something for a man twenty years younger. ‘Seen Lloyd’s new car?’ He jerked his head back towards the street. ‘High performance automobile like that and he gets a chauffeur to drive it. That’s like having the butler fuck your mistress. What do you drive, Murray?’
‘Something smaller,’ I said. Then, since the subject had come up, ‘Good drivers easy to find, Lloyd?’
‘Noel?’ Eastlake was back at ease, expansive. ‘I didn’t find him,’ he said. ‘He found me. You know the Members’ carpark at Flemington?’
Malcolm squeezed in beside me, ready to catch any gems of wit and wisdom Lloyd Eastlake might care to drop. The Members’ carpark was where the silvertails held their chicken and champers picnics on Cup Day. Not a place you needed to be a regular race-goer to know about. I nodded. Go on.
‘Last spring racing carnival, it was. I was out there with your predecessor, Ken Sproule. Terrible man for the gee-gees, Ken is. We’ve had a pretty good day and we’re both well over the limit. So we get to the car and Ken decides he’s not going to let me drive, not in my condition. It’s starting to rain and there we are, standing next to the car…’
‘That was the 450 SLC, right?’ chipped in Malcolm. ‘The two-door coupe.’
‘…arguing the toss about whether I’m in a fit state to drive. Anyway, this bloke comes along, he’s doing the rounds, working for some car-detailing firm. They go around during the afternoon, checking for dents, rust spots, that sort of thing. They put their card under the wiper-flaking chrome, cracked light, whatever-and a quote for the job.’
I could just see it. Spider Webb prowling the toffs’ carpark with a twenty-cent piece in one hand and an eye to the main chance.
‘So Ken gets an idea. This bloke can drive us into the city, take the car overnight, cut and polish it, drop it off at my place in the morning. It’s either that or walk through the rain to the main gate, get a cab, come back the next
