“Is it the reason you and he split?”
“Yes, among others, but it was the primary reason.”
“I want you to tell me everything you know about it.”
“And then what? You’ll make these disappear?” he said, waving at the files. “Or am I going to have to pay you to make that happen?”
“We’ll talk later about what you need to make happen. In the meantime, talk to me about your brother and the Fauvists.”
“Why should I do that?” he persisted.
“These other three paintings don’t have to be an issue unless you choose to make them one,” she said.
His phone rang. “Lisa’s extension,” he said to Ava.
“Talk to her.”
He picked up the phone, listened, and then said quickly, “No, everything is just fine. Ms. Lee will be here for a while longer. If we need anything, I’ll ring through.” He hung up the phone and looked at Ava. “I did hear you correctly before Lisa phoned? You’re prepared to forget about these paintings?”
“If I get your co-operation, we can work something out,” Ava said, pulling her notebook from her bag. “But I need you to start by telling me about your business and how you got into this forgery game.”
“You’re prepared to forget about these paintings?” he said.
Ava admired his stubbornness. “My sole interest is in recovering the funds that my clients lost buying that Fauvist art. I’m going to do whatever I have to do to make that happen. If what you tell me helps, then yes, I am prepared to forget about these paintings.”
“How far back do you want me to go?”
“Start at the beginning.”
He drew a deep breath. “The gallery was started by my grandfather nearly a century ago, and it’s been the family business ever since. Both Glen and I were afforded first-class fine arts educations — there was never any doubt about what we would be doing with our lives. I joined the firm right out of university; Glen apprenticed first at Sotheby’s. My father died suddenly about five years after Glen came on board. That was when we ran into troubles. The inheritance taxes in this country are criminal, and my father had done virtually no estate planning. We were faced with a crippling tax bill. To pay up would have meant liquidating the business. That’s when Glen came up with the idea of having Maurice O’Toole do the Manet. I have to tell you — not that it may matter to you — we agonized over the decision. Glen said we should have Maurice do it and, if we didn’t think it passed muster, we would forget the whole idea.”
“It was good enough to fool the Earl, yes?”
“It’s bloody good enough to fool just about anyone who isn’t trying to determine if it’s a fake. I mean, the colours, the brushstrokes, the canvas, the nails — Maurice was a marvel.”
“And you authenticated it?”
“Yes, we did. Mind you, we did call in several colleagues, who — for a hefty fee — also swore it was genuine. They were mainly taking our word for it, of course, and they gave the painting only what you could call a rough once-over.”
“And it worked so well you repeated the exercise?”
“Twice more, that’s all,” he said, and then quickly added, “I don’t mean to minimize the money involved.”
“Why twice?”
“Those were our retirement funds — about six million each. This business looks attractive enough from the outside, but it’s bloody hard work, and expensive work, because appearances have to be maintained. Then there’s the matter of buying and selling. You know the adage ‘Buy low, sell high’?”
“Even the Chinese understand that.”
“I thought the Chinese invented it,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips.
“They invented most things — why not that too?” Ava said.
“Well, in our business there is no intrinsic value in anything. A painting is only worth what someone is willing to pay for it. Today Jackson Pollock is a hot commodity, tomorrow he could be a throwaway. Okay, maybe not to that extreme, but you see, here we don’t deal in Jackson Pollock; the core of the business is your run-of-the-mill painter. More risk, less reward. So cash is always tight, and the value of the business — and our net worth — is hanging on the walls. We decided to cash in twice, put the money aside, and then get on with running the business as our father had done.”
“Except Glen didn’t stop?”
“No, he didn’t. But I did. I wasn’t proud of what we had done. I rationalized it, of course, but I was never proud, and I never — I swear to you — never even thought about doing it again.”
“When did you find out that Glen was still at it?”
“Five years ago.”
“When Maurice O’Toole died?”
He looked surprised. “Yes, precisely. Nancy came to see me here at the gallery. Maurice was broke when he died; she had nothing. She said she knew we’d been making all kinds of money from the Derains, the Dufys, and the like. She was looking for a lump-sum payment, a kind of death benefit, from our Liechtenstein account. I told her I didn’t know what she was talking about. She brought with her the same kind of paperwork you showed me today. It took me aback, I don’t mind telling you, finding out that Glen had still been working with Maurice and that he had a bank account in Liechtenstein. I told her she needed to talk to Glen.”
“She must have, because he sent her a hundred thousand dollars from a bank account in Kowloon,” Ava said.
“Kowloon too? My brother does get around.” Edwin Hughes took off his jacket and stood to hang it on a coat rack next to the Derain Tower Bridge painting. “I told you this one was real, didn’t I?” he said.
“You did.”
“Would you like a tea or coffee? Water?” he asked as he sat down again.
“I’m fine. Can we get back to your brother?”
He sighed. “We had it out, of course. He told me he needed the money. He was already twice divorced and was working on a third, and between the ex-wives and the kiddies and an expensive lifestyle, he had burned through the Modigliani money and a lot more on top of that. He swore to me then that he’d stop, and I believed him.”
“You weren’t worried about him, about the scheme being exposed?”
Hughes grimaced. “We were already joined at the hip, so to speak, through our previous transgressions. Although neither of us discussed it directly, we knew it. And then there was the matter of your Hong Kong clients.”
“What does that mean?”
He grimaced again. “These are Glen’s words, not mine. I’m not a lover of all mankind, but neither am I a racist. Glen tends to wander to the right on most issues. He said — and again, these are his words — that he had found a ‘dead ignorant’ dealer in Hong Kong who was selling the stuff to an ‘even more ignorant’ collector somewhere in China. He said he could have sent them crayon sketches done by a six-year-old and passed them off as a rare find, and they’d believe him. He said there wasn’t a chance in hell the collector would figure things out, and if he did he would have the dealer in Hong Kong to blame. Glen said he and the collector never met, never even communicated.”
“That’s true.”
“And then he promised me he’d stop, but of course he didn’t.”
“How did you find that out?” Ava asked.
“Helga Sorensen,” Hughes said.
Thank God for smart wives, Ava thought. “What happened?”
“The dealer in Hong Kong died, and Glen decided he’d made enough money and it was time to get out while he still could. He told me later he had thought about hooking up with someone else in Hong Kong, but the fellow there had been the perfect middleman. He didn’t want to trust anyone else.”
“How did he meet Kwong — that was the dealer’s name — in the first place?”
“Believe it or not, Kwong took out an ad in the Arts Journal looking for Fauvist paintings. Glen contacted him
