and the two of them went at it.”
“So Glen decides to pack it in when Kwong dies?”
“Exactly. And Helga’s upset because it’s become their best source of income. She evidently wrote to Glen a few times but he never answered her. So she wrote to the gallery saying that if we didn’t want more Fauvists then Jan could paint something else. When I opened the letter, I felt absolutely betrayed.”
“And you confronted your brother?”
“I did. I decided to terminate our business relationship and, if you must know, our personal relationship. We haven’t spoken in two years.”
“How did you divide things?”
“We didn’t. I had scheduled a meeting with our family solicitor to negotiate a settlement over this business, when I became ill. I was hospitalized for about a week while they muddled around with my heart. The day I came home, Glen had a letter delivered to me. It said that he had signed over his shares in the business to me, that they were essentially worthless anyway, and that he had long since outgrown the Hughes Gallery,” he said, looking pained. “I thought it was cowardly of him to do things that way, and I thought he was denigrating all the good work my father had done and that he and I had done together.”
Ava felt a twinge of sympathy for Edwin Hughes, paralleled by a growing dislike for his brother. She said, “You know, I wouldn’t mind having a coffee now. I take it black.”
Hughes stood. “I’ll get it and a tea for myself. I could use a break.”
Ava waited, checking her watch. It’s taking him a long time, she was thinking, just as he appeared at the door with two delicate china cups balanced on exquisite saucers. “Sorry, the water took forever to boil,” he said.
They sipped their drinks quietly, Ava’s eyes drawn almost magnetically to the Derain. “My father bought it in the 1950s for what was a considerable sum then,” he said. “It’s worth much more now, but for years Derain’s value languished. It would please my father no end to find his judgement finally validated by the market. It’s the finest piece the family owns. What a coincidence, eh?”
Ava nodded and then said, “Talk to me about your brother. What kind of man is he?”
“It’s difficult to be objective.”
“Then don’t be.”
“No, I should try,” he said. He leaned back, placed his hands behind his neck, and put his feet on the desk.
“First of all, he is an absolutely great appraiser. He knows his stuff, he really does, and has a fine eye for what’s going to be hot. That’s what’s upsetting to me. If he’d stuck to our knitting, this business could have done well. Instead he went after money, and when he got the money, he lost interest in our venture,” he said. “I mentioned the wives. Well, there were also the houses, the yacht, the wine collection, the useless wealthy friends. I wasn’t paying too much attention. I mean, I saw what was going on; I just didn’t stop to think about how he could afford it.”
“He was stealing,” Ava said.
Hughes nodded. “The money changed him in many other ways as well. Glen was always a bit cocky but he disguised his hubris with a smart sense of humour. Having the money allowed him to let loose the extremes in his character. Plainly said, he didn’t need to be polite anymore, so he wasn’t. He became vain, boastful, and over-the- top arrogant.”
“He doesn’t sound very likeable.”
“I have grown to detest him.”
“When did he move to New York?”
“The week I came out of the hospital. He didn’t visit me there, or at home. He contacted me by letter, saying that London had become provincial and that New York was where the action was.”
“And how has he done in New York?”
Hughes pursed his lips. “I hear things, of course. It seems he’s doing famously. I’m not sure how much of it I actually believe, though. Glen has always been able to impart that aura of success.”
“Maybe he’s gone back to selling forgeries. Maybe he’s found some dumb Russian instead of a dumb Chinese.”
“Who knows? And except for you, who really cares?” Hughes said. “I’m more concerned about the three paintings in these files on my desk. Where are we going with this?”
Ava leafed through her notebook. “Before we discuss that, I’m curious about the painting you sold through Harrington’s. It had to be authenticated by them, didn’t it? Wasn’t that a worry for you?”
“We paid Sam Rice fifty thousand pounds to sign off on it.”
“He worked for Harrington’s?”
“Still does. He runs the whole bloody place now.”
That’s a twist, Ava thought.
Hughes patted the files. “So, what are your plans for these?”
“I’m going to go after your brother,” Ava said.
“For the Fauvist scheme?”
“Yes, of course.”
Hughes said, “O’Toole’s files should help you in that regard. I’m assuming Maurice kept as careful a record of them as he did of these. The Sorensen paperwork, I have to tell you, was a bit sketchy.”
“I’m not going to use the O’Toole files other than as a way of keeping score.”
“I don’t understand.”
“All they prove is that your brother hired O’Toole to paint them. They dead-end with Kwong. Your brother could take the same position with me that you did: ‘The Chinese can sue.’”
“And why wouldn’t they?”
“I had this same conversation yesterday with a consultant I’m using,” Ava said. “In a nutshell, my client doesn’t want to look foolish. He would never expose himself to the kind of public ridicule a lawsuit of this nature would invite. Glen referred to him as, what, ignorant? Why would he want the rest of the world to think the same?”
Hughes looked down at the files on his desk. Ava reached into her bag and pulled out an additional one. “There are four letters in here, addressed to the Earl of Moncrieff, Harold Holmes, and Jonathan Reiner, and to Frederick Locke at Harrington’s. The letters explain in detail how they came to be in possession of forged paintings. Accompanying each letter will be a complete file, just like those you have in front of you,” Ava said. “Here, you can read the letters if you want.”
She was pleased with them. Each addressed the single painting that related to the letter’s recipient. They were short and to the point — no hint of hysteria, nothing overstated, just a chronological statement of the facts with appendices noted and a line that said the original invoices, photos, etc. were available for viewing if necessary. The letter was signed by Ava. In a postscript she added that she had come across the painting in question as part of a broader investigation. She was passing along the information in the interests of art scholarship and wasn’t seeking any compensation or acknowledgement.
The colour that had re-emerged in Hughes’ face as he was talking to Ava visibly began to drain. His right eye began to flicker again.
“This would destroy me,” he said.
“That is the intent.”
“You said — ”
“The question is, how is your brother going to react to the same threat?”
“He would go mad.”
“I don’t want mad. I want fear. Fear of complete destruction of his professional reputation, of public disgrace, of having to defend himself against three powerful, angry, rich, vindictive men. And I’d like to think he couldn’t sleep at night for worrying about going to prison.”
Whatever comfort Edwin Hughes was feeling about the direction of their conversation seemed to vanish at the mention of the word prison. Ava could see his body tense. He swallowed, and then took two deep breaths.
“I think — actually no, I’m certain — you would achieve that reaction. I am, I think, in some ways braver than my brother, and you’ve certainly had that effect — and more — on me,” he said slowly.
