‘A bit like a crossword in a way,’ Fen mused. ‘Really looking at something does make you see it from different angles.’
‘The Impressionists were the finest puzzlers of them all,’ Rose, who was looking rather satisfied with herself, declared. ‘What’s this, a pink splodge, look again, it’s a face.’
The women all laughed, but Joseph looked more serious.
‘We had a Cezanne, you know?’ he asserted, before taking a sip from his cup.
Magda came to sit down next to him on the chaise longue and gently laid a hand on one of his knees. Rose sat herself down in the less saggy of the two armchairs.
‘I know, dear boy, I know.’ She took a sip of her tea and swallowed. ‘And I know exactly how much Henri valued it for and I think I finally know who has it now.’
‘Who?’ Joseph suddenly looked more animated.
‘I just have a few more enquiries that I need to make, Joseph dear. And I swear to you, we will get the art back to you.’
‘It’s all gone, you see,’ Joseph explained to Fen.
‘Yes, I’m so sorry. Rose told me. I can’t imagine… I mean, I’m just so very sorry for your loss.’ Fen never felt she was very good at comforting people. Practical help she could do, but she was often lost for words when it came to trying to offer some sort of solace to those grieving. ‘Your parents, I mean, I remember them very well. Has there been any news?’
Joseph looked across to Fen, who was rather hoping at this moment that the saggy old armchair would eat her up, but there wasn’t any anger in his voice, just sadness. ‘No. No good news at any rate.’
‘It was all planned, Joseph…’ Rose leaned over and touched his leg too. ‘They should have been on that train to Le Havre…’
‘I know, I know.’ He rubbed his eyes and ran his hand through his oiled hair. Then he looked up at Rose and across to Fen. ‘The Chameleon.’
‘Do you think?’ Rose asked him.
‘I’m sure of it. Who else could have betrayed them at the last minute.’
Fen looked from Joseph to Rose and then back to Joseph as they spoke. Her curiosity was piqued. ‘Who, or what, was the chameleon?’
‘The Chameleon,’ said Magda, speaking up for the first time since they sat down, ‘was a double agent. We think. He must have worked within our networks, but for the Gestapo too. No one ever found out who he was. He just faded into the background, unseen until he struck, hence the name.’
‘And he struck out at my parents,’ Joseph continued. ‘And Magda’s. They were hours away from leaving the city when the officers raided the apartments we’d moved them to just days before. They were all arrested and sent to one of the camps. I still don’t know which one, but I have a meeting with the Red Cross tomorrow. Hopefully they’ll know more.’
‘Let’s hope indeed,’ Rose reassured him. ‘Now, however, dear boy, we have art to trace. You know my list, the one the Germans thought I was making for them? I wrote to you about it in New York?’
‘Yes,’ Joseph looked more hopeful.
‘Well, I have it back from Henri Renaud today.’
‘Oh, Henri Renaud,’ Magda shook her head, the name obviously meaning something to her.
‘He used to come to Mama and Papa’s parties,’ Joseph nudged her.
‘Of course, of course. He loved that Degas your parents had.’
‘And said the Gainsborough was the peak of British civility.’ He laughed, but it caught in his throat. ‘Still, Rose, please continue…’
‘I need to find my cipher, I know I stashed it around here somewhere… Anyway, once I have decoded the “transport serial codes”, we will have proof that those paintings belonged to you. And I remember that cabbage-breath Müller said something as the paintings were being pulled off the walls.’
Fen saw Magda blanch at the expression and grip the top of her blouse close to her neck.
‘So that Degas, I can tell you without deciphering it, as I remember,’ Rose said with some pride, ‘was destined for the Führermuseum itself, but with that monstrosity never built, it was likely stored at Schlosskirche in Bavaria. I’ve recently spoken to the Art Looting Investigation Unit – they’re the nice American chaps who discovered all the plunder in that church – and asked for an inventory and to see if my codes are still chalked on the back of the paintings. When I finish decoding the list, together with their stocktake, I’m sure we will find your painting, and maybe some of the others, and have the proof that it was stolen from you!’
Both Rose and Joseph seemed to fall back into their seats with relief. Even Magda loosened her grip on her collar slightly and seemed to relax.
‘Thank you, Rose,’ she said, almost in a whisper. ‘I can’t tell you what this means to us. To me and Joseph.’
‘Well, it’s not a done deal yet. But we have the proof. Once deciphered, my list will show the world who had their paintings stolen, and where their artworks are now.’ She straightened her back in her chair. ‘More tea, anyone?’
Twelve
Fen closed the door behind the Bernheims, having promised Magda that they would find a time to visit some of their old haunts together, and went back into the studio. Rose was straightening the small, Impressionist painting and muttering something about it never hanging properly when there was rain on the forecast. Fen shook her head at her friend’s little eccentricity and sat back down on the chaise longue.
‘Was she a good student? Magda, I mean.’
‘Oh so-so. Better than you, I dare say, though perhaps with less raw talent.’ Rose sat down on the saggier of the armchairs and twiddled her beads around her fingers. ‘You were always too practical to be a true artist, though you had flair.
