The other requirement Carlson had was for me to try to get to know Morgan if I could. Tricky, but I’ve got a few tricks. I have a friend, Dick Worth, who has a house in Clovelly. I arranged for him to allow me to contact Morgan to ask for a building inspection of the property. No skin off Dick’s nose-I’d pose as the owner thinking of selling, pay Morgan’s fee, and it’d go on my expense account to Carlson. I phoned Morgan, said he’d been recommended by someone whose name I’d forgotten, and we set a time.
Dick’s house is a freestanding number with high-growing shrubs and trees all around affording it a lot of privacy. No water view but a good location. Dick absented himself after taking me around to show me the quirks of the place and giving me a key to an outside shed and a side gate. Morgan turned up on time. ‘Cliff,’ I said as we shook.
He was small, a bit overweight with some of the muscle of earlier years turning to fat. I put him in his mid- forties- ginger hair fading, weathered complexion, strong grip. ‘Nice place, Cliff,’ Morgan said. ‘What’re you asking?’
‘Haven’t got that far yet. Give me a fair report and I’ll also be grateful for your opinion-you know, off the cuff.’
We wandered around. He had a digital camera and took pictures. He probed and prodded, squatted to look at foundations, hopped up with a bit of effort on the brick fence to take a look at the roof.
‘Seems pretty good. Could stand some paint and gutter work. What’s she like inside?’
‘Come and have a look. Fancy a drink?’
‘Wouldn’t say no.’
We sank a can each as we wandered through the house and had another out on the back deck.
He was wearing jeans, a flannie and a light jacket. He fished out cigarettes. ‘You mind?’
‘Go ahead.’
He held out the packet. I shook my head.
‘Don’t tempt me, trying to stop.’
He lit up, inhaled. ‘You said a fair inspection and an opinion. What d’you mean exactly?’
‘It’s like this… want another beer? It’s only mid-strength.’
‘Why not?’
I brought out the cans and pulled my chair a little closer to his. ‘The wife and I have split up. Bugger of a business. We have to go halves in the house. I’ve got a bit put by and I could maybe buy her out. Save all the hassle. But I’d have to get a valuation down the lower end. Know what I mean?’
His small grey eyes went angry-shrewd. ‘Do I what! I’m in the middle of the same sort of crap myself, but she got in first and had the place valued way up. Bitch!’
He was one of those men whose tongue was easily loosened by grog, or perhaps he just needed an outlet for his grievance. He ranted on for a while about his wife’s rapacity and complimented me on my strategy.
He polished off his can. ‘You have to play it as tough as they do, Cliff. Tougher.’
I nodded. ‘Got any other suggestions, Ralph?’
He winked sloppily as he got up. ‘I’ll mail you a report you can do something useful with-no worries. But you said you had a bit in reserve. Invest in art, mate. Invest in art.’
The art gallery, had to be a connection.
Two days later Morgan’s men had finished their work on the gallery and the place was open for business. I went in for a look-see. I know less than nothing about art. I like the Impressionists and the Heidelberg School, Goya and a few others like Francis Bacon. I suppose I can see what Picasso had going for him, but I can do without Andy Warhol and religious art of all kinds.
I wandered around with the catalogue. The sculptures mostly left me cold except for a few done in wood that I thought I could live with. Not on, with the prices the way they were. I was looking at a big piece of carved and shaped driftwood mounted on a plinth when I saw him. Morgan sauntered into the gallery, nodded to the attendant, an attractive young woman, and stood in front of a couple of large daubings that I hadn’t given a second glance. He moved slightly to gauge how the light fell, checked the catalogue and nodded his approval. He looked so proprietorial I thought he might take out a handkerchief and whisk away a speck or two of dust.
I kept well hidden and he didn’t see me. No chance of that really-the paintings, and presumably their position and the prices, were all that interested him. After he left I checked the catalogue. Items 12 and 13 were Imbroglio and Lassitude by Thomas L Matthiesson. The notes said Matthiesson was a renowned abstract artist who’d exhibited in Paris, London and New York.
The paintings were for sale at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars each. The attendant, who apparently doubled as a saleswoman, approached me because I’d been standing in front of the pictures for several minutes and paying close attention to the catalogue.
‘Superb, aren’t they?’ she said.
I nodded. ‘Superb.’
‘Bound to appreciate.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Oh, dear old Tommy’s on his last legs. He’ll die any day and a dead artist fetches more than a live one, generally speaking. Are you interested?’
‘Yes and no,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
She looked puzzled but still gave me a bright smile. ‘You’re welcome.’
I phoned Carlson and told him what I’d learned.
‘That’s great work. I’ll let Mrs Morgan know. She’ll be very pleased. Send in your account, and thank you.’
Three days later he phoned and asked me to come in for a meeting with Mrs Morgan. That was a turn- up.
‘What’s wrong? I thought she’d be pleased to be getting a hundred thousand.’
‘She’s pleased as punch, but she’s not getting any money. She wants to explain it herself, to both of us. I don’t know what’s going on.’
I went to Carlson’s office in Coogee. He told me that, although Mrs Morgan was living in a flat above a shop nearby, she was always late for their appointments. She arrived and apologised. She was a nice-looking woman, in her late thirties at a guess. Casual in jeans and top, a bit ill-kempt but in an attractive way. She couldn’t stop smiling and I couldn’t help liking her and being pleased she was happy, without having the faintest idea why.
‘I’m a picture restorer,’ she said, ‘that’s my job.’
I nodded. ‘Okay.’
‘I went to that gallery to look at the Matthiessons. I know about paintings-Australian pictures anyway. They’re fakes. I happen to know that the original of Imbroglio is in private hands in Brisbane. Don’t know about the other one but it’s a fake, too. The tones and the brush-work are wrong.’
‘That’s a pity,’ Carlson said.
She laughed. ‘No, it’s great. Ralph and I fell out a long time ago. One of the reasons was his resentment at my doing the course that got me into this line of work. I don’t make that much money but I love it, just love it, and I’m pretty good at it. Ralph hates what he does and he’s not good at it anymore. When he decided to hide that money he must have enjoyed the thought of doing it this way. The art world’s full of crooks and shysters. Someone would have told him how to work it on the quiet.’
‘He’s deprived you of a lot of money,’ Carlson said.
She shook her head. ‘You keep saying that, but I would only have gone for thirty per cent, as with the rest of the assets. I wanted to be fair but he tried to dupe me and I can’t help a bit of malice. Poor Ralph, he’s blown the lot.’
The big score
Jerry Fowler came up to me in the pub on a cold winter night. He was drinking rum and smelled of it.
