Peter James - A Twist of the Knife

The Denempont Gallery was located on Albermarle Street in Mayfair where, along with neighbouring Cork Street, many of London’s smartest art dealers were housed. The gallery specialized in French Impressionist paintings with impeccable provenance, and it was generally acknowledged that no London dealer knew more about this particular period than its proprietor, James DeVere Denempont.

Sellers would come to him as their first port of call, because of his reputation for either paying the highest prices, or arranging the sale of important works at what were regularly record prices. Potential buyers came to him because they knew they would always get the real deal.

Denempont was a portly, balding, bon viveur of fifty-five, who had a penchant for chalk-striped, double-breasted Savile Row suits, Turnbull and Asser shirts and hand-made shoes from Lobb. He usually wore the salmon pink and cucumber green tie of the Garrick Club, and lunched there without fail every day of the working week. In fact, on this particular Thursday in June, he was just about to leave his stately office on the floor above the gallery, and take a stroll in the fine sunshine over to Garrick Street, a leisurely fifteen minutes away, just past Leicester Square, when his intercom buzzed.

It was his secretary. ‘Mr Denempont, a lady’s just come into the gallery who is very anxious to speak to you.’

‘Could she come back later, Angela? I’m just on my way to lunch.’

‘I did suggest that, but she says she has to catch a plane to Italy this afternoon.’ Then, in a tone of voice that she used when something was important, she said, ‘I think you should have a word with her.’

‘All right,’ he said, slightly irritated. He was lunching with an old friend and important client, Angus Hobart, a hereditary peer, whom he did not want to keep waiting. ‘Tell her I can only spare five minutes. Shall I come down?’

‘She’d like to see you in private.’

‘Very well, show her up.’

He crushed out the stub of his morning Montecristo in his ashtray, buttoned up his waistcoat, stood up, pulled on his jacket and went around his desk towards the door. Moments later his secretary opened it and a tall, elegant and very classy-looking lady of about fifty entered. She was dressed in that almost impossibly stylish way that only rich Europeans knew how, and she was extremely beautiful. And despite the warmth of the day she was wearing gloves.

‘Mr Denempont?’ she said in an exquisite Italian accent. ‘My name is Contessa Romy Di Valieria Massino.’ She proferred her hand and he shook it, then offered her a seat in front of his desk.

He sat back down behind it, shooting a discreet glance at his Patek Philippe watch. ‘How can I help you, Contessa?’ he asked.

‘I understand you have an engagement,’ she said, ‘so I will not keep you for more than a few minutes. Your name was given to my husband by Marcus Leigh-Hoye as someone we should talk to.’

Leigh-Hoye was a friend and fellow art dealer, who specialized in early Dutch masters, a man who was very definitely not a time-waster. Denempont’s interest was immediately piqued. And it was about to become even more so. ‘Ah, yes, Marcus is a good man,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘My husband and I have bought many pictures from him over the years.’

If she had said that she had bought just one painting from Marcus Leigh-Hoye, Denempont would have been impressed — and he was not a man who impressed easily. But the word many set all kinds of positive connections firing off in his synapses. Mostly to do with money. For, while he loved fine art, he loved money even more. If you went shopping in Marcus Leigh-Hoye’s Cork Street gallery, your entry level purchase wasn’t going to leave you with much change from a quarter of a million pounds.

He leaned forward. ‘So how can I help you?’

‘My husband and I need to raise some money — we have very expensive repairs to our palazzo in Firenze, but more importantly we are faced with some very heavy taxation which, if my husband cannot pay, could be ruinous for us. We could have many of our assets seized. One of our biggest is our collection of French Impressionist pictures. Marcus Leigh-Hoye told my husband you are the best man to sell such a collection.’

‘And what pictures do you have?’ he asked. ‘And by which artists?’

She opened her Hermès bag and pulled out a sheath of papers, clipped together, which she handed to him.

He pulled on his half-moon tortoiseshell glasses and began to read. She lit a cigarette and waited patiently, watching him.

Within less than a minute his eyes were almost out on stalks. This was some collection! Almost every great name among the Impressionist painters was included. Monet; Renoir; Pissarro; Manet; Cézanne; Matisse; Sisley. Included amongst them were some incredibly rare and valuable unfinished works.

When he had finished reading he looked back at her. She stubbed the lipsticky butt of her cigarette out in the ashtray alongside the stub of his cigar and crossed her legs in a sudden display of anxiety. ‘What do you think, Mr Denempont?’ she asked in a charming, almost innocent voice.

Millions! That’s what he was thinking. Millions! This was potentially one of the most important sales in years. He was already calculating his potential commission. But there was a problem. A big, big, problem. ‘May I ask where these paintings are housed?’

‘In our home in Firenze,’ she said.

‘Excuse me one moment, please,’ he said, and pressed the intercom. ‘Angela, see if you can get hold of Lord Hobart and tell him I’m going to be a bit late.’ Then he turned his attention to the Contessa. ‘Forgive me if you already know this, but it is almost impossible to get an export licence for works of art housed in Italy. There would, of course, be a certain value for this collection sold within Italy — but nothing remotely comparable to their value here or in the United States. I’ve tried before for Italian clients, and even with —’ he held up his right hand and rubbed his fingers together, not wanting to actually say the word bribery — ‘it’s impossible.’

‘Where are they worth the most?’ she asked, unperturbed. ‘Here or in the United States.’

‘Undoubtedly the States at present. There are a number of fabulously wealthy collectors there who will pay a premium for rare works of art, just to have them in their private collections for their eyes only. Some of them will even buy stolen works — not that I would deal with those people,’ he hastened to add.

She pursed her lips. ‘So you could arrange the sale of these in the United States?’

‘There are plenty of potential buyers there. In New York, Los Angeles and elsewhere. I could get you the best prices for them in New York. But...’

He watched her tap another cigarette out of an expensive-looking holder. ‘I’m being impolite,’ he said. ‘Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee? A glass of Champagne?’

‘If you have Champagne, that would be very nice,’ she said.

He pressed the intercom again and requested two glasses of Pol Roger. Winston Churchill’s favourite and good enough for him as his house standard.

‘I’m afraid Lord Hobart has already left to meet you,’ his secretary said.

‘Call the Garrick and tell them to apologize, and for him to start without me.’ He looked back at the Contessa.

‘And the but is?’ she asked.

‘It’s rather a big but , I’m afraid. The but is that you would have to get the pictures to New York yourself. I couldn’t be involved in that.’

‘You mean, smuggle them?’

‘That’s your only option.’

He saw her eyes widen. She drew on her cigarette, holding it in her gloved fingers. She was without doubt not only a very beautiful and smart lady, but tough, too.