Quintin Jardine - A Coffin For Two

Davidoff acknowledged her point with a nod. ‘Maybe so. But remember, he had the military, and the garrotte. They were strong deterrents.’

He must have sensed that he had taken his courtship as far as he could for the night, for without warning he turned to me. ‘Oz, my young friend. Earlier, you said you had something to show me.’

‘Yes, but first, let’s clear the table.’

When Prim and I had removed the last of the dishes, I switched on the twin spots which lit up the terrace at night, and picked up Gavin Scott’s tube which lay in the corner to my right. I took out the colour photocopy, unrolled it, and spread it on the table in front of Davidoff.

‘What d’you think of this?’ I asked.

The old boy gasped. A great hissing gasp. His mouth dropped open. Until that moment, I hadn’t thought it possible that anything could take him by surprise.

He put his hands on the picture, and I saw that they were shaking slightly. ‘Where did you get this?’ he whispered.

‘The original belongs to a client of ours, in Scotland. It was sold to him at a private auction in Peretellada in June of this year, and offered as an unknown work by Dali. Look, in the corner. It’s signed, but undated. Blackstone Spanish Investigations has been hired to authenticate it, if we can.’

‘Who was the owner of this original before your client?’ Davidoff asked, beginning to recover from his surprise.

‘We don’t know. Our client was visiting a pal of his, a bloke called David Foy, an ex-pat who lives down in Bagur. They were invited to the auction by a guy they met at Pals golf club, another Englishman, Trevor Eames, who lives around here. The auction was run by a man calling himself Ronald Starr, who said he was an agent for the owner.’

‘Yes?’ said Davidoff, intense, captivated.

‘The only thing is, we believe that the real Ronnie Starr was dead by then, murdered, and buried in a grave not far from here. The real Starr was a talented artist, and an expert on Dali. Our theory is that he forged the picture, showed it to someone, and that that person killed him and stole it, knowing that there’s always some fool out there ready to part with his money. Our client paid four hundred thousand US for it.’

‘Jesus!’ The word shot from Davidoff’s narrowed lips as if it had escaped. His face was tense and his eye was blazing.

‘We’ve heard a story,’ I began, ‘that before he died Dali signed some blank canvasses, backwashes and the like.’

‘No!’ The little man sat bolt upright. ‘I know the people who looked after Dali before he died. He didn’t sign no blank anythings. Towards the end he couldn’t even wipe his own ass, let alone autograph canvases. The man buried in Figueras didn’t sign anything from the day that Gala died. That I can tell you.’

I leaned over the picture again. ‘Could it be older than that? Could it possibly be genuine?’

Davidoff’s face creased into a smile. ‘No, boy. This is a recent work. And the man buried in Figueras had nothing to do with it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because the vision is not the same. This is not his vision. He would not have seen something like this; it is too, too … sympathetic. That’s the best that I can explain to you.’

‘But it could have been Ronnie Starr who painted it?’

He shrugged. ‘Or another artist.There are others, you know. Why don’t you ask around?’

I nodded. ‘That’s what we plan to do.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you go on with it.’

He rose to his feet and drew Prim with him, to kiss her on both cheeks, his lips just brushing the corners of her mouth.

‘Now I got to go.You have given me a day I won’t forget in a hurry, Senor Oz, but it is over. It is late and I must go. Before the sun comes up and catches me unawares!’

Davidoff left at a quarter to midnight. We heard his little car mewling its way into the night, down the track below our balcony. It was hardly out of earshot before we locked up and headed after him.

In the summer, you can tell the difference between the visitors and the locals in L’Escala. They pass each other in the streets; the former group heading home, the latter heading for the night-spots.

Apart from the diners, nothing much happens in La Lluna before midnight. It’s only then that the boys and girls come out to play in the bar, and on the pool and speed-disc tables. Prim and I had found the place during the summer. On the doorstep of our thirties, we were older than the average punters, but still young enough not to stand out as oddities.

La Lluna, set back from the road just off Riells beach, is four establishments in one: restaurant, bar, games arcade and art gallery. All around the place, the walls are hung with the work of Girona artists. Paco and Dani, the proprietors, know their stuff, and more than a few of their customers go there with an eye on the pictures as well as the menu. We were among them, and had come to know that Friday night was when the painters came to drop off their work.

Paco was having a break in the doorway as we crunched our way across the gravel. He acknowledged us with a wave as we wedged ourselves on to two stools at the bar and ordered our drinks, then wandered over to say hello.

We shook hands. ‘You are well, yes?’ he asked.

‘Fine, last time we looked.’ I pointed to a very tasty still-life on the far wall. ‘I fancy that. Cuanto es?’

Paco dug into the pocket of his apron and produced a card with prices scribbled on it. ‘That one? It says here sixty thousand pesetas. But maybe you could have it for less. Manuel, the artist, he is here. Would you like to speak to him?’

I looked at Prim. She nodded, and Paco disappeared, into the dining room off the bar, returning after a couple of minutes with a stocky man of around forty with long, wild hair, round, bear-like shoulders and intense bright eyes. ‘This is Manuel,’ he said, ‘the artist. From Girona. I leave you to talk.’ He vanished once more, this time through to the games room, where the noise was mounting as a speed-disc game reached its decisive moments.

‘You like the still-life?’ Manuel asked, in good clear English.

‘Very much. What’s the medium?’

‘Oil. On linoleum.’

My eyebrows rose. ‘Lino?’

‘Si. Linoleum is oil-based itself, so it should be good for painting. I do it as an experiment. Most of my work is experimental.’

He looked from me to Prim and back again. ‘Fifty thousand,’ he said.

‘Visa?’ asked Prim.

‘Si, just tell Paco.’

‘Deal,’ she said.

‘You choose well,’ said Manuel. ‘Just don’t tell anyone what you pay for it. My work is on show in the galleries in Girona. They would ask for a hundred thousand for that picture.’

‘And it would still be a bargain,’ I thought … but I kept the thought to myself. Our new friend was a talented man. His brush work was strong and his colours vivid. Look at the still-life for long enough and you’d swear that it was three-dimensional, and that the glass, the bowl, and the orange were suspended in mid-air.

I decided that it was time to move on to the real business. ‘Where did you study, Manuel?’

‘In Figueras.’

‘Oh. At the same college as Dali?’

He shook his head. ‘No, Dali studied in Madrid … until they kicked him out.’

‘Why?’

Manuel laughed. ‘They say that he would not sit his examinations. The story is that Dali declared that none of the examiners were fit to judge him. But others say that his work was shit in those days, and he did not want to be exposed.’

‘Is he one of your influences?’

Manuel shook his head. ‘No. You would ruin yourself as an artist if you tried to copy Dali’s style. No one has ever seen the world like he did. As far as I can, I try to be myself, with no influences. If I lean towards anyone, it is Miro … another great Catalan artist.’