Ian Hamilton - The wild beast of Wuhan

“Did Jan sign them?”

“Of course.”

“Did you meet Hughes, Mrs. Sorensen?”

“Yes, that one time in Skagen.”

“What kind of man is he?”

“I didn’t like him.”

“Why not?”

Jan Sorensen was shifting uncomfortably, his eyes on the floor.

“He was one of those overly polite people, the kind who knows he’s better than you and lets you know it by talking down to you. And he was too friendly, saying how wonderful our family was when I knew he didn’t mean it, and talking about what a great partnership he and Maurice had, and how he was sure he and Jan would be great mates. That’s the word he used, mates.”

“What does he look like?”

“He is a tall man, a full head above Jan. He’s thin, bony, his face is long and pointy, and his eyes I found very strange.”

“His eyes?”

“Yes, they were so close to his nose, pressing in, almost running into each other. When he looked at me, I had the sensation that he had one big eye instead of two like the rest of us. But one eye or two, he still looked sneaky.”

“He kept his word, though?”

“What do you mean?”

“He always paid you in full, on time?”

“He did.”

“When was the last time you heard from him?”

“It was almost two years ago. He wrote to say he had terminated his agreement with the person buying the Fauvist art and that he was going to have to stop buying from us. We wrote back saying there had to be a market somewhere for the forgeries, and that if he wanted, Jan could paint in other styles. He responded by saying that we misunderstood the nature of the commission — that he wasn’t in the business of selling forgeries, that the customer he had was knowingly buying fakes. He said they loved the Fauvists, couldn’t afford originals, and were very happy to hang Maurice’s and Jan’s interpretations. He underlined interpretations.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Was it true?” she asked. “What Hughes said about the customer?”

“I wouldn’t be here if it was true,” Ava said.

Helga looked at her husband. “I told you it was a lie,” she said, then turned to Ava. “My husband is too trusting at times. He believed that story.”

“Have you heard from Hughes since?”

“No, and we wrote to him twice, and to the gallery. No answer.”

“Did you keep his letters?”

“All of them.”

“Can I get the one he sent two years ago to end your relationship?”

“I’m not sure — ” Helga began.

“I’ll make a photocopy. You can keep the original.”

“I think that will be okay.”

“Good. Why don’t you get it for me.”

Helga returned with a fistful of letters. “I thought you might as well have the other ones too, the ones asking him to paint this guy and that guy.”

“Do you want to walk down to the hotel with me?” Ava said.

“Why not?”

Jan Sorensen sat quietly as his wife got her coat. He’s like a child, Ava thought, one of those men who can’t survive without a strong woman. And Helga fit that bill.

Helga reappeared with a coat and a Burberry umbrella that was ratty even for a fake. “I shouldn’t be long,” she said to Jan.

He stood and walked with them to the door. “Excuse me, but do you still want some of my paintings?” he said to Ava.

“Jan, the business is done,” his wife said.

“But last night she said — ”

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind having a painting,” Ava said. “The thing is, I don’t want to take it with me.”

“We’ll send it,” he said.

Ava gave her business card to Helga. “Send it to this address. Choose any painting you want and send me an invoice.”

Helga glanced at her husband and then turned to Ava. “I see no need for an invoice.”

Ava smiled. “Thank you.”

They walked down the hill side by side, Helga’s arm linked with Ava’s for support. She outweighed Ava at least two to one and wasn’t completely steady in a pair of shoes with small heels. Helga kept glancing left and right, as if anxious about who was observing them, or maybe hoping that someone would see her walking side by side with the exotic young Chinese woman.

The same man was behind the desk at the hotel, and he nodded as they walked into the lobby. “Can I use the office again?” Ava asked.

“Sure.”

Ava went into the office with Helga. She sat at the computer and signed on while Helga hung over her shoulder.

“Do you know how to use a photocopier?” Ava asked.

“No,” Helga said.

Ava took one of the letters and placed it face down on the glass. She pointed to the copy button and hit it. “That’s all you have to do,” she said.

While Helga copied the letters, Ava checked in to her email. The wire had been sent. She opened the attachment and pressed print. “Your money has been sent already,” she said.

“Thank you,” Helga said, focused on the photocopier.

It was just past nine o’clock — three a.m. in Toronto — and Ava knew there was no way she could reach her travel agent. She logged on to the Atlantic Airways site and searched for a flight that would get her to London. There was a 2:45 p.m. flight from Vagar to Copenhagen that would connect with a Cimber Sterling flight to Gatwick, getting her into London just before nine in the evening. “I’m thinking I would like to leave today,” she said, pulling the copy of the wire confirmation from the printer and handing it to Helga, “but if you want to me stay until the money is in your bank account, I will.”

Helga read the document and said, “You can go.”

Ava booked the flights and then looked for a hotel. The Hughes Gallery was on Church Street in Kensington. Two months earlier, while on the job for Tommy Ordonez, the Filipino billionaire, she had been in that exact area, at the Fletcher Hotel, and had enjoyed its proximity to Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park. It was right on the High Street, directly across from the gardens, and a short walk from Church Street. The room rate was 235 pounds a night — Hong Kong Peninsula Hotel rates. She clicked onto their website and reserved a room.

Glen Hughes had written to the Sorensens on gallery stationery. The letterhead listed a phone number and a general email address. Ava punched the number into her cellphone. A woman’s voice answered, “Hughes Gallery.”

Well, it’s still open for business, Ava thought. “Could I speak to Mr. Hughes, please?” she asked.

“He doesn’t arrive until ten.”

“Do you expect him today?”

“Of course.”

“And what is your closing hour?”

“We’re open from nine to six every day but Sunday.”

Ava hung up and returned to the computer. She drafted an email saying that she was the representative for a Hong Kong-based art collector and was in London on a scouting expedition. She asked to drop by the gallery at eleven o’clock the next morning to meet with Mr. Hughes. She sent the email without much optimism. If there was no response, she’d phone again when she got to London, or if necessary make a cold-call visit.

Helga had finished making the copies and bundled the letters together. She handed Ava her set. “I want to say that I’m very thankful for the money. I just need you to understand that I am still concerned that Jan’s name doesn’t get dragged through the mud because of this. He is a good man and a good painter, and we are forever hopeful that he will find an audience for his own work.”

“I will do everything I can to protect his reputation,” Ava said.

She walked Helga to the hotel door and stood outside in the drizzle, watching the stout woman make her ascent up the hill. After ten steps or so, Helga turned, smiled, and waved. Ava felt a touch of guilt as she waved back. The truth was, she wasn’t at all sure she would be able to keep Jan Sorensen’s name secure.