Peter Leonard - Back from the Dead

“I can’t tell you anything about how the painting came into my possession. The sale has to be completely confidential. The buyer can’t know who I am.”

“But M. Chartier, this is a missing masterpiece. There is a story behind it, a mystique that will add to its value. Prospective buyers will want to know, not to mention the art world.”

“What is it worth?”

“I can’t say with certainty. We will have to establish a selling price based on what other paintings by Van Gogh have sold for.” Broussard turned to the painting. “But this, I can assure you, will command a very high price. I would think eight to ten million dollars. What were you expecting?”

“Somewhere in that range.”

“I assume you have a bill of sale from the original owner, gallery or auction house.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“M. Chartier, we cannot in good conscience trust its authenticity unless you have authentication credentials. Van Gogh has been forged more frequently than any other modern artist. Before we can establish a price the painting has to be authenticated. So you won’t mind leaving it with me?”

“Authenticated? You can see it is original. Look at the signature.”

“Signatures can be forged.”

“Maybe I should take it to another gallery,” Hess said, even though he had had a similar experience selling the Durer to the broker in New York. That had had to be X-rayed to prove its nature and origin.

“They will tell you the same thing. Without authentication you will not be able to sell the painting.”

“Do you know someone? I want to make this happen quickly. I will be leaving France soon for an extended vacation.”

“The only person in Nice who can give an absolutely trustworthy and acceptable attribution is M. Givry. He is an art expert who intimately understands Van Gogh. M. Givry worked at the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, and he has curated exhibitions of his paintings at museums around the world. Let me see what I can do. Please make yourself comfortable.” Broussard waved his arm indicating the leather couch. “May I offer you coffee?”

Hess shook his head and sat on the couch. Broussard moved to the desk, took an address book out of a drawer, opened it and made a phone call.

Hess walked out of the gallery. He didn’t have the patience to sit in Broussard’s office and wait until the expert arrived and authenticated the painting. Hess noticed a silver Peugeot parked across the street, morning sun reflecting off the sheet metal, making it difficult to see if anyone was in it. He had passed a car just like it on corniche des Oliviers on his way to Nice. Was he being followed, or was he suspicious because Marie-Noëlle had seen a man on the property?

Hess walked to a cafe down the street, sat outside, feeling the warmth of the sun, and drank two cups of café americain, discreetly staring at two well-dressed, good-looking ladies a few tables away.

When he returned to the gallery an hour later the Peugeot was gone, confirming that his jittery nerves and paranoia were an overreaction. Broussard was in his office, talking to a dapper little man wearing a dark suit and bow tie.

“M. Chartier, let me present our foremost Van Gogh expert, M. Givry.”

The little man stared at Hess, making no attempt to shake hands.

“Have you finished the authentication?”

Broussard said, “I am afraid we have bad news.”

“This painting is a forgery,” Givry said. “The technique is all wrong. Van Gogh lathered his colors roughly on the canvas.”

“How do I know this is the painting I brought?”

“M. Chartier,” Broussard said, plump cheeks turning red. “We have been selling art for fifty years. I can assure you…” Givry, too, looked nervous, rubbing his hands, eyes darting around.

Hess had taken the painting from Hans Frank. How could it be a fake? The Durer was from the same collection and it had been authenticated. “I should phone the police and have you arrested.”

Broussard, offended now, moved to his desk, picked up the telephone receiver and glanced at Hess. “Here you are. Make your call, but it will not change anything. This was not painted by Vincent Van Gogh.”

Hess lifted the canvas off the easel and walked out of the office. He sat in the car, thinking about Hans Frank and the paintings, now wondering if the others had been forged.

After the war Hess had visited Frank’s estate. Hans had been uncharacteristically uneasy, pacing while they talked. “The Allies are closing in,” Hans had said. “They are going to arrest me.”

“Why don’t you leave Germany?”

“There is no place I can go.” He handed Hess a map. “I need you to move the paintings to a secure location. I’ll contact you when I have been released from prison.”

Frank was arrested a few days later. He was taken to Nuremburg, tried and found guilty of war crimes and crimes against humanity. He was hanged on October 16, 1946.

Hess found the cave and what remained of Frank’s art collection and contacted Gerhard Braun. Hess needed a way to move the paintings and Braun had trucks. They agreed to split everything fifty-fifty.

“Harry, you see him lookin’ over here? Why’s he lookin’ at us?” Hess had come out of the gallery and was staring at them. “It’s the car. I think he’s looking at the Peugeot.”

But then Hess turned and walked down the street to a sidewalk cafe and sat at a table.

Cordell made a U-turn. Harry said, “What’re you doing?”

“Gettin’ outta here. Don’t you know nothin’ about surveillance? Man seen the car, we got to be more careful. When I worked for Chilly, see, we’d have to watch out for the police. They come to the projects in beat-up old cars, cops dressed for the street. They’d park, smoke cigarettes, lookin’ around, waitin’ for somethin’ to go down, couldn’t’ve been more obvious.”

Colette said, “What did you do?”

“Wait till they took off, or came back another time.”

“But you got busted, you told me.”

“Yeah, but it had nothin’ to do with that. I was suckered by a cop dressed like he was homeless, livin’ in a refrigerator carton. Man was a stone actor.”

Cordell took the first left, made another U-turn and parked on the street with a clean angle on Hess’ car and the gallery entrance. No way Hess’d be able to see them.

“How do you like me now?” Cordell said, glancing at Harry.

“Not bad.”

“There he is,” Colette said.

Harry saw Hess come out of the gallery, carrying a painting. He put it in the trunk, got in the car and pulled out, going right toward Monte Carlo.

Colette said, “What do you think he is doing with the painting?

“Trying to sell it,” Harry said. “His German assets are frozen. I think he needs money.”

“It has to be worth a fortune,” Colette said. “I looked it up in the library. It was looted by the Nazis and supposedly lost during the war, destroyed in a museum fire.”

Harry saw Hess heading back to the harbor and then turning right toward Nice.

Instead of turning right on boulevard Gambetta, Hess drove through Nice, going west, just driving, the Peugeot still behind him, seeing it in the rearview and side mirrors. At Antibes he turned off the highway and drove into town. It was midday and congested. He parked in an angled space on the street, picked the pistol up off the passenger seat and slid it in his pocket.

Hess went into a restaurant. Standing just inside the door he could see the Peugeot double-parked behind the Renault, stopping traffic, horns honking. He walked past the maitre d’ into the crowded dining room, heard the loud din of voices, saw waiters carrying trays of food, moving about. He walked through the dining room into the stainless-steel kitchen, hearing the sharp clatter of plates and utensils, line cooks working, eyes on him but no one questioning his being there or trying to stop him, and then he was outside, walking along the alley behind the restaurant. He made a series of turns taking him blocks from the main street where he had parked. There was a taxi sitting in front of a small hotel. Hess got in and told the driver to take him to Nice.