Stuart Woods: Insatiable Appetites

“I’ll hold my breath.”

“Now, to business: Kate would like you to submit the names of five people who you believe would make a very fine Supreme Court justice. She would like no more than five hundred words in support of each of them, and no more than two may be white males. Got it?”

“Is somebody over at the Court looking a little peaked?”

“Who knows? I think she’s just being prepared — it’s in her nature.”

“Okay, when?”

“Soon. Fax them to me. You already have the number.”

“I’ll give it some thought. Tell me, is your reason for coming up here that Kate is coming to Eduardo Bianchi’s high mass at St. Patrick’s?”

“She is, and she told me to ask his daughter if she can sit in the family pew.”

“I’ll take care of that for you, if you like.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that. It seems like rather a personal request for me to be making to someone I don’t know.”

“Consider it done.”

“Okay, I have to get back to work here, the paper level is rising around me.”

“Right. See ya.”

“Oh, Stone, one other thing.”

“Yes?”

“Who the hell is Fats Waller?”

Stone got Mary Ann Bianchi on the phone. “Good day, Mary Ann.”

“And to you, Stone.”

“Katharine Lee’s office has asked me to respond on her behalf to your invitation to Eduardo’s mass. She will be there, and she would very much like to sit with the family, if you agree.”

“We’d be delighted to have Kate with us,” Mary Ann replied.

“I’ll pass that on,” Stone said. “Be prepared for a Secret Service presence.”

“I’m sure St. Pat’s has handled that before.”

“There’s another matter, concerning the estate.”

“What is it?”

“Are you acquainted with the name ‘Charles Magnussen’?”

“Yes, he’s an art restorer, by common consent, one of the best in the world.”

“Has he had, to your knowledge, any contact with Eduardo’s collection?”

“Yes, he restored a number of canvases in the collection over the years. Magnussen and Papa were old friends.”

“To your knowledge, did Magnussen do the restorations at Eduardo’s house or in his own studio?”

“In his own studio. A painting usually took some weeks to restore.”

“Are you acquainted with a tiny check mark stamped on the frames of some of the canvases he restored?”

“I’ve never noticed anything like that.”

“Before he died last year, Magnussen told the dealer who represented him for his original works that he had forged numerous paintings and had stamped the check mark on his forgeries. Yesterday, the art catalogers at the house discovered four paintings in the collection that bore the tiny stamp. I asked them to examine all the paintings and drawings in the house for signs of forgery, and their total now stands at twenty-four oils and watercolors that carry Magnussen’s check mark. They are all among the finest and most highly valued work in the collection.”

Mary Ann seemed to be caught in a stunned silence.

“Are you still there?” Stone asked.

“Yes,” she said hoarsely, “I’m here. You seem to be telling me that Magnussen copied the paintings while he was supposed to be restoring them.”

“That is a very strong possibility. What’s more, if he restored them first, then copied them, the copies would bear the same signs of restoration as the originals, making them virtually impossible to tell apart.”

“My God,” she breathed, “you’re talking about work that probably exceeds hundreds of millions of dollars in value, at today’s auction prices.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Then I should call the police,” she said. “They have an art squad that deals with this sort of thing.”

“I think it would be better if you let me pursue the matter privately — at least, at first.”

“How would you go about that?”

“I know Magnussen’s dealer. He found me two of my mother’s paintings, which I bought.”

“Is he the sort of person who would know how to dispose of such work as Papa’s collection?”

“I should think so, he’s eminent in his field. I should say, however, that his reputation is beyond reproach. I don’t think he’s the sort of man who would participate in such a crime. Still, I should talk to him, representing the estate.”

“Please do that, Stone, and quickly. We can’t have word of this getting out.”

“I’ll try and call you tomorrow,” Stone said. He said goodbye and hung up.

Stone got into his jacket and an overcoat and stopped by Joan’s desk. “I’m going out for a while,” he said to her. “You can reach me on my cell.”

“Have fun,” she said.

Stone walked to Park Avenue, then to Fifty-seventh Street, where he went west to a large building near Carnegie Hall. The name, etched into the granite facade, read THE PITT GALLERY. He went inside, gave his name, and asked to see Raoul Pitt. He was asked to wait for a few minutes, and a young woman took his coat. He browsed among the expensive paintings and sculptures on display for a few minutes, then Raoul Pitt appeared with another man. They shook hands, and the man left.

“Hello, Stone,” Pitt said, shaking his hand warmly. “Would you like to come back to my office?”

“Thank you, Raoul, yes.” Stone followed him to the rear of the building and his large, sparsely furnished office, which overlooked a sculpture garden out back. Pitt made them both a cup of espresso from a little machine, then sat down in a chair facing Stone.

“Well, now, what can I do for you today, Stone?”

“I’ve come to see you about your late client, Charles Magnussen.”

“Ah, Charles,” Pitt said regretfully. “A very fine painter.”

“And, from all accounts, a very fine forger,” Stone said. “I’ve heard the story about the check marks he placed on the frames of his forgeries.”

Pitt shook his head. “I was shocked when he told me of that in the hospital. He died two days later. How did you hear?”

“I’m co-executor for the Eduardo Bianchi estate,” Stone said. “One of the people cataloging his collection told me about it.”

“Ah, Eduardo. I sold him a few things over the years, but he usually bought at auction, always by proxy. And before bidding, he sent his own experts to examine the works and pronounce them genuine.”

“Twenty-four of the paintings in Eduardo’s collection bear the tiny check marks that Magnussen told you about.”

“Good God!” Pitt exhaled. He looked ill. “What a catastrophe!”

“Eduardo hired Magnussen as a restorer,” Stone said. “Probably right after he got out of prison. He did what, eight, ten years for art forgery?”

“Something like that. I can see where this is going. You’re saying Charles took the works to his studio, restored, then copied them to include the marks of restoration.”

“Something like that.”

Pitt shook his head. “I hope you have taken steps to see that word does not get out. The consequences for the art market could be devastating. There are always rumors floating around the world, saying that one multimillion-dollar painting or another sold at auction was a forgery. This news could make things worse.”

“I had hoped that, with your help, the original paintings might be recovered before that happens.” He handed Pitt a copy of the cataloger’s list.

Pitt read it. “I’ll do whatever I can to help,” he said. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“I think you should send the team working at Eduardo’s house here, to my gallery and the eight floors of storage space upstairs. I will assign staff to help them view every painting in the place for signs of forgery. I do not ever want it suggested that I sold these pictures or had any part in this.”