The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (24 page)

“Wow, Jack. What a place.”

“Incredible. Moss would drool to death in here. It is so right.”

She looked around more and spotted the one concession to modernity – the unobtrusive CCTV camera high up on the far wall.
Whoever runs this place must have heard or seen us come in.
Manton tapped his rolled up copy of the
La Gazette Drouot
on the counter.

Tamsin heard a shuffling sound emerging from the basement stairs, as a figure resembling a brown turtle could be seen ascending the stairs. The figure straightened, tall and as sturdy as the Eiffel Tower. His head was topped with a mop of floury white hair pulled back in a ponytail, and when he turned, they could see a large black and white, ivory, art deco brooch holding it in place. His eyes, a deep blue, added to his look of intense intelligence and curiosity.
The Jolly Green Giant is alive and well
.

“
Bonjour,
” he spoke with a smile whiter than the ivories of a Steinway piano. “How may I help you?”

“
Bonjour
, Monsieur Emile Boin?” asked Manton. Tamsin guessed he’d also spotted the discreet nameplate above the door.

“That is me.” The smile remained.

“I’m Jack Manton and this is my colleague, Tamsin Greene, and we hail from England. We are researchers, but sadly are not here to buy, although I dearly wish we could. We’re wondering if you can help us?”

The shrug of his shoulders was pure Gallic.

“We are more than interested in the works of the Russian painter, Mikhail Brodsky. Recently in Australia, I purchased at auction two of his paintings. From what we know, many of Brodsky’s paintings are unaccounted for and that he always numbered every one without fail. The two I purchased had on the back your very distinctive but faded gallery sticker.”

Boin’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Please take a seat. It is rude of me to keep you standing.” He pointed to a pair of Russian Arts and Crafts mahogany leather armchairs. “Brodsky eh? Now that’s a name with magic of its own. Can you tell me more?”

“The auction house had little idea of what the works were. That was fortunate for me. However, they were originally purchased here, around the late seventies, or sometime in the eighties. The buyer was an Australian named George Mulligan. What I’m desperate to find out, Monsieur, is the name and address of the person who sold them to this gallery. Would there be any chance of that?”

“
Pas de problème
, Mr Manton, sir. This gallery opened in 1901 with a determination to promote the best in art. We think most memorable art stopped after the 1950s.”

He gestured at the numerous abstract and modernist compositions on display, some in ornate frames around the gallery, by French and other European modernist artists. Manton noted several important names
.

“The Picabia
we sometimes display in the window, has been here since 1920, and we will
never
sell it. It is
us. Est-ce que vous comprenez ce que je veux dire
?” His face leant forward with the serious look of a man hearing news of impending war.

“Apologies, I’m wandering,” Boin continued. “Yes, what you ask is more than possible. We have a record of every single transaction that ever passed through these doors. Looking back, we know we made mistakes with some artists, and I’ve a feeling this is going to be one of them. Can you give me ten minutes? But let me provide you with some coffee while you wait.”

Tamsin felt her aversion to caffeine evaporate and knew why Jack raised his eyebrows.

When Boin returned, he was carrying several large black box files.

“One thing my father insisted on was complete records: artist, name, dates, titles, buyers and sellers - all cross-referenced. The idea being, if you couldn’t trace something under one heading, you will surely find it under another. And all that before computers. You say our buyer was a George Mulligan?”

“That’s right.”

Jack watched Emile’s hands ruffle through various yellowing invoices, receipts and dockets, stapled together with immaculate precision. A third of the way through a large pile, he stopped and looked up with a broad smile on his face.

“It’s here.” He pulled out a small clip of yellowing paperwork, smoothing it down on the desk. “There, Monsieur Leonid Brodsky, we bought them from him back in 1976. We sold them for 300 Francs.” He sounded triumphant as he pointed to the documents. “Two paintings, Russian origin,
Nightly Performance
and
Dancing Women at Rest
. And now you tell me they’re by Mikhail Brodsky? My God, look at the price we sold them for. My father knew how to keep records, but he certainly had no idea how to value art. I feel as if I want to faint.”

“You might want to faint again when I tell you I paid a mere two thousand Australian dollars for the pair.”

“
Mon Dieu
! Those two are worth almost a million at least.”

“Can you tell me Leonid Brodsky’s address?”

“Of course, it’s written right here.” He peered closer, shaking his head. “Would you believe it, Mikhail Brodsky. This is turning out to be some morning. The address is in the
Passage du Genie
area in the
Reuilly-Bois de Vincennes
district. It’s the Passage of Engineering, I believe.”

Manton wrote it down, knowing it wouldn’t be hard to find.

“Promise me,” smiled Emile. “If you find more, you must come and see me.”

“Well, read this Monsieur, it might go some way to help.” Jack showed him the advert in
La Gazette Drouot
.

It was the second time Emile’s eyes widened.

“A cultured priest, indeed.” He didn’t hesitate to pick up the phone and ring the number. Manton could clearly hear the six rings before the message cut in…
This is the Révérend Jacque Giuffré. If you are calling about Russian works of art, please leave your name and address and phone number and I shall get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you for calling.
Boin groaned but nevertheless left his details.

Intuition told Manton he wouldn’t get a reply.

Chapter Twenty Six

M
oving back into the crowded bustle of the Montmartre
,
the quietness of the Rue Simon Dereure vanished like a late morning dream as Manton attempted to locate a phone booth. He wasn’t going to call the Reverend on his mobile.

“Over there, look.” Tamsin pointed to a vacant booth thirty metres in front.

“Let’s give it a go.’ He huddled around the booth and pulled Tamsin close besides him. “Now, let’s see how I get on with the recorded message. What’s the bet that as soon as I say who I am he’ll pick up the phone?”

“Be careful and don’t tell him where we’re staying.”

“Don’t worry. Here goes.” Inserting his card, he tapped out the number given in the advert. There came a short pause before the ringtones commenced. He counted six of them and the recorded message, no different from the one he heard in the Galerie Avant-Garde cut in. When the bleep finished, Jack spoke in English.

“Hello, my name’s Jack Manton. I’m calling in connection with your advert…”

A slow pretentious voice interjected in cultured but effete English with a French accent.

“Giuffré speaking. How may I help you?”

“Ah.” He nodded vigorously at Tamsin. “I was enquiring about your Russian paintings. Can you give me any idea what you have? You mentioned several artists. Can you be more specific?”

Giuffre continued, his voice sounding as if he were attempting a massive dose of piety.

“Monsieur Manton, I have about six altogether and they all came from my father’s estate and were left to me. To be frank, I don’t care for any of them. There’s one called
Green Space,
another called
Spring
,
and a large snow scene
.
I know little about such things. The artists are the names mentioned and I’ve had a few interesting offers already, mainly from dealers.”

He’s a liar.
“Why not take them to auction?”

“Goodness me, no, I’ve no time for that.” His voice came across as bored and tired of the whole business.

“You mentioned Brodsky. What would you have?”

“Monsieur, I’m already late for an important church appointment; so why don’t you come around to my apartment and you can see for yourself. As I said, I know very little. My address is in the Apartment Tournelles, Rue des Tournelles, Le Marais, Place des Vosges, close to Victor Hugo’s house and not far from the Bastille Metro. Any time after six o’clock this evening?”

“Let me just write that down. I’ll have to call you back later on that, Révérend. We’ve been invited to the Russian avant-garde exhibition this evening at the Blue Square Gallery in the
Rue des Martyrs
.” He spoke without speed and turned to see Tamsin’s eyes widen.

“That’s fine, Mr. Manton, I look forward to hearing from you. Call me when you can. Thank you.”

“Thank you.” Manton hung up and extracted the Visa card.

“Have you gone completely mad? What are you thinking of?”

“Don’t worry, we’re not going to the exhibition. But our Rev’d up Russian won’t be able to resist, even if it’s just to follow us and find out where we’re staying. If we went to his address while he was there, he’d take everything from us, including our lives. While he’s busy looking for us at the Blue Square we are going to have a look around his apartment.”

Tamsin exploded, her nostrils flared. “Now I know! You should have joined the fucking
Kamikaze!
And what do you mean
we?
Don’t you ever listen?”

The force of her protest startled him and he realised that, once again, he’d blinkered himself to everything and everybody around him. He knew he looked sheepish.

“I’m sorry… I forgot myself… please. You don’t have to come… let me think about that… I promise.”

Tamsin snorted, her head jerking abruptly upward and her voice as cutting as a shard of glass.

“We’ll see, won’t we? What do you propose now – to kill us off?”

“Tams, I don’t know – I really don’t know. Look, let’s get over to Brodsky’s address and see what we can find, if he’s still there. He’s our most important contact. After that, we’ll go from there and maybe send you home. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” She turned her head away to gather her confused thoughts.

He put his arm around her and led her across the Rue Caulaincort before stopping outside a bar.

“Why don’t we sit down, cool it off, have a beer and then press on. Okay?”

“If you insist!”

He pointed at a vacant table and caught the waiter’s attention. He barely noticed the swarthy man carrying a mesh and canvas bag, who sat close by and had unfurled a copy of
l’Humanité
.

~ * ~

Révérend Jacque Giuffré smiled at his good fortune. The stupid Englishman had
given him vital information
.
It would only be a matter of time before he’d be able to extract all the information he needed from them.
When I do, I shall have more bargaining power over that deformed pizda, Berezin.
It wouldn’t be long before Berezin found out
who he was really dealing with
.
He reached forward for his pistol, and with the gentleness of a lover, began to dismantle it piece by piece. With a soft cloth, he cleaned and oiled the parts. Maximum efficiency prevented any unnecessary complications in emergencies. He ran his hands around the grey and black suppressed barrel. Across the years, he’d grown accustomed to its familiar feel. It had in many ways become his confidante, best friend and lover. He had given it a girl’s name. He thought women were more deadly than men. Her name was
Yana
.

He reached for his black airline bag, and opened it up to locate its secret compartment. Ignoring the phial of Ricin and using a pair of large tweezers, he picked up three miniature listening devices, placing them one by one on the glass table top in front of him. He affixed one device beneath the chair he was sitting in, and another inside the cover spine of a large
National Geographic
coffee table book. The last he attached and concealed between the frame and mount of
Girl of Peace which
he then propped across the sofa.

It had been pumped into him years ago that when leaving your house or hotel room, precautions must always be taken. He stood back and knew his efforts were satisfactory. The absence of a room safe was regrettable, but it was the best he could manage.

Next, he checked the Rue des Martyrs and the Blue Square Gallery. The exhibition, he discovered, focused on the Russian Supremacists of the 1913-1925 period. That meant nothing to him. He began assembling a suitable disguise for the occasion. Two hours later, he looked in the mirror.

“Well, well.” He spoke out loud and forced a smile to test the balance and texture of his makeup. Fake tan, a thick black wig, his cheeks padded with gauze and green contact lenses, caused him to look twice at himself.
I’m unrecognisable.
He was more than pleased by his work with the nose putty. To complete the picture, he wore built-up shoes that added a couple more inches in height. He reversed the lining of his suit to a pale green colour and the arm sling looked, he thought, dramatic. More so as it concealed
Yana
. The application of disguise had always been a part of his assignments, and he enjoyed it almost as much as when he squeezed the trigger to end the life of a hapless target. The ringtone of his mobile interrupted his reverie.
Damn it. Petrovitch.

“Petrovitch, what?”

“What news? Our patron’s patience is stretched.”

“Then he will have to stretch it yet further.”

“Where are you?”

“That’s my business. These things take time and I will succeed, but leave me in peace to get on with it. I’ll get back to you when I have more news, but I assure you, it’s close. Tell him I’m about to attend an important Russian art exhibition – that’s how near I’m getting.”

“That sounds promising. There will be results?”