Playing the Game

  “It’s me, darling,” Marius said. “I hope I’m not waking you up?”

  “No, no, it’s fine, I wasn’t asleep. How was the flight? Did you have a good trip?”

  “Perfect, and I couldn’t phone before. I was tied up with a client. I got your earlier message about the find at Knowle Court in the newly discovered priest hole. Tell me what happened. What’s the good news?”

  “Three genuine paintings, Marius! But sadly also three fakes. Well, two for sure, and one very suspect Degas.”

  Marius remained silent. After a moment, he said in a low voice, “Explain about the ones that are right and not wrong first.”

  “A Cézanne and a Pissarro, from the time they were painting side by side. . . . The scene is of Louveciennes. It’s a country scene, very distinctive styles, of course. As a pair I believe they are a priceless item. Worth millions of pounds.”

  “They are indeed. And the third?”

  “It’s a Manet of a bunch of violets and a red fan, and Manet gave it to Berthe Morisot, to show his appreciation that she modeled for him sometimes. It’s small, but lovely.”

  “Then you’re in clover, my darling girl. Three more Impressionists! You could make the auction in September very important indeed. Bigger than the Rembrandt auction.”

  “I had thought of that, Marius. On Monday I shall start revamping the theme for the auction.”

  “Good idea. And what were the forgeries?”

  “A Manet actually. It’s a copy of a painting that is currently hanging in the Musée du Petit Palais in Geneva. I saw it recently.”

  “Somebody’s not very bright,” he muttered in an odd tone. “And the others?”

  “A Cézanne of—”

  “Not with soot all over it?”

  “No. But it’s The Red Roofs, as it’s known in the business, and I was present at the auction when it was sold. It’s in a private collection. There’s no chance it’s authentic, although it looks it.”

  “Perhaps that’s why Sir Alec bought it?”

  “I should think so. It’s damn good. The last painting is of a Degas ballet dancer, and I really feel funny about it. Gut instinct tells me it’s wrong.”

  “Why don’t you show them to Carlton Fraser? He can make tests on the canvases and the paint, as he did with the other Cézanne.”

  “Actually, Marius, I took them to Carlton this evening.” She swallowed, and wondered whether to tell him Jack had been with her. He could so easily find out from Carlton. No, Carlton hardly ever saw Marius. Swiftly, she added, “I took them from Knowle Court immediately. I think I need to have the information as soon as possible.”

  “I agree. What did Carlton think?”

  “Obviously the only painting he needs to truly scrutinize is the Degas. We know that three are genuine and two are fakes because I can trace the fakes, even though they don’t have papers. It’s just lucky I know where the real ones are hanging.”

  “I understand. I’m sure he’ll get to work immediately. And tell me, Annette, what about the provenance on the paintings that are real?”

  “Christopher did manage to find them. There was a filing cabinet in the priest hole, and his friend James Pollard found a hidden cupboard in the same room. There were two Graham Sutherland watercolors in it, plus a briefcase.”

  “My God, quite a discovery indeed! And the Sutherlands are okay?” He sounded suddenly excited.

  “Oh, yes, very genuine. No question. I also now have a lot of papers I can sift through, Marius. I’m going to spend tomorrow doing that. I think they might well tell me a great deal.” She glanced at the clock and saw that it was eleven-thirty. Twelve-thirty in Spain. “So you’ve had dinner, darling, have you?”

  “I have, yes. Just got back to the hotel.”

  “It’s late there. I’ll say good night, Marius.”

  “Sweet dreams, darling,” he replied, and hung up.

  Annette replaced the receiver and lay back against the pile of pillows, wondering if she should have told Marius about Jack Chalmers accompanying her to Knowle Court. Had she made an error? She wasn’t sure. It was too late now. And she couldn’t very well call him back. It would look awkward, perhaps even guilty. Let it go, let it go, she told herself.

  Sliding out of bed, she went to the kitchen and took a bottle of sparkling water out of the refrigerator, poured herself a glass, and carried it back to the bedroom. A short while later she turned out the light and tried to go to sleep. But sleep eluded her and she turned restlessly for a long time.

  Suddenly she sat bolt upright on the bed and snapped open her eyes. What was the statute of limitations on murder? There wasn’t a statute. She knew that only too well; a murder case that has not been solved was always open, a cold case. So she could still be tried for murder. . . . Marius knew that. . . . She should never have told him all those years ago, never confided her secrets in him.

  Thirty-one

  Elizabeth Lang, wrapped in a colorful kimono, sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, her gaze focused on her lover. He stood near the desk, speaking on his mobile, occasionally glancing out the window toward the port. He moved again, twisting slightly, staring at the far wall, very concentrated, listening so attentively he was unaware of her fixed scrutiny.

  She studied his profile. He had a noble head, a Roman nose, and a thick crest of hair. His profile reminded her of some great Caesar embossed on an ancient coin.

  Her name for him was Toro, because he was her big raging bull. Tall, broad of chest, and well built in every way, he was a commanding man, very handsome, and outstanding on many levels. They had been lovers for fifteen years, and the relationship suited them both. He was a married man who did not want to divorce; and since she did not want to be married, they were ideally suited. She had been married once, years ago, and it had been a total disaster.

  Being the mistress of this unique, talented, and successful man was enough for her. It was, in fact, quite a thrill. And most especially when they were in bed. He was sleek, inventive, passionate, and demanding, and she gave him what he wanted, met all of his sexual needs with a great deal of enthusiasm and enjoyment.

  He had called them a good pair right from the beginning, and they were. Good for each other, with each other. Neither of them had any intention of breaking off the relationship, which was satisfying on every level and gave them much pleasure.

  There was one thing which troubled him these days and this was a slight slowing in his sexual drive. She was fifteen years younger than he was, and full of energy, and occasionally now he could not keep up with her. It constantly worried him.

  However, earlier tonight he had been like his old self, the raging bull, her Toro. Forceful, passionate, more demanding than ever, and remarkable in his staying power, better than ever.

  He had been thrilled that his strength and vigor had suddenly returned, and she had praised him, stroked his ego, and he was loving and tender after their four-hour marathon in this bed.

  She had resorted to a trick to work this magic, but thankfully she had succeeded, and she would continue to use it again and again. If that proved necessary. It was simple enough. A crushed Viagra in his Bellini, which contained more peach juice than champagne. But he must never know this about the little pill. It would infuriate him if he did.

  Elizabeth glanced at the empty flute by the bed and instantly got up, took the glass to the kitchen, rinsed it thoroughly, and put it away.

  He caught hold of her when she returned to the bedroom, pressed her close to him as he ended his phone call. She was as tall as he was, and they were eyeball to eyeball as they looked at each other. She smiled slightly, and so did he, and she untied his silk dressing gown, opened her kimono, and stepped into his arms. She rubbed her body against his, and he reached for one of her breasts, stroked it lovingly, cupped it in his hand. He had always been excited by her voluptuousness, her mane of red hair, and her honey-colored eyes. “Golden eyes,” he called them.

  “We must stop this,”
he suddenly said, stepping back, shaking his head, holding her away from him. “Rafael is waiting for us at the restaurant. We must go. Now.”

  She stared at him, understood that he meant it, and nodded. “Five minutes to put on makeup and clothes.”

  “No makeup. You don’t need it. Throw on a skirt and blouse and let’s get going. He’s already ordering the wine, if I know him.”

  Within minutes she was dressed in a navy cotton skirt, a white shirt, and high-wedge espadrilles. After brushing her hair and spraying on perfume, she mingled two pashminas together, one lime green and one red, flung them around her shoulders, and grabbed her purse.

  “I’m ready, Toro,” she said and stood waiting at the bedroom door as he slipped on a navy-blue blazer over a white T-shirt and white pants.

  “We’re the best team,” he announced, and took hold of her arm and guided her through the front hall of the flat and down three flights of stairs to the street.

  Elizabeth loved living close to water, and she was glad she had chosen this flat overlooking the port. He, too, enjoyed being near the sea, and they were also in walking distance of all manner of restaurants situated around the harbor.

  It was a nice evening, mild, with only a light breeze blowing off the sea. Elizabeth clung to his arm as they walked toward the port, enjoying the fresh air. At one moment she looked up and gasped. The full moon was as bright as the sun almost, a gigantic silver orb in the star-filled sky.

  “What a night!” she exclaimed, glancing at him.

  He leaned into her and kissed her cheek. “What a night indeed,” he agreed. “I hate to be boastful, but I’ve never been better, have I?”

  “No, you haven’t. You’re my raging bull more than ever, Toro. But I wasn’t so bad either, was I? Certainly I met all your demands, and with immense enthusiasm, I might add.”

  “You did! You always do. With you I’m always at my macho best, Elizabeth, you’re just incredible in bed.”

  “Do I satisfy you, do I please you? Do I, Toro?”

  “You know you do.” He glanced at her, frowning.

  “More than your wife?”

  “Come on, let’s not go there. You’ve always known I don’t have a great sex life at home.”

  “And my sister? Am I better than she was?”

  For a moment he was struck dumb, and stopped abruptly, turned to look at her, the frown in place again. “Let’s not go there either. But the answer is yes. Okay?”

  She simply smiled at him and linked her arm in his again, and then walked on in silence until they came to the seafood restaurant which was their favorite.

  Within a few seconds they were being shown to the table where Rafael Lopez was sitting. He rose when he saw them approaching, beaming at his partner and that beautiful mistress of his who was so ripe, voluptuous, and sexy. Rafael’s mouth watered every time he set eyes on her.

  “Elizabeth!” Rafael exclaimed. “More beautiful than ever. It is good to see you again.”

  “And you, Rafael,” Elizabeth replied, sitting down in one of the chairs.

  Rafael grinned at his partner and friend of twenty-five years, and the two men embraced, showing their affection for each other, then sat down on chairs on each side of Elizabeth.

  “I’ve ordered a good red, your favorite, Marius,” Rafael said. “And we’ve much to celebrate tonight. I have sold the Picasso which we have been so carefully treasuring for the last few years. I closed the transaction verbally this afternoon.”

  Marius Remmington was completely taken aback, stunned, in fact, and he literally gaped at the Spanish art dealer who mostly operated out of Madrid. Finally, he asked, “But why didn’t you tell me on the phone?”

  “Because I wanted to see the surprise on your face when I made the announcement. Are you not happy, Marius?”

  “Ecstatic. Give me all the details, won’t you?”

  In answer to this request, Rafael took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Marius, who opened it, glanced at it, then put it away in his pocket. “Well done, my friend. Very well done indeed. Did we break a record with this amazing price? I suspect we did.”

  “That is correct.”

  Elizabeth looked at Marius, asked, “How much did it go for?”

  “Sixty-five million,” Marius answered.

  “Pounds?” She sounded incredulous, her face registering shock.

  “No, no, dollars,” Rafael answered before Marius could. “It was sold to an American. We dealt in dollars. Which he preferred. If I had pushed harder, possibly I could have perhaps got him up. However, I realized he was growing edgy. I did not wish to lose the sale. And I do prefer the private sale, so much easier in many different ways.”

  “That it is,” Marius agreed. He picked up his glass, which had just been filled with red wine. “Here’s to you, Rafael. You never cease to amaze and surprise me, and usually in the very best way.”

  The two men touched glasses, and then Elizabeth’s, who said, “Cheers! And congratulations, chaps. This is definitely going to be a celebratory dinner.”

  “We’d better order,” Marius said, and glanced at his watch. It was already one-thirty in the morning, and he realized, suddenly, that he was starving.

  “I have ordered already,” Rafael announced, and winked at Marius. “It occurred to me you must have been rather preoccupied with other matters since your arrival from London.”

  “Very true, and I am hungry. I suppose you’ve ordered the usual?”

  “Fresh mussels steamed in white wine, a large grilled whitefish, and fresh vegetables. Antonio assured me the mussels will come in a moment or two.”

  Marius nodded and leaned back in the chair, letting the news of Rafael’s sale sink in. He was still somewhat startled that his partner had pulled off this truly big deal, but then Picasso had become popular again, and lately his paintings were suddenly going for huge sums of money. He and Rafael had acquired the Picasso almost seven years ago, and had stored it in Madrid until prices went up. It had only been on offer in the last year.

  The Picasso had impeccable lineage and a watertight provenance. It had been acquired by Paul Rosenberg, the famous New York dealer, from Picasso himself in 1936. Rosenberg, one of the finest dealers in the world, had kept it for years, then later sold it to a couple in Pasadena, who thirty years later had given it to their daughter. It was this woman’s daughter who had sold it to them. They believed it to be one of the artist’s best works, executed by Picasso during one of the high points in his extraordinary career.

  The last time Marius had been in Barcelona, doing research for his book on Picasso, Rafael had flown in from Madrid so that Marius could introduce him to Jimmy Musgrave, a new American client. Later on, Musgrave had sent his brother-in-law to see Rafael once he had returned to Madrid. It was through this man that Thomas Wilmott had been offered the Picasso some nine months ago. He had turned it down, but today Wilmott’s business partner had bought it for the exact price they had hoped to get.

  Marius and Rafael had worked well together for twenty-five years, had never quarreled or had a cross word between them, something unheard of, to his way of thinking.

  His thoughts went to London . . . and to Annette.

  These new fakes showing up yesterday in the Delaware collection truly alarmed him, although he had endeavored not to reveal his worry about this when speaking to her earlier. He couldn’t help wondering exactly where they were coming from.

  Rafael said, “How long are you staying in Barcelona, Marius?”

  “Four or five days, and then we’re going to Provence, primarily to Vallauris and then onto Aix-en-Provence. I want to visit some of Picasso’s favorite haunts in the south of France, where he lived in the fifties and sixties. Until the end of his life, in actuality.”

  “He died in 1973,” Rafael said. “And several homes have become . . . shrines.”

  Elizabeth exclaimed, “I didn’t know I was coming with you to France! I’m not sure that I can.”

&nbs
p; “Of course you can. I won’t take no for an answer,” Marius said in a sharp voice. “I need you with me.”

  Elizabeth nodded, made no further comment.

  She knew better than to argue with him when he had made up his mind, most especially in front of Rafael, who worshiped at the feet of the great Marius Remmington.

  So did she in her own way, although at times she regretted that she had succumbed to his various charms. He was the bossiest man she had ever met. Not only that, he was manipulative and controlling, and these traits in him genuinely annoyed her. She was an independent kind of woman who could think for herself, had never liked a man telling her what to do.

  “You’ve grown very quiet,” Marius suddenly said, staring hard at her, frowning, looking displeased.

  She stared back. “I was just trying to rearrange my schedule in my head,” she improvised. “So that I can come with you to Provence.”

  He conveyed his pleasure by taking her hand in his and kissing it. “You’re going to be glad you made that decision,” he told her. “You wait and see.”

  Thirty-two

  “To cut to the chase, Annette, you know for sure that two more paintings in the Delaware collection are fakes,” Malcolm Stevens said.

  Staring at her across the lunch table at the Ritz Hotel, he went on, “The Manet with the veiled hat and the Cézanne with the red roofs. Too bad, very disappointing, and also something we must all keep buried deep. You can’t afford to have doubt cast on the overall collection. Otherwise you’ll be in serious trouble.”

  “I know,” Annette responded. “I’m aware of all the pitfalls.”

  “You said you also have doubts about the authenticity of the Degas ballet dancer,” he murmured, his expression glum, his eyes worried.

  “Yes, I do, Malcolm.”

  He was silent, just shook his head.

  “When will you know for certain?” Laurie asked.

  “Hopefully early next week.” Leaning closer to her sister, Annette continued, “Carlton has the painting, as I told you on the phone. He’ll see you any time you want to go there tomorrow. Once you have studied the Degas ballet dancer, he will make tests of the canvas and the paint, to see what they reveal about their age. We just have to be patient.”