False Impression Read online

  She handed her chosen instrument to an assistant, who smiled—such a thin neck—and wrapped the kitchen knife in rice paper. Krantz paid in yen. Dollars would have drawn attention to her, and she didn’t possess a credit card. One last look at Mr. Takai before she reluctantly left the shop to return to the anonymity of the shadows on the other side of the road.

  While she waited for Petrescu to reappear, Krantz removed the rice paper from her latest acquisition, desperate to try it out. She slipped the blade into a sheath that had been tailor-made to fit on the inside of her jeans. It fit perfectly, like a gun in a holster.

  34

  THE RECEPTIONIST COULD not hide her surprise when the doorman appeared carrying a wooden crate. She placed her hands in front of her mouth—an unusually animated response for a Japanese.

  Anna offered no explanation, only her name. The receptionist checked the list of applicants to be interviewed by the chairman that afternoon and placed a tick next to “Dr. Petrescu.”

  “Mr. Nakamura is interviewing another candidate at the moment,” she said, “but should be free shortly.”

  “Interviewing them for what?” asked Anna.

  “I have no idea,” said the receptionist, seeming equally puzzled that an interviewee needed to ask such a question.

  Anna sat in reception and glanced at the crate that was propped up against the wall. She smiled at the thought of how she would go about asking someone to part with sixty million dollars.

  Punctuality is an obsession with the Japanese, so Anna was not surprised when a smartly dressed lady appeared at two minutes to four, bowed, and invited Anna to follow her. She too looked at the wooden box, but showed no reaction other than to ask, “Would you like it to be taken to the chairman’s office?”

  “Yes, please,” said Anna, again without explanation.

  The secretary led Anna down a long corridor, passing several doors that displayed no name, title, or rank. When they reached the last door, the secretary knocked quietly, opened it, and announced, “Dr. Petrescu.”

  Mr. Nakamura rose from behind his desk and came forward to greet Anna, whose mouth was wide open. A reaction not caused by the short, slim, dark-haired man who looked as if he had his suits tailored in Paris or Milan. It was Mr. Nakamura’s office that caused Anna to gasp. The room was a perfect square and one of the four walls was a single pane of glass. Anna stared out onto a tranquil garden, a stream winding from one corner to the other, crossed by a wooden bridge and bordered by willow trees, whose branches cascaded over the rails.

  On the wall behind the chairman’s desk was a magnificent painting, duplicating exactly the same scene. Anna closed her mouth and turned to face her host.

  Mr. Nakamura smiled, clearly delighted with the effect his Monet had created, but his first question equally shocked her.

  “How did you manage to survive 9/11, when, if I recall correctly, your office was in the North Tower?”

  “I was very lucky,” replied Anna quietly, “although I fear that some of my colleagues . . .”

  Mr. Nakamura raised a hand. “I apologize,” he said. “How tactless of me. Shall we begin the interview by testing your remarkable photographic memory and first ask you the provenance of all three paintings in the room? Shall we begin with the Monet?”

  “Willows at Vetheuil,” said Anna. “Its previous owner was a Mr. Clark of Sangton, Ohio. It was part of Mrs. Clark’s divorce settlement when her husband decided to part with her, his third wife, which meant sadly that he had to part with his third Monet. Christie’s sold the oil for twenty-six million dollars, but I had no idea you were the purchaser.”

  Mr. Nakamura revealed the same smile of pleasure.

  Anna turned her attention to the opposite wall and paused. “I have for some time wondered where that particular painting ended up,” she said. “It’s a Renoir, of course. Madame Duprez and Her Children, also known as The Reading Lesson. It was sold in Paris by Roger Duprez, whose grandfather purchased it from the artist in 1868. I therefore have no way of knowing how much you paid for the oil.” Anna added, as she turned her attention to the final piece. “Easy,” she declared, smiling. “It’s one of Manet’s late Salon works, probably painted in 1871—” she paused “—entitled Dinner at the Café Guerbois. You will have observed that his mistress is seated in the right-hand corner, looking directly out at the artist.”

  “And the previous owner?”

  “Lady Charlotte Churchill, who, following the death of her husband, was forced to sell it to meet death duties.”

  Nakamura bowed. “The position is yours.”

  “The position, Nakamura-san?” said Anna, puzzled.

  “You are not here to apply for the job as the director of my foundation?”

  “No,” said Anna, suddenly realizing what the receptionist had meant when she said that the chairman was interviewing another candidate. “Although I am flattered that you would consider me, Nakamura-san, I actually came to see you on a completely different matter.”

  The chairman nodded, clearly disappointed, and then his eyes settled on the wooden box.

  “A small gift,” said Anna, smiling.

  “If that is the case, and you will forgive the pun, I cannot open your offering until you have left, otherwise I will insult you.” Anna nodded, well aware of the custom. “Please have a seat, young lady.”

  Anna smiled.

  “Now, what is your real purpose in visiting me?” he asked as he leaned back in his chair and stared at her intently.

  “I believe I have a painting that you will be unable to resist.”

  “As good as the Degas pastel?” asked Nakamura, showing signs of enjoying himself.

  “Oh yes,” she said, a little too enthusiastically.

  “Artist?”

  “Van Gogh.”

  Nakamura smiled an inscrutable smile that gave no sign if he was or wasn’t interested.

  “Title?”

  “Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear.”

  “With a famous Japanese print reproduced on the wall behind the artist, if I remember correctly,” said Nakamura.

  “Geishas in a Landscape,” said Anna, “demonstrating Van Gogh’s fascination with Japanese culture.”

  “You should have been christened Eve,” said Nakamura. “But now it’s my turn.” Anna looked surprised, but didn’t speak. “I presume that it has to be the Wentworth Self-Portrait, purchased by the fifth marquis?”

  “Earl.”

  “Earl. Ah, will I ever understand English titles? I always think of Earl as an American first name.”

  “Original owner?” inquired Anna.

  “Dr. Gachet, Van Gogh’s friend and admirer.”

  “And the date?”

  “Eighteen eighty-nine,” replied Nakamura, “when Van Gogh resided at Arles, sharing a studio with Paul Gauguin.”

  “And how much did Dr. Gachet pay for the piece?” asked Anna, aware that few people on earth would have considered teasing this man.

  “It is always thought that Van Gogh only sold one painting in his lifetime, The Red Vineyard. However, Dr. Gachet was not only a close friend, but unquestionably his benefactor and patron. In the letter he wrote after receiving the picture, he enclosed a check for six hundred francs.”

  “Eight hundred,” said Anna, as she opened her briefcase and handed over a copy of the letter. “My client is in possession of the original,” she assured him.

  Nakamura read the letter in French, requesting no assistance with a translation. He looked up and smiled. “What figure do you have in mind?” he asked.

  “Sixty million dollars,” said Anna without hesitation.

  For a moment, the inscrutable face appeared puzzled, but he didn’t speak for some time. “Why is such an acknowledged masterpiece so underpriced?” he asked eventually. “There must be some conditions attached.”

  “The sale must not be made public,” said Anna in reply.

  “That has always been my custom, as you well know,” said Nakamu