Heads You Win Read online

  “That wasn’t why I was congratulating you, Mr. Karpenko.” Sasha looked puzzled. “I just wanted to say how pleased I am that you’ll be our next MP.”

  “You know the result?”

  “It was announced on the radio a few moments ago. After three recounts, you won by twenty-seven votes.”

  34

  ALEX

  Boston

  “I’m sorry to say that Anna was spot on,” said Rosenthal. “More than fifty of the pictures are copies, and remembering your own experience with the Warhol, it’s not difficult to work out who’s got the originals.”

  “And she’s probably sold them all by now,” said Alex. “Which means the bank can never hope to recover its losses.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Rosenthal. “The art world is a small, close-knit community, so if a painting from the Lowell Collection were to appear on the market, it would almost certainly be recognized immediately. And we’re not talking about one painting, but over fifty. However, now that Mr. Lowell is dead, his sister may well feel confident enough to dispose of them, especially if she believes her only other source of income is about to dry up.”

  “Which it most certainly is,” said Alex with considerable feeling.

  “Then the first thing we have to do is find out where the paintings are located.”

  “Tucked safely away in Evelyn’s villa in the south of France would be my bet,” said Alex.

  “I agree,” said Anna. “Because if they were in her apartment in New York, Lawrence couldn’t have missed them.”

  Rosenthal’s next question took them both by surprise. “How well do you know Mr. Lowell’s butler?”

  “Not that well,” admitted Alex. “Why do you ask?”

  “Do you have any idea where his loyalties lie?”

  “When it comes to the Lowell family,” said Alex, “you have to support either one faction or the other, as I found out to my cost fairly early on. But I’ve no reason to believe he’s not a member of the home team.”

  “Then with your permission,” said Rosenthal, “I’d like to ask him a couple of questions.”

  “I can’t see why not,” said Alex, ringing the bell.

  Caxton appeared a few moments later. “You called, sir?”

  “Actually, it’s me who wanted a word with you, Caxton,” said Rosenthal. “I was curious to know if Mr. Lowell’s sister ever stayed at the house while he was serving in Vietnam.”

  “Regularly,” said Caxton. “She treated it like a second home.”

  “And were you always around during those visits?”

  “No, sir, not always. Once a month my wife and I like to visit our daughter and grandson in Chicago for a weekend. Sometimes when we returned on a Sunday night, it was clear that Mr. and Mrs. Lowell-Halliday had visited the house in our absence.”

  “How could you be so sure?” asked Alex.

  “There would be beds to make, tables to be cleared, glasses to be washed, and a lot of ashtrays to be emptied.”

  “So they could have been here on their own for at least forty-eight hours?”

  “On several occasions.”

  “That’s very helpful, Caxton,” said Rosenthal. “Thank you.”

  “It’s also most important, Caxton,” said Alex, “that this conversation remains confidential. Is that understood?”

  “In the twelve years I served Mr. Lowell,” said Caxton, “he never found it necessary to question my discretion.”

  “I apologize,” said Alex. “That was tactless of me.”

  No one spoke until the butler had left the room, when Anna said, “Well, that certainly put you in your place, my darling.”

  “Actually, it was rather reassuring,” said Rosenthal. “He would never have considered delivering such a rebuke if he had any intention of contacting Mrs. Lowell-Halliday.”

  “I agree,” said Anna. “But if Evelyn did take several of the pictures to the south of France, how can we prove it?”

  “That shouldn’t be too difficult,” said Rosenthal. “One of the paintings she stole was a Rothko that measures about six feet by four. That isn’t something she could carry on board as hand luggage.”

  Rosenthal rose from his chair and began pacing slowly around the room. Anna, who had become quite used to this habit, glanced at Alex and put a finger to her lips.

  “In my opinion,” Rosenthal eventually said, “you could not move a painting of that size without the help of a professional art courier, especially if you were sending the picture overseas, as there would have to be export documents and other paperwork to complete. There are only a handful of such specialists on the East Coast, and only one of them is based in Boston.”

  “Do you know them?” asked Alex hopefully.

  “I most certainly do, but I have no intention of contacting them, because immediately after taking my call, he would be on the phone to his client to let her know I’d been making inquiries.”

  “But he might be our only lead,” said Alex.

  “Not necessarily, because another company would have had to pick up the packages when they arrived in Nice, and then deliver them to Mrs. Lowell-Halliday’s villa in Saint-Paul-de-Vence. It wouldn’t surprise me if whoever that was had no idea of the contents, as that’s a secret Mrs. Lowell-Halliday wouldn’t have wanted to share with anyone else, including the IRS.”

  “But how do we find out who was collecting the paintings without alerting half the art world?”

  “By making sure we remain at arm’s length,” said Rosenthal. “And I think I know exactly the right dealer in Paris to assist us. May I use the telephone in the study?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Alex, as Rosenthal poured himself a large whiskey and left the room without another word.

  “What’s he up to?” asked Alex.

  “I can’t be sure,” said Anna. “But I have a feeling he’ll be twisting a few arms, which is why he doesn’t want to be overheard.”

  Rosenthal didn’t reappear for another forty minutes, and when he did, although he needed to refill his glass, Anna thought she detected the suggestion of a smile.

  “Pierre Gerand will call back as soon as he’s tracked down the courier in Nice. He says it’s likely to be one of three, and all of them would want to retain his business. Meanwhile, Monty Kessler will set out from New York first thing tomorrow morning, and anticipates being with us around midday.”

  Alex nodded. He would have liked to ask who Monty Kessler was, but had already learned when, and when not, to question Mr. Rosenthal.

  * * *

  When Alex came down to breakfast the following morning, he found Rosenthal halfway up the stairs, placing little red or yellow stickers on each picture on the wall.

  “You’ll be glad to hear, Alex, that there are still seventy-one originals left in the collection, including some of the finest examples of Abstract Expressionism I’ve ever come across. However, I’m in no doubt that fifty-three are copies,” he said as the telephone rang.

  “Long distance from Paris for Mr. Rosenthal,” said Caxton.

  Rosenthal walked quickly down the stairs and took the phone. “Good afternoon, Pierre.” He said very little for the next few minutes, but never stopped scribbling on a pad by the phone. “I am most grateful,” he said finally. “I owe you one.” He laughed. “All right, two. And I’ll let you know the moment our shipment has left New York,” he added before putting down the phone. “I have the name of the French courier,” he announced. “A Monsieur Dominic Duval, who over the past five years has delivered a large number of different-sized crates to Mrs. Lowell-Halliday’s residence in Saint-Paul-de-Vence.”

  “But if Pierre phones this Monsieur Duval,” said Alex, “won’t he contact Evelyn immediately?”

  “Not if he wants to go on working for Pierre, he won’t. In any case, Pierre has already told him he has an even bigger consignment lined up for him, as long as he can keep his mouth shut.”

  * * *

  “There’s a