Confess, Fletch

Twenty-one

The Picasso was on the easel in Horan’s office.

“Ah, good morning, Mister Fletcher. Wet morning.”

“‘Fraid I came away without my raincoat.” The weather would take the blame for his disheveled appearance. “Hard to get a taxi in the rain.”

“Always,” sympathized the impeccable Ronald Horan. “Well. There it is.”

Fletch had stopped in front of the painting.

Damned fool title but what could the painting‘ be called but “Vino, Viola, Mademoiselle”? The basic shape was repeated three times. The first image, or the fourth, was the true shape.

“Magnificent,” he said.

“I believe I can guarantee its authenticity.”

“I’m speechless,” Fletch said.

“I’m curious as to why you want to purchase this piece in particular? I’m always curious about that.”

“I saw a slide of it,” Fletch said, “at a little showing in Cannes, sometime well after Picasso’s death. It just sped by with a lot of other slides. It struck me as possibly the key Cubist work, even more refined than others of the same theme.”

Horan was looking at the painting as well.

“You may be right,” he said.

“But, let’s not tell Mister Cooney.”

Fletch walked around the easel. “It’s all right? It arrived without damage?”

“No damage at all.” Horan joined him behind the painting. “And, I may add, I believe this is the original stretcher. Although it may not be.”

“You picked it up at the airport yourself?”

Horan moved to the front of the painting.

“I rather indicated to Mister Cooney we’d be touch with him sometime early today. Although needn’t be, of course. It’s up to you.”

“What’s your advice?”

“You might start with six hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

Fletch wandered to a chair from which he could see both Horan and the painting.

“You say Mister Cooney is not an active collector?”

“Well, he’s not in the business of collecting,” Horan answered. “I’ve bought one or two other things from him in the last year or two. They’ve always proven to be right.”

“You’ve bought two other paintings from him the last two years?”

“As I say, the man doesn’t have a professional reputation to uphold, as a dealer would have, or a museum, but his other sales, at least through this gallery, ha been entirely successful.”

Tall, slim, suave, graying Horan prowled the rug, arms behind his back, in an attitude of respectful waiting.

Quietly, firmly, Fletch said, “I’m interested in the painting’s provenance.”

“Ah!” Horan responded as if a whole new topic had been introduced—an original question from a slow student, “I’m not sure you’ll be entirely satisfied there.”

“No?”

“You see, in many private sales provenance is not offered.” The man was lecturing again. “Especially in a case of this sort. There is no record of this painting in existence—at least none I’ve been able to find. Of far more importance, there appears to be no record of this painting’s ever having left another country, or ever having entered this country. Governments, with their taxes and other requirements, their increasing interest in preserving national cultural objects, these days, you know, can be a bit sticky.”

“I know. Which, of course, makes my having the provenance of this painting all the more important.”

“Yes, I can see that. You live in Italy, don’t you?”

“I sometimes do.”

“Of course, we can ask Mister Cooney the provenance.”

“You haven’t done so?”

“I know what he’ll say.”

“Let me guess,” said Fletch. “He’ll say he bought it from a reputable dealer in Switzerland sometime in the past, and be doesn’t remember precisely when.”

“Well, yes.” Horan was pleased by the slow student’s perceptive answer. “I expect that’s what he would say.”

“Then are more reputable art dealers in Switzerland then there are citizens of France. Piled on top of each other, they are that nation’s national culture.”

“As I guess you know, Swiss dealers seldom confirm sales.”

“I think we should ask, Mister Horan.”

“By all means, we should.”

“I wish to know the source, and the history of this painting.”

“Of course, when a provenance isn’t offered, Mister Fletcher.”

“I would be derelict in not asking for the provenance.”

“You said you represent yourself?”

“I would be derelict in my obligations to myself, my estate, as well as to those parts of the art world which consider their responsibilities. Frankly, I’m fairly shocked you cannot say you have already asked for a complete provenance.”

Below Horan’s silver-streaked temples appeared a flush of red.

“I don’t think you understand, Mister Fletcher, how usual this situation is. Very common, indeed. Art is the international language. It is also an international currency. The art market, by its nature, is international. It cannot recognize arbitrary, national borders. Governments have been poking more and more into matters which are beyond their natural province. People must insist upon privacy in their affairs, especially in esthetic matters.”

“Ah, yes.”

“You remember, I’m sure, the deluge of art objects flooding out of Britain in late 1975, as a result of incredible legislative mistakes by the Labor government. Were you unsympathetic?”

“I understood the movement.”

“Incidentally, it is entirely, possible ‘Vino, Viola, Mademoiselle’ is one of those objects of art which found its way here from Britain.”

“It’s also possible it’s not. In any case, even if it is, I must protect myself, Mister Horan.”

“My dear Mister Fletcher! You are protected. Entirely protected. We are not new in this business. After spending a little more time with this painting, I’m sure I will have no hesitation in authenticating it. If you, wish a second authentication, or even a third, such can be arranged locally within a matter of days, if hours.”

“Very good of you.”

“You will have bought the painting through the Horan Gallery in Boston, with proper authentication. My reputation has never been questioned. If asked, which I doubt I would be, I will state happily the seller is James Cooney, of Dallas, Texas. When asked, he, in turn…”

“…will say he bought it sometime in the past from a, reputable dealer in Switzerland,” Fletch said. “And the reputable dealer in Switzerland will refuse to come forward with the record, which is his right, as a Swiss citizen.”

“Bless the Swiss,” said Horan. “They still have some sense of privacy left—although it is dissipating.”

“I understand all this, Mister Horan. ”

“In the meantime, and forever, your investment is absolutely protected.”

“It remains my obligation to ask the question. I want to know where Cooney got the painting, even if it is in the nature of private, undocumented information.”

‘“Yes. Of course, you’re right, Mister Fletcher. We should ask the question. In the meantime, would you care to mention a specific price to Mister Cooney?”

Horan stepped behind his Louis Seize desk to answer the telephone. The ring had been muffled.

“Hello? Yes, this is Mister Horan…Who wishes to speak to me?…Hello? No, operator, no…I will accept no calls from anyone in Chicago today…This is the third call I’ve had from the Chicago Tribune…I have already denied that story…What’s your name?…Mister Potok?…Two others of your reporters have already called here this morning, Mister Potok. How many times do I have to deny a story?…I am not giving, nor have I ever intended to give a painting to the Chicago museum…What do you mean, what painting am I not going to give? My god…I have no idea where the Boston newspaper got the story. I believe it was the Star. I haven’t read the story. I expect it was their idiot critic, Charles Wainwright, who has never gotten anything right…Listen, Mister Potok, I am not giving a painting to the Chicago museum; I never intended to give a painting to the Chicago museum; I never will give a painting to the Chicago museum…What do you mean? I have nothing against the Chicago museum…Mister Potok, I am running out of patience. The story is entirely fallacious. Please don’t call here again.”

His footfalls on the rug repeated the quiet firmness with which he had hung up the phone.

“Some damn fool Boston newspaper reported I am going to give a painting to the Chicago museum.” Horan shook his head. “Totally untrue. Where do they get things like that?”

“There’s no accounting for the press,” said Fletch.

“We were discussing price.”

Fletch stood. He remembered he didn’t have a coat.

“Yes. We were,” said Fletch.“ I think we might offer Mister Cooney two hundred and seventy thousand dollars.”

Horan looked slapped.

“That would be totally unacceptable.”

“I know. I’ll go higher, of course. But tell Mister Cooney I am deeply anxious about the source of his painting.”

“I doubt he’ll talk in response to such an offer.”

“He might talk—a lot.”