Insatiable Appetites

11

Stone and Herbie arrived at the Bianchi house to find a large team of catalogers and art experts swarming over the place, with the exception of Eduardo’s study, which Stone had left locked. He greeted the team, then unlocked the study door and let himself and Herbie in, then locked it behind him.

“What do you want to do today?” Herbie asked.

“I want to search this room thoroughly for hidden compartments.”

“Why do you think there are hidden compartments?”

“Because Mary Ann was searching the desk for one when we found her here. Maybe she knows something we don’t. Let’s start with the desk.”

They had been at work for, perhaps, ten minutes when Herbie found the compartment in the desk, simply by pressing on a panel in the kneehole that sprang open. “It’s not so hard to find hidden compartments when you know they’re there somewhere,” he said.

“What’s inside it?” Stone asked.

Herbie swept the compartment with his hand. “Nothing,” he said.

The two of them spent the remainder of the morning searching every nook of the study, then gave up and had the lunch Pietro had brought them.

“What did you think Eduardo might have been hiding?” Herbie asked.

“Evidence of holdings not mentioned in his will or financial statement. Eduardo had the house, the art, and investment accounts worth ninety million dollars managed by Mary Ann, nothing else.”

“Ninety million is a pretty nice estate.”

“It wasn’t just about the money for Eduardo. He wanted power and influence, more than ninety million would buy.”

“And you think Mary Ann knows about these holdings?”

“Somebody had to know — she’s the logical guess.” Stone slapped his forehead. “I forgot to tell you the news.”

“What news?”

“You remember when Eduardo gave us the tour the other day, and you admired what you thought were two Picassos?”

“But one was a Braque? Sure, I remember.”

“That afternoon, before his stroke, Eduardo wrote a codicil to his will that left you those two pictures.”

Herbie burst out laughing. “Are you kidding me?”

“Nope, and the estate will pay the taxes. He left me the Modigliani portrait.”

“Well, congratulations to us, I guess,” Herbie said.

There was a rap on the study door.

“Come in!” Stone shouted. A woman wearing an artist’s smock and carrying a clipboard came into the room. “Excuse me, Mr. Barrington, Mr. Fisher,” she said, “but we’ve discovered something you should know about. Would you come with me, please?”

Stone and Herbie followed the woman into the large dining room. There were four blank spaces where pictures had hung, and the four were out of their frames and spread out on a green baize cloth over the dining table: a Matisse, a Toulouse-Lautrec, and two Blue Period Picassos.

“These four paintings are fakes,” the woman said.

Stone stepped forward and looked more closely. “Impossible. I know these pictures, they’ve been in the Bianchi collection for years.”

“Nevertheless,” she said. “They are brilliant fakes, but fakes all the same. Look at this.” She turned over the Toulouse-Lautrec, pointed to a place on the canvas frame, and handed Stone a magnifying glass. “Have a look.”

Stone looked at the spot. “I don’t see anything but the grain of the wood,” he said.

“Look more closely. I’ll point it out for you.” She held a pencil point at the spot.

Stone looked again. “Oh, I see it, it’s a check mark. How does that make it a fake?”

“It is a check mark, from a dye, tapped into the frame’s wood. It is the trademark of an art forger named Charles Magnussen.”

“Why would a man go to all the trouble to forge a painting, then put a trademark on it?”

“Pride, I suppose. Magnussen died last year, but on his deathbed he told the dealer who sold his original works about the trademark. The Metropolitan discovered two Renoirs about a month ago that bore the check marks.”

“First of all,” Stone said, “you are bound by your contract to keep this information confidential.

“Second, I want you to examine every painting and drawing in this house for the presence of that trademark and any other signs that any of the works might be forged.”

“As you wish. I’ll put my people to work on it.”

“And, if you would, please examine that Modigliani and the Picasso and the Braque below it.” He pointed. “Do those first.”

Stone led Herbie back into the study.

“I don’t understand,” Herbie said, “Eduardo willed his collection and the house to this foundation mentioned in the will, so there would be no taxes to pay on the art. Do you think Eduardo was bilked?”

“Possibly,” Stone said. “On the other hand, maybe he had the paintings copied and sold the originals — although I think that is extremely unlikely.”

An hour later, the woman came into the study again. “We’ve carefully examined the three paintings, and it is our conviction that they are all genuine.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. “Please continue with your work.”

“Whew!” Herbie said when she had gone.

Stone had to laugh.

By the end of the day Stone and Herbie had finished examining every object, cupboard, drawer, and book in Eduardo’s study and had found nothing of import. The art expert walked through the open door.

“Mr. Barrington, we have found twenty-four forgeries of artwork in the house, nearly all of them by Magnussen and nearly all of them from the cream of the collection. It will take us another couple of days to examine the rest of the collection.”

“Do you need more help?”

“I have already invited two experts on art forgery to join us, and they will be here tomorrow.”

“Good. May I have a copy of the list of the twenty-four forgeries?”

She tore a page from her legal pad and handed it to him. “I’ve already made copies for our purposes.”

“Remember, this information is highly confidential,” Stone said. “There may be a logical reason for the presence of the copies in the collection.”

“Of course.” She left the room.

Stone laid the list of forgeries on Eduardo’s desk and picked up the phone. “Now I have to call Mary Ann.”

“Why?” Herbie asked. “Isn’t that premature, until we know more?”

“Mary Ann may already know all we need to know.”