Quick & Dirty

44

Stone met Art Masi at a coffee shop uptown. “Okay, Art, what have we got?”

“The calls on Sam’s phone are a mishmash — a trucking company, a liquor distributor, a glassware supplier, mostly people he’d legitimately be in touch with for the running of his business, the bar.”

“Anything else?”

“Two art galleries and a small auction house. One of the galleries is new, open about four months. The other is an old-line place, going back to the twenties, a third generation in charge.”

“And the auction house?”

“A year and a half old, the sort of place that operates out of a gallery-like premises and rents hotel ballrooms for their auctions. They deal in everything from jewelry and wristwatches to high-end paintings and sculptures, most of them not the artist’s best work.”

“Sounds a little seedy. I like that.”

“The galleries are closer, in the Sixties and Seventies. The auctioneer is up in the Nineties, so let’s do the galleries first. Did you bring your car?”

“It’s outside.”

“Okay, the Haynesfield Gallery is around the corner on Madison, on your right. I’ll work the other side of the street. Whistle if you need me.”

Stone got into the Bentley and gave Fred his instructions. “Slowly,” he said, “we’re window-shopping. The Haynesfield Gallery, on your right.”

“Yes, sir,” Fred replied. He drew to a slow halt outside. Stone got out of the car and checked out what was in the window. An abused Picasso print, not very large but with a matting and a heavy rococo frame, was the central exhibit. He went inside.

A tall, thin young man wearing a skinny-cut black suit with stovepipe legs and a short jacket was leaning against the rear wall, working on a puzzle in a folded newspaper. “Just a sec, be right with you,” he called out.

Stone circumnavigated the small room, not finding a thing worth hanging in a powder room. Two words — cheap and nasty — characterized the place.

The young man finished his puzzle, tossed it on a counter, and came forward. “Now,” he said, “what can I do you for?”

“I don’t see anything good enough to buy,” Stone replied.

“Well, what are you looking for?”

“Something special, something that will knock my girlfriend’s eye out when she sees it.”

“I gotcha. How about a Jackson Pollock?”

“She doesn’t like abstracts, she likes a landscape, especially of the post-impressionist period.”

“And when was that?”

“Right after the impressionist period.”

“Like a Matisse?”

“More like, what’s his name, who cut off his ear?”

“Ah, van Gogh. I might be able to find you something, but I warn you, it’s going to be expensive.”

“Money is not a problem — not that I don’t want a good price. Show me what you’ve got.”

“Let me root around in the back,” the young man said.

“Go right ahead.” He disappeared through a rear door.

Stone found a wobbly chair and sat down. Ten minutes passed before the young man returned.

“My colleague is looking for the van Gogh,” he said. “In the meantime, I thought you might enjoy seeing this.” He held up a very good Matisse.

Stone waved him closer. He was no expert, but the picture seemed authentic. He immediately thought of Angelo Farina. “How much?” he asked.

“Ninety thousand,” the young man said. “I might be able to do a little better, but not much.”

That wasn’t much for a Matisse, Stone thought; if it wasn’t Angelo’s, it was hot. “Show me some provenance,” he said.

“Of course.” He handed Stone the picture, went to his desk, and leafed through a three-ring binder. He unsnapped the rings, removed a sheet in a plastic sleeve, and brought it over to Stone. He took back the picture and handed Stone the sheet.

“Purchased from the artist in 1899 by Eli Cornfield, a Paris gallery owner. Purchased from him in 1907 by Baron Nathan Rothschild, from Cornfield’s London gallery. Bequeathed to Baron Jacob Rothschild in 1936. Removed from England in 1939 and given to Baron Edmond Rothschild, who hid it with many other works. Auctioned from the estate of Hermann Göring, 1948, purchased by a descendant of Eli Cornfield.”

“What then?” Stone asked.

“We believe the second Cornfield gave it to an American nephew, who sold it to a private owner in the 1990s. After that, we assume that his estate disposed of it, either as a bequest or in a sale to a private collector. We purchased it from that collector’s estate.”

“Can you document all of this?” Stone asked.

“Not so much the latter part.”

“I see. I’d like to bring a friend of mine to see it. If he likes it, I’ll make an offer.”

“Fine, but no lowballs, please.”

Stone walked to the front of the gallery and called Art Masi. “Do they know you at the Haynesfield Gallery?”

“I doubt it,” Art said.

“They’ve got what looks like either a fantastic copy of a Matisse or a stolen one with a fantastic provenance. Come and look at it.” Stone hung up and went back to his chair. “He’ll be here shortly. Do you take credit cards?”

“Possibly,” the young man said. “Excuse me a moment.” He went into the back room and came out with a short, bearded man in a baggy suit, who introduced himself as Conrad Haynesfield.

“I understand you’re interested in the Matisse,” he said.

“My art advisor is on the way to give me an opinion.”

“It’s one of the best Matisses I’ve ever seen in private hands,” the man said.

“How did you come by it?”

Art Masi strode through the front door and came to Stone, who introduced him to Haynesfield. Art took the painting from the young man and went to the window to see it in sunlight.

“You were telling me how you came by it,” Stone said.

Art came back and stood by Stone. “I like it,” he said.

“Mr. Haynesfield was just telling me how he came by it,” Stone said.

“You will notice that, at ninety thousand, it is very cheap,” Haynesfied said to Masi.

“Yes, I did notice that. Tell us why.”

“You will notice that the provenance includes a period of ownership by Hermann Göring?”

“I noticed,” Stone replied.

“Works of art with that sort of provenance cannot be successfully offered at public auction. Therefore, it behooves us to be reasonable, with regard to price. You understand?”

“Oh, yes, I understand,” Stone said. He looked at Art, who nodded. “I’ll take it,” Stone said, producing a checkbook.

“Splendid,” Haynesfield said. “I’m sure it will add substance to your collection.”

“I’ll make arrangements to transport it to your home, Mr. Barrington. You conclude the transaction,” Art said. He took out his phone and walked away for privacy.

“Would you make it out to cash, please?” Haynesfield said.

“I’ll need a receipt and the provenance on your letterhead,” Stone replied.

“Of course.”

Stone wrote out the check, payable to the Haynesfield Gallery, and handed it over.

Haynesfield looked at it. “I don’t think I made myself clear,” he said.

“Oh, you were very clear,” Stone said, “but I don’t think it’s in my interests to handle the transaction that way.”

“As you wish,” Haynesfield said. “Shall we wrap the picture?”

“Thank you, just some bubble wrap.”

He handed it to the young colleague, who took it to the back of the gallery.

Ten minutes went by, then two of Art Masi’s detectives walked into the gallery and flashed badges.

“I don’t understand,” Haynesfield said. “I was just selling this gentleman a Picasso print. Everything is entirely in order.”

“Henderson!” Masi shouted, and another detective emerged from the back room carrying a painting in bubble wrap. The young gallery employee was in his other hand, in cuffs.

Masi took the painting and tore away the wrapping. “Ah, a Picasso print,” he said.

“One moment,” Henderson replied. He went to the back and came back with the Matisse. “There must have been some mistake,” he said.

The detectives departed with Haynesfield, the young man, and the Matisse.

“Shall we get on to the next gallery?” Masi asked.

“Of course. What did you think of the Matisse?”

“A very fine one, worth at least half a million.”

“Will you be able to get it back to its owner?”

“I expect so,” Masi said. “We have an expert on that work.”