Quick & Dirty

45

Stone got into the Bentley and gave Fred his instructions to the Eisl Gallery.

“Yes, sir,” Fred replied. Masi got out a block short, and Fred continued to the Eisl Gallery. He drew to a slow halt outside.

To Stone’s astonishment, one of his mother’s paintings was displayed in the window. He walked in; a small woman sat behind a desk.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning. I wonder if you could tell me something about the painting in the window?”

“The Stone? Let me get Mr. Eisl for you, he’s our expert on Stone.” She telephoned, and a tall, elegantly dressed man came out of the rear of the gallery.

“Good morning,” he said. “You are interested in the Stone painting?”

“I’d like to know something about it,” Stone replied.

Eisl went to the window, removed the painting, and set it on a vacant easel. “There we are. It’s a Central Park scene by Matilda Stone, who is noted for her very fine paintings of New York.”

Stone inspected the painting closely. It was undoubtedly his mother’s work; he remembered when she was painting it. “What are you asking for it?”

“Let me check,” Eisl said. He went to the desk and the woman handed him a ledger. He turned a few pages and ran a finger down one, then returned. “Two hundred and fifty thousand,” he said.

“As much as that?”

“Stone’s work only rarely is found in a gallery. Most of her paintings are in private collections or museums. She has four in the American Collection at the Metropolitan.”

“Will you accept two hundred thousand for it?”

“I’m afraid that’s a bit too close to what I paid for it,” Eisl said. “Say, two hundred twenty-five?”

“Two hundred and ten,” Stone said, with a note of finality.

Eisl sighed. “Well, all right. If it’s cash, I suppose so.”

Stone wrote the man a check and handed it to him.

“Ah, I see your first name is Stone. Any relation to the artist?”

“She was my mother,” Stone replied.

Eisl looked for any trace of irony in his customer’s face. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

“Shall I deliver it to you? I assume you’re in the city.”

“I am, but my car is outside. Just some bubble wrap will do.”

Eisl handed it to the woman, who took it into the rear of the gallery.

“Are you looking for anything else, Mr. Barrington?”

“I’m always in the market for something very individual, something not everyone has.” Hook baited.

“I have something quite remarkable,” Eisl said. “It’s by a very famous artist, but its provenance, while fascinating, is not everything we would wish.”

“What artist?”

“It’s at my warehouse,” Eisl said. “I received it quite recently. If you have a few minutes, I’ll send for it.”

“What artist?”

“I think you may recognize him when you see the picture.”

“All right, I’ll look around a bit more. Half an hour?”

“That would be fine.”

Stone took the wrapped painting, walked out, and put it into his trunk. He tapped on a window and it came down. “Fred, please lock the trunk,” he said. He heard it lock.

His cell phone rang. “Yes?”

“It’s Art. Was that the picture in your hand?”

“No, it’s something I bought. Eisl says he has something at his warehouse by a famous artist. He wouldn’t say who, but he’s sent for it. I’ll go back in half an hour.”

“Sounds like I should ask for some backup.”

“Not yet.” Stone walked up one side of Madison, then down the other, then he went into the gallery.

The woman was on the phone, so he waited, taking himself on a tour of Eisl’s pictures. Ten minutes passed, and she hung up. “Shall I call Mr. Eisl for you?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She picked up the phone, and a moment later Eisl appeared. “Ah, Mr. Barrington, the painting is on its way and should be here momentarily. May I offer you coffee or tea?” He waved Stone to a chair.

“Coffee, thanks, black.”

Stone took a seat. Eisl spoke to the young woman, who went to the rear and returned with a small tray. The phone rang, and she answered it. “For you,” she said to Eisl. “Rocco Maggio.”

Stone had heard that name somewhere.

Eisl picked up the phone. “Yes?” He listened for a moment.

Stone saw the color drain from his face.

“Say that again?” Eisl listened. “What are we to do?” He listened again, then hung up and went to where Stone sat.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Barrington, but the painting is not available for viewing at this time.”

“Why not?” Stone asked, looking surprised.

“There has been a mix-up. Perhaps by this time tomorrow...”

“Where is your warehouse?” Stone asked.

“On Twelfth Avenue, but the public are not allowed on the premises for security reasons.”

“Has something happened to the painting?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that, I’m afraid.”

“Then perhaps you’ll tell me who the artist is?”

“Let us say, after van Gogh.”

“After van Gogh?”

“As I mentioned earlier, there are some difficulties about the provenance, so I am not in a position to guarantee its authenticity — not yet, anyway. I expect that to change when the painting is in my hands. I trust my own judgment above all others.”

“All right,” Stone said, getting up and giving the man his card.

“I’ll ring you the moment I have news,” Eisl said.

Stone thanked him, got into the car, and said to Fred, “Take a left, then stop.” He called Art Masi. “I’m around the corner. Join me.”

Masi got into the car. “Where are we going?”

“To Twelfth Avenue.”