Michelangelo_s Notebook

34

Eric Taschen’s apartment on Fifth Avenue was on the top floor of a mid-1940s building, facing Central Park with a spectacular view out over the Sheep Meadow and the Ramble. From what Valentine could tell the apartment itself was modest enough, five or six rooms, one bedroom with a study, but the location, the view and the art on the walls were definitely high end. A Warhol John Wayne silkscreen in the foyer, a Roy Lichtenstein taking up almost an entire wall in the living room and a crockery-plastered Julian Schnabel facing it. There were no obvious clues to his domestic situation, no telltale feminine touch, nothing that spoke overtly about a male presence either. At a guess, Taschen lived alone.

Taschen himself was slim, well-dressed in a white-on-white open-collared silk shirt and tailored jeans, his feet pushed into a pair of expensive loafers, no socks. The watch on his wrist was plain stainless steel; he wore no other jewelry. The man appeared to be in his fifties, dark-haired with a smear of gray at each temple. He was clean shaven, his face unlined. When he met Valentine at the door he was wearing red-framed reading glasses and holding a section of the New York Times. He led Valentine into the living room, sat him down on a butter-leather, not quite new sofa and dropped into a matching armchair with a glass-topped coffee table between them.

“You collect sixties and seventies,” said Valentine, looking over Taschen’s shoulder at the huge Lichtenstein. The canvas showed a sofa and a chair not unlike the one the man was sitting in. Some kind of small joke; an art collector’s pun. Taschen shrugged, then cleared his throat.

“She left the web, she left the loom,

She made three paces thro’ the room,

She saw the water-lily bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

She look’d down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack’d from side to side;

‘The curse is come upon me,’ cried

The Lady of Shalott.”

He grinned. “You live with William Holman Hunt, Burne-Jones and all the rest for the better part of ten years, you want to put anything else but on the walls.”

You still work as a curator?”

“Still?” said Taschen. “Is that some reference to the Parker-Hale?”

“Peter called you?”

“I wouldn’t have seen you otherwise. I’ve dealt with the Newman Gallery for a long time. He told me you were interested in stolen art-war plunder.”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what?”

“George Gatty.”

“It amounts to the same thing. Gatty bought and sold stolen art; everyone knew that.”

“What’s the relationship to the Parker-Hale, or is there one?”

“Sandy bought and sold from Gatty.”

“Sandy-meaning Alexander Crawley?”

“Yes.”

“You were colleagues.”

“Contemporaries, yes.”

“As I understand it you were in line for Cornwall’s post, but Crawley finessed you.”

“Finesse isn’t a word I’d use. Slander is more like it.”

“You resigned.”

“It was the classic case of resign before you’re fired.”

“On what grounds?”

“None. Fabricated. According to Sandy my relationship with James Cornwall was… unsavory.”

“So he was slandering Cornwall as well?”

“Something like that. Most people knew James was gay but no one really cared. On the other hand, having a sexual relationship with the director was seen as too delicate, for public relations reasons.”

“This was Crawley’s reasoning?”

“The reasoning he used with the board of directors.”

“Was it true?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not to me, but as the lawyers say, It goes to motive.”

“Whose?”

“Whoever killed him.” Valentine paused. “I assume the police saw you as a suspect.”

“Sure.” Taschen smiled. He got up and went to a small, black-lacquered, Art Deco-style wet bar at the far end of the room. “Get you something?”

“No, thanks,” answered Valentine. Taschen mixed himself a Scotch on the rocks and came back to his seat. He sipped the drink slowly, not speaking, looking out through the large window that faced the park. The set of his jaw was tense and Valentine could see the strain showing around his eyes. A lot of restrained anger.

“I had an alibi,” said the man. He smiled tightly. “I was in Prague on a buying trip.”

“Buying trip?”

“I work as a private consultant for collectors, corporations, foundations, that sort of thing. There’s a lot of interest now in eastern European avant-garde art from between the wars. Alois Bilek, Karel Teige, Capek’s set designs-he’s the man who invented the term ‘robot’-people like that. Collectible but not prohibitively expensive.”

“A long way from Burne-Jones and the Lady of Shalott.”

“People change. So do tastes.”

“And circumstances.”

“Peter Newman told me who you are, Mr. Valentine, or should I call you Doctor? You’ve got more than one PhD, as I understand it. You know that the art on my walls is outside the means of most people, as is this apartment. I didn’t need the job at the Parker-Hale but I wanted it, and I deserved it. Being born wealthy doesn’t make you ineligible for academic scholarship.” Taschen frowned. “I’m no trust-fund dilettante.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that you were.”

“Then what were you suggesting?”

“Nothing. But I would like to know the reason for Crawley’s evident dislike of you.”

“It wasn’t personal. There was no reason for it to be. Sandy was part of a ring; James Cornwall knew it and wouldn’t have suggested Sandy for the job of director for all the tea in China.”

“That still doesn’t explain why he went after you like that.”

“Sandy was making money from deaccessioning particular works from the permanent collection and giving particular dealers first crack at them. Kickbacks. A lot of galleries do it, but they’re usually more discreet. I had proof of what Sandy was up to. By discrediting me he discredited anything I had to say against him.”

“As I understand the timeline of events, Cornwall appointed Crawley while you were still at the gallery. Why?”

Taschen shrugged simply. “Because Sandy was blackmailing him.”

“You sound awfully sure of yourself.”

“I am. James told me. He showed me a letter Sandy had sent him stating the situation. He was left without any choice.”

“So who do you think killed Crawley?”

“I have no idea. He had some unsavory friends. I know that much.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Deiter Trost at the Hoffman Gallery for one. Mark Taggart at the Grange Foundation for another. You’ve already mentioned George Gatty-a man James Cornwall loathed, by the way.”

“Why?”

“I’m not entirely sure other than the fact that the colonel is a particularly odious human being without a shred of morality. I think there was some connection to the war.”

“Gatty worked for G2 in Switzerland. Intelligence.”

“So did James Cornwall. Not in Switzerland, but he was in the Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives division of the OSS. The art-looting people.”

“A tangled web,” said Valentine. “But it still doesn’t explain why Cornwall appointed Crawley to succeed him. You said you saw a letter.”

“That’s right.”

“Saying what?”

“Saying that Sandy was aware of James’s involvement in some sort of secret club and if he wasn’t appointed to the director’s position he’d have no choice but to go to the press.”

“And you assumed it had something to do with Cornwall’s sexual history?”

“It must have. What else could it have been?”

“Cornwall didn’t tell you?”

“No. And I didn’t ask.”

“Did this club have a name?”

“Yes. The Carduss Club.”

Valentine frowned. “Latin for thistle.”

“I know,” said Taschen. “Strange name for a gay sex club. Sounded more like a college frat.”

“Did he tell you anything about the group?”

“Not a word,” Taschen answered, shaking his head. “Not a single word.”

A telephone purred somewhere in the back of the apartment. Taschen took a last swallow from his drink, put the glass down on the coffee table and rose to his feet. He left the room, not in any hurry, and disappeared. The ringing stopped and Valentine was vaguely aware of the sound of the art consultant’s muffled voice.

Valentine stood up and went to examine the crusty Schnabel on the wall. It showed a vaguely Ethiopian figure against a mountain background with a skull off to one side. The bottom half of the painting was full of broken crockery. He’d never much liked Schnabel’s work and this piece wasn’t changing his opinion very much. The broken plates always reminded him of Zorba the Greek. On the other hand, the artist had made his reputation on the basis of the idiotic potsherds. Obscurity as art.

He turned as Taschen came back into the room. “That was Peter Newman.”

“Yes?”

“He knew you were coming here. He thought you should know. He just heard it on the news.”

“Heard what?”

Taschen let out a long breath. “George Gatty. He’s been murdered. Someone ran him through with a Nazi ceremonial sword.”