Doug went on kissing his wife’s face, her eyelids, her brow, her neck; his hands went deftly to her breasts, and he delighted that they were taut under her cotton blouse.
Pausing, he whispered against her neck. “Come on, let’s go and find a bed.” Taking hold of both her hands, Doug pulled her to her feet; with their arms wrapped around each other, they went into the adjoining bedroom.
Within a few seconds they were both naked, lying on top of the antique quilt. “You’re not cold, are you?” he asked softly.
“No. This room’s always been warm. Actually, I’m hot,” she whispered.
So am I, he thought, but he said nothing, simply buried his head between her breasts. Throwing one leg over her, he pressed his body alongside hers, slowly caressing her arm, and then her thigh. It was true, she was hot; he could feel the heat rising from her body.
Encircling her with his arms, he rolled them over on the bed, so that he was on his back and she lay on top of him. Automatically, she went to kneel in front of him, loving him the way he liked her to do.
But a moment or two later he was pulling her up so that she was on top of him. When he entered her he did so with such suddenness, and so swiftly, she let out a little cry. Then they began to move together in the old familiar rhythm that was theirs.
Both of them were carried along by their mutual passion. Rising upward together, they felt as if they were floating … higher and higher … soaring … soaring …
Far away, as if from a long distance, Doug heard a faint noise. He snapped his eyes open, stared across at the doorway.
Robin Knox was standing there, watching them, his blue eyes startled, his face pale. And then he was gone. In an instant he had disappeared.
Doug blinked, wondering if he’d imagined Robin’s unexpected presence. He knew he had not.
Laura fell against him, asking in an almost inaudible voice, “Why did you stop? What happened? Is something wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing.” But there was.
There was a long silence. He cleared his throat. “I guess the wine at lunch got to me,” he lied, hoping she believed him.
Part Two
Winter and
Spring 1997
10
Laura left her office on Sixty-eighth Street and hurried down Madison Avenue. One of her greatest assets was her power of concentration; yet another, her ability to compartmentalize matters in order to deal with the single most important problem of the moment. This ability to truly focus on something to the exclusion of all else—she called it tunnel vision—was one of her strong suits. As she hurried to her appointment, her mind was geared to the difficult situation she was certain she was about to encounter.
Laura was thinking about Mark Tabbart, one of America’s cleverest, shrewdest, and most successful financiers, one of the new mega-rich buccaneers of big business with a lavish lifestyle, money to burn, and a high profile. He had been a client of hers for the past two years, and although he was tough, brash, opinionated, and dictatorial, they had, up until that moment, enjoyed a good relationship based on an easy rapport and mutual respect of each other’s abilities. For the most part, he took her advice and bowed to her better judgment, but she had an uneasy feeling that this was about to change.
Laura and Alison were considered to be two of the best in the business, self-assured, confident in their knowledge of Impressionist art and the international market. They had helped to build fine-art collections for high-powered business executives and celebrities with newly made fortunes who wanted to invest in art. All paid strict attention to what she and Alison said and took their recommendations, relying on their professional judgment, knowledge, and experience. Their credentials and reputation were impeccable in the art market of the late 1990s, which was enjoying another high.
When she had first been introduced to Mark Tabbart by one of her other clients, he had asked Laura why anyone would feel the need to use her services, or those of any other expert. “I’ve got eyes in my head, I know whether I like a painting or not, and I can read the name of the artist on the canvas. So why do I need an art expert?”
Laura had responded with a question of her own. “Would you sign a binding legal document involving millions of dollars without first seeking the advice of a lawyer? I very much doubt it.”
“You’re right, I wouldn’t,” he had answered, and encouraged by his straightforwardness, Laura had gone on to pose another question. “Surely, then, you would agree that it’s foolish to buy an expensive painting without asking advice from someone with a great deal of knowledge about art and the market.”
“Agreed,” Tabbart had concurred, and that same day he had become a client.
In the ensuing two years, Laura had helped the entrepreneur build a fine collection. She had acquired for him some of the great French Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings, including works by Cézanne and Matisse, and such American painters as John Singer Sargent and Frank Benson; and she had picked up two paintings by Dame Laura Knight, the British Post-Impressionist painter.
But the one thing she had not been able to do thus far was to fulfill his desire to acquire a Gauguin. Suddenly, out of the blue, he had discovered one for himself, one that was actually for sale.
Laura had learned about this development four days ago, when Tabbart had phoned her from Aspen, chortling with glee about his extraordinary luck. They had arranged to meet today, and she realized as she turned into the lobby of Tabbart’s office building that she might have to do battle with him. Taking a deep breath, Laura braced herself as she entered the elevator and rode up to the fortieth floor.
Mark Tabbart had kept her waiting twenty minutes already, but Laura was well aware that this did not signify anything special or untoward. Certainly it had nothing to do with her. He was an exceptionally busy man, with endless demands on his time, and this was not the first occasion she had hung around in the reception area until he had finished whatever bit of business he was transacting.
At the exact moment she pulled out her cell phone to call Doug at his office, Mark’s assistant, Alec Fulham, suddenly appeared at the private entrance to Mark’s inner sanctum. Immediately she put the phone back in her handbag and stood up swiftly, realizing she would have to call Doug later.
Alec hurried forward, sounding apologetic as he said, “Sorry about this. Mark’s been on a complicated call. He just hung up.”
“No problem,” Laura replied. She followed him along the corridor to Mark’s office in silence.
When they entered the room, Mark Tabbart was standing looking out of the window. He was short, thin, and wiry, a baby-faced, balding man who was not particularly prepossessing physically; but he was brilliant in business and considered by his peers to be a financial genius. He was in his shirtsleeves, as he usually was when he was working at his desk, his dark jacket slung across the back of the chair.
He turned around and moved lithely across the thickly carpeted floor to greet her effusively. His face instantly changed, became genial, although his warm smile was not reflected in his pale gray eyes which, as always, were cold, appraising.
After kissing her on both cheeks and exchanging a few pleasantries, Mark went to his desk, picked up several photographs, and began. “I want you to see these pictures of—”
“Tahitian Dreams,” Laura finished for him, swiftly cutting in, wanting to gain the advantage by proving a point to him. “Painted by Paul Gauguin in 1896. It’s the portrait of a Tahitian woman on a starry night, inky-blue sky, brilliant white stars. The woman is reclining under a tree, there’s a bowl of fruit by her side, the faint outline of a horse under a tree, and off to the right, a Tahitian man gazing at her. Gauguin’s wonderfully vivid colors are much in evidence, a lovely deep red in the fan she’s holding, the warm coral he often used for his earth tones, a mingling of dark greens in the trees behind her, with pavonian blues in the sky. The woman’s nude except for a strip of yellow silk thrown across her thighs, and s
he bears a strong resemblance to the woman in Gauguin’s painting called Vairumati, which is in the Musée d’Orsay in Paris, but the actual setting is similar to the one Gauguin used in his painting called Te Arii Vahine, which is hanging in the Pushkin Museum in Moscow. And by the way, Gauguin painted Tahitian Dreams on his second trip to Tahiti.”
Mark Tabbart made no response whatsoever. He simply sat staring at her.
Laura returned his hard stare unflinchingly; she knew she had the upper hand because, for the moment, he was impressed by her knowledge. When he chose not to make any comment, Laura asked, “I have described the painting correctly, haven’t I?” and lifted a brow questioningly.
His nod was almost curt. “It seems that you know this painting intimately,” he finally remarked with acerbity, his pale, pellucid eyes still fixed on her intently.
“Yes, that’s true, I do.”
“Therefore you must be acquainted with the owner.”
“I am. Norman Grant owns Tahitian Dreams.”
“Norman told me the painting has been on the market for about three months. Did you know Tahitian Dreams was for sale?”
“I did. Many people in the art world knew of its availability, Mark.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me about it? Recommend it?” he asked, sounding puzzled.
Laura said very quietly, “I thought the painting was not right for you.”
“Why not? You know how much I’ve wanted a Gauguin, been salivating about owning one for years.”
“This is a problem painting. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone.”
Mark frowned. “What do you mean by problem? It’s not a fake, is it?”
“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “I didn’t mean to imply anything like that. The painting is one of Gauguin’s best, in my opinion, and I’d give anything to be able to recommend it to you. But I can’t. Please forget this painting, it’s not for you.”
Mark Tabbart’s fixed scrutiny of her lasted for the longest moment before he finally lowered his cold gray eyes and stared at the photographs he was holding. He disliked being thwarted, and suddenly he exclaimed in a cold voice, “I want it, Laura! I’ve every intention of making an offer to Norman Grant.”
“I really don’t think you should. Please don’t go near that painting, it’s only going to create problems for you.”
Mark threw the two photographs on his desk and walked around it, then sat down heavily in the chair, glaring at her.
When Laura remained standing in the middle of the room, he motioned to her. “Sit down, Laura, in the chair opposite me, and let’s get to the bottom of this.”
She nodded, did as he said.
“Now, please explain. Tell me why I shouldn’t make an offer.” Unexpectedly, a grin surfaced and spread across his face. “It’s not stolen, is it?”
Laura hesitated, then answered with firmness, “Yes, it is.”
The grin slid off his face; he sat up straighter in his chair and leaned forward. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m afraid I am.”
“But Norman Grant is reputable, a man of some standing. He’s not going to offer me a painting that has been stolen, for God’s sake.”
“But he just did, Mark. Four days ago, to be exact.”
“This is preposterous, and I—”
Laura interrupted him, said, “Let me explain, so that you fully understand. May I?”
Mark Tabbart settled back in his chair, but his expression was impatient. “Please do,” he snapped.
“Tahitian Dreams is in jeopardy, and it could very easily become the object of a dispute in the not too distant future. That’s why I’m endeavoring to steer you away from it.”
“Who was it stolen from?” Mark demanded. “And how do you know this?”
“I’m a professional art adviser, Mark, it’s my business to know these things. A great deal of information comes across my desk every day, and from all over the world. Very recently, the painting was brought to my attention. Tahitian Dreams has a strange history, and incidentally, it has changed hands quite a few times, but without much fanfare.”
“I know that. I have the provenance of the painting from Norman Grant,” he pointed out in an irritable voice.
“I would expect you to have it. Norman Grant bought the painting from a woman called Anthea Margolis of Boston, about five years ago. She in turn had purchased it fifteen years before that from someone. A Joshua Lester of New York, or, rather, Mr. Lester’s widow. The Lesters had owned the painting for about eighteen years before selling it to Mrs. Margolis. Mr. Lester bought the painting from an Arthur Marriott, who lived in London and he had owned it since—”
“1950!” Mark spluttered, annoyed with her. “Look here, I know all that.” He glanced at the paper he was holding, waved it at her. “I have all the relevant dates here.”
“Then read on, Mark, please, and tell me who Arthur Marriott bought it from in 1950,” Laura responded, shifting slightly in the chair, crossing her long, elegant legs, looking at him pointedly.
“It doesn’t say, only that he had owned it since that particular year. And why does it matter? It’s now January 1997. Forty-seven years are accounted for. What more do you want?
“Forty-seven years don’t mean very much, you know, when you consider that the painting was executed by Gauguin in 1896. That’s one hundred and one years ago. Where do you think it was for fifty-four years before that? Before this gentleman called Arthur Marriott bought it?”
“I’ve no idea,” Mark replied coldly. “And do we care?”
“You ought to care, since you’ve considered buying it.”
“The provenance Norman Grant has provided is good enough for me,” he shot back, glaring at her once more.
“Let me give you a little more information,” Laura murmured, returning his cold stare steadily. He had not been able to intimidate her yet. “Arthur Marriott was an art dealer in London, and he bought the painting from the Herman Seltzer Gallery in Vienna,” Laura went on, then paused, took a deep breath, and plunged in. “The gallery had acquired it about a year earlier, in 1949, from one Josef Schiller. He had been a general in the SS, a Nazi, one of Hitler’s top echelon. The painting was, in fact, confiscated by Schiller’s lieutenants from the art collection of Sigmund and Ursula Westheim. Sigmund was from a wealthy Jewish banking family in Berlin. The Westheim Bank, a private merchant bank, was famous; so was the Westheim Art Collection, which was started by Sigmund’s grandfather, Friedrich, in the late nineteenth century. This was immediately following the historic first Impressionist showing in Paris in 1874. Friedrich Westheim was an avid collector, and over the years he acquired some extraordinary art. He bought the paintings of Renoir, Matisse, Manet, Vuillard, van Gogh, Sisley, Seurat, Monet, and Degas, and sculptures by Degas and Rodin as well. He was also a big collector of Gauguin’s primitives, and it was Friedrich Westheim who purchased Tahitian Dreams just after it was first exhibited in Paris in 1897, or thereabouts. In any case, not very long after Paul Gauguin had shipped it to France from Tahiti, along with other paintings he had recently completed. Friedrich happened to be a close friend of Claude Monet’s and used to visit the artist frequently at Giverny, and he acquired some remarkable paintings by him. You may not have heard of it, but in art circles the Westheim Collection is well known. It was the greatest Impressionist and Post-Impressionist collection ever put together, in fact. There’s never been one like it since, either in private hands or in a museum. And it disappeared in its entirety in 1938 to 1939.”
Laura paused, gave Mark a careful look, and finished. “It was confiscated by the Nazis. Confiscated being another word for stolen, of course.”
“I see.” Tabbart nodded his understanding, then added, “And that is why the Gauguin that Norman Grant owns is in jeopardy.”
“Exactly. I’m not sure whether you are aware of this or not, but the World Jewish Congress’s Commission for Art Recovery is hell-bent on retrieving art that was stolen by the
Nazis from the Jews of Europe … whenever it turns up somewhere, whatever the circumstances, and if there is a claimant.”
“And there’s a claimant for Tahitian Dreams!” Mark said. “Of course! That’s it. There’s a Westheim heir who can prove that the painting belonged to the Westheim family. I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Yes. Some new documentation has come to light that leaves no doubt.”
“And where does this development put Norman Grant?”
“With a problem. He could lose the painting.”
“It seems to me he’s an innocent bystander.”
“Perhaps. On the other hand, the painting was stolen, and it therefore belongs to its original owner, the person from whom it was stolen originally.”
“Come on, Laura,” Mark said, his tone irate. “The painting was apparently lost in 1938 to 1939, and that is some fifty-nine years ago now. Really.”
Laura shook her head vehemently. “It can’t be reasoned that way. No, no. Listen to me. If I go into your house and steal something, be it a painting or a small object of some kind, and then I go and sell it to someone else, it’s still your property. It’s not mine. You haven’t sold it. I have sold it … a thief has sold it. Am I correct?”
“Yes. But that doesn’t wash in this instance, does it? There are some extenuating circumstances here, Laura.”
“I don’t think there are. That painting was seized illegally by the Nazis, and therefore it rightly belongs to the heir of the Westheim family. As does the rest of the Westheim Art Collection, actually. As I just told you, that vanished without a trace.”
“I don’t know …” Mark’s voice trailed off, and his expression was one of uncertainty all of a sudden. He seemed less sure of himself than he had been a moment earlier. “Half the art world’s going to be up in arms about this if the Westheim heir sues,” he muttered. “It’s opening a can of worms, isn’t it?”