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“No.”
“But wasn’t your handbag stolen at the diner?”
Connie had to think quickly. “Yes… yes, it was – but it was stolen from my table while I went to pay for my meal. I have my wallet and money still.”
More silence. Duncan drew back the drapes and a shaft of bright sunshine spilled into the office, casting light across the paintings of his private collection that adorned the walls. He blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling. “So what is it you want?”
“Advice – information.”
“About…?”
Connie took a deep breath and held it for a moment. “About Blake McGrath.”
Duncan’s expression became a curious scowl. He strode back to the desk and fell into the big leather chair. “What exactly would you like to know?”
“Everything you can tell me.”
“Can’t you find this out on your laptop?”
“Yes, but it’s back in the house where I am staying, and I need to know right now. Please…”
Duncan gave an amused, indulgent sigh. He sat back in the chair and the expensive leather creaked. He studied the glowing tip of his cigar for a moment.
“Blake McGrath is… or was… America’s most famous contemporary artist,” he began. “They called him America’s Rembrandt. He won acclaim from gallery curators around the world and held special exhibitions at the Louvre and the National Gallery in London. Enough?”
“What happened to him?” Connie asked. “Why did he stop painting?”
Duncan drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Every exhibition the man held sold out,” he said. “His last major showing was in New York about six or seven years ago. It was announced at the time that he was going away to create new works… but he was never heard of again.”
“He just disappeared?”
“Off the face of the earth, so it seems,” Duncan said. He had once owned a small McGrath seascape, and had hung it here in this very office as the pride of his collection, until a Saudi cartel had offered him a prince’s ransom for the painting. As a reflex action, his eyes drifted across to the blank space that still remained on the wall.
“Can you remember the prices his work fetched – the ones from his last exhibition?”
“Of course,” Duncan sounded almost offended. Art was his life, and more than the artists themselves, Duncan knew their values.
“He was the most renowned seascape artist in the world. His last exhibition contained twenty-four pieces. The largest sold for 1.6 million, and the smallest – a little study of some shells and rocks – fetched several hundred thousand.”
There was a very long moment of silence, and Duncan thought perhaps the connection had been broken. His mind drifted back to the young girl he had sent from his office and he wondered if she still might be downstairs in the gallery… He plucked her panties from his pocket and ran the lace between his fingers.
Finally Connie’s voice came back, lowered to a whisper. “If any new paintings of his were discovered, would they still fetch the same prices?”
Duncan paused and considered the question from an academic angle. The last Blake McGrath to come onto the open market had been a small seascape just twelve months earlier. It had been auctioned by Sotheby’s for almost half a million pounds.
“More,” he said with confidence, and then went on with a weary rush of impatience. “Connie, finding undiscovered works by America’s Rembrandt would be like finding missing songs by The Beatles, or a new masterpiece by Picasso.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Now, darling,” he clenched his teeth as he muttered the endearment, “why are you asking me all these questions? I’m very busy here.”
“I think I’ve found him,” Connie said in a sudden gasp of breath. “I think I’ve found Blake McGrath.”
Duncan straightened in his chair. In an instant the pretty girl had been forgotten. He dropped the panties, and his face became grave and stern as he leaned over the speaker of the phone.
“Explain,” he barked the command.
Connie flinched, shocked by the sudden intensity of Duncan’s voice. She gnawed at her lip and then went carefully through a veiled explanation.
“I’m in a little town on the coast of Maine…”
“You’re not in Bar Harbor? You told me that would be where you are staying.”
“No,” she said. “I stopped overnight because I was tired,” the deception did not come easily to Connie. She was, at heart, an honest woman, but there was so much at stake, and Duncan was not a man she owed her loyalty to. “I plan on driving the rest of the way up to Bar Harbor tomorrow morning.”
“Go on,” Duncan encouraged. He had a growing sense of unease and the cunning instincts of a fox. He knew he was being deceived. He could hear it in Connie’s voice.
“Well I’m in this little town and I went to a local gallery here, just on a whim. Duncan, they have a painting by a man using the name Bill Mason – but I swear it’s a genuine Blake McGrath. I think he’s using the Mason name to hide. I think Blake McGrath is living somewhere here in Maine.”
Duncan arched his eyebrows and his expression became incredulous. “And you’re basing this assumption on a painting? Is it even signed?”
“No.”
“Then what makes you think it’s a genuine McGrath?”
“The style, Duncan! It’s beautiful – utterly magnificent. And the name… Bill Mason, Blake McGrath. It all fits.”
Duncan’s expression soured. His impatience began to bubble over into the sharper tone of his voice.
“Do you have the painting?”
“No, but I have taken photos.”
“Is there just one painting?”
Connie hesitated. “Yes.”
“It’s probably a forgery, or a coincidence. I mean every artist in the world has tried to
paint like Blake McGrath. Isn’t it more likely that you have just stumbled upon a talented amateur?”
Connie sighed. Her voice became very soft. “I suppose it is possible,” she conceded, although she knew in her heart she was right. She knew with every fiber of her being that this was the work of America’s master.
Duncan sat back in his chair and his voice became condescending, as though he were indulging a child. “Darling, you’re not the first person to be fooled by a clever forgery, or to get caught up in a myth. The art world is famous for such deceptions.” He paused for a moment. “Can I put you on hold, sweetheart? I have something important to take care of that simply can’t wait?”
“Sure.”
He clicked off the line and got through to his secretary. “That blonde girl who left here a few minutes ago,” he growled. “I want her back. If she’s not still in the gallery, go and look for her – and if you can’t find her, start typing up your resume.”
He took a deep breath and snatched up the line to Connie again. His voice changed in an instant, once again smooth and suave. “Maybe you’ve just stumbled upon another Han van Meegeren…” he offered reasonably.
Connie fell silent.
Van Meegeren was a Dutch artist during the 1930s who failed in his own career and then set about replicating the work of famous masters in the art world’s most sensational case of fraud. So successful had the man been, that several of the world’s foremost art critics had hailed one of his creations as the finest original painting by the 17th century master, Johannes Vermeer, that they had ever seen.
“Maybe…” Connie’s voice stayed small.
Duncan sighed theatrically. “Look,” he said. “Email me the photos and I’ll take a look at them when I get a moment. And might I suggest you get yourself to Bar Harbor and watch some sunsets instead of chasing rainbows.” He forced a smile into his voice, and then looked up suddenly to the sound of a reluctant knock on his door. The smile became genuine – and wolfish.
Duncan came out of his chair and leaned over the speaker. “Connie, I have to go,” his words became clipped. “I’m sorry, darling, but I have an important meeting and I’m going to be busy for the rest of the afternoon.” He hung up without waiting for her response and glided across the office. The blonde girl was waiting for him.
