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“It certainly spoke to me. In fact, it was rather talkative.”
“And what did it say?”
She leaned forward across the desk and looked directly into his eyes. “It said that Paolo Veronese didn’t paint it.”
“Nonsense.”
“Is it, Mr. Dimbleby?”
“I have spent the last four days showing that painting to the leading Old Master experts from the world’s most respected museums. And not one of them has questioned the authenticity of the work.”
“That’s because none of those experts know about the man who visited Galerie Konrad Hassler in Berlin a few days after you announced the rediscovery of your so-called Veronese. This man showed Herr Hassler a photograph of the so-called Veronese side by side with the so-called Titian and the so-called Tintoretto. The photograph was taken in the studio of the art forger who painted them.”
“That’s not possible.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“He assured me that the paintings were genuine.”
“Signore Rinaldi?”
“Never heard of him,” swore Oliver, truthfully.
“That’s the name he used when he visited Galerie Hassler. Giovanni Rinaldi.”
“I know him by a different name.”
“And what name is that?”
Oliver made no reply.
“He deceived you, Mr. Dimbleby. Or perhaps you simply wanted to be deceived. Whatever the case, you are now in a very precarious situation. But don’t worry, it will be our little secret.” She paused. “For a small fee, of course.”
“How small?”
“Half of the final sales price of the Veronese.”
Oliver uncharacteristically chose the high road. “I couldn’t possibly sell the picture after what you’ve told me.”
“If you withdraw the painting now, you will be forced to return the millions of pounds you accepted for the Titian and the Tintoretto. And then...”
“I’ll be ruined.”
She handed Oliver a sheet of stationery from the Lanesborough. “I would like you to wire fifteen million pounds into that account first thing tomorrow morning. If the money doesn’t appear by the close of business, I will telephone that reporter from theNew York Timesand tell her the truth about your so-called Veronese.”
“You’re a cheap blackmailer.”
“And you, Mr. Dimbleby, don’t know as much about the art world as you think you do.”
He looked down at the account number. “You will receive the moneyafterthe sale of my Veronese. Which, I might add, is a genuine Veronese and not a fake.”
“I insist on immediate payment.”
“You can’t have it.”
“In that case,” said the woman, “I will require a security deposit.”
“How much?”
