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38
Kurfürstendamm
The article was purportedly based on a single source who wished to remain anonymous. Even this was misleading, as it was Sarah Bancroft who had provided the initial tip and Oliver Dimbleby who had supplied the off-the-record confirmation and the photograph—thus making it, in point of fact, a two-source story.
The work in question was said to be 92 centimeters in height and 74 in width. That much, at least, was accurate. It was not, however, a lost work of the Late Renaissance painter known as Titian, and there had been no quiet sale to a prominent collector who wished to remain unidentified. Truth be told, there was no buyer, prominent or otherwise, and no money had changed hands. As for the painting, it was now hanging in a gloriouspiano nobileoverlooking the Grand Canal in Venice, much to the delight of the wife and two young children of the newly minted art forger who had produced it.
The dealers, curators, and auctioneers of the London art world greeted the news with astonishment and no small amount of jealousy. After all, Oliver was still basking in the glow of his last coup. In the salerooms and watering holes of St. James’s and Mayfair, questionswere raised, usually in conspiratorial whispers. Did this new Titian have a proper provenance, or did it fall off the back of a truck? Was tubby Oliver absolutely certain of the attribution? Did others more learned than he concur? And what exactly was his role in the transaction? Had he actuallysoldthe painting to his unnamed buyer? Or had he merely acted as a middleman and pocketed a lucrative commission in the process?
For three interminable days, Oliver refused to either confirm or deny that he handled the work in question. Finally he released a brief corroboratory statement that was scarcely more illuminating than Amelia March’s original story. It contained only two new pieces of information, that the painting had emerged from an old European collection and had been examined by no fewer than four leading Venetian School experts. All four agreed, without qualifications or conditions, that the canvas had been executed by Titian himself and not by a member of his workshop or a later follower.
That evening Oliver walked the one hundred and fourteen paces from his gallery to the bar at Wiltons and in keeping with neighborhood tradition promptly ordered six bottles of champagne. Much was made of the fact that it was Taittinger Comtes Blanc de Blanc, the most expensive on the list. Still, all those in attendance would later remark that Oliver seemed subdued for a man who had just pulled off one of the art world’s biggest coups in years. He refused to divulge the price the Titian had fetched and feigned deafness when Jeremy Crabbe pressed him for additional details on the painting’s provenance. Sometime around eight he pulled Nicky Lovegrove aside for a heart-to-heart, which gave rise to speculation that Oliver’s unidentified buyer was one of Nicky’s superrich clients. Nicky swore it wasn’t so, but Oliver cagily declined comment. Then, after kissing the proffered cheek of Sarah Bancroft, he waddled into Jermyn Street and was gone.
It emerged the following day, in a lengthy article in theArt Newspaper, that the unidentified buyer had made a takeaway offer for the Titian after being granted an exclusive viewing at Oliver’s gallery. According to theIndependent, the offer was £25 million. Niles Dunham, an Old Master specialist from the National Gallery, denied a report that he had authenticated the painting on Oliver’s behalf. Curiously, so did every other connoisseur of Italian School painting in the United Kingdom.
But it was the photograph of the painting that raised the most eyebrows, at least among the backbiting world of St. James’s. For many years Oliver had utilized the services of the same fine art photographer—the renowned Prudence Cuming of Dover Street. But not, as it turned out, for his newly discovered Titian. Perhaps even more suspicious was his claim that he had taken the photograph himself. All were in agreement that Oliver could handle a tumbler of good whisky, or a shapely backside, but not a camera.
And yet no one, not even the unscrupulous Roddy Hutchinson, suspected Oliver of wrongdoing. Indeed, the general consensus was that he was guilty of nothing more serious than protecting the identity of his source, a common practice among art dealers. The logical conclusion was that it was only a matter of time before another noteworthy picture emerged from the same European collection.
When the inevitable finally happened, it was once again Amelia March ofARTnewswho broke the story. This time the work in question wasBacchus, Venus, and Ariadneby the Venetian painter Tintoretto—deeply private sale, price unavailable upon request. Just ten days later, to absolutely no one’s surprise, Dimbleby Fine Arts announced its newest offering:Susanna in the Bath, oil on canvas, 194 by 194 centimeters, by Paolo Veronese. The gallery retained Prudence Cuming of Dover Street to make the photograph. The art world swooned.
With the exception, that is, of the powerful director of the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, who found the sudden appearance of three Italian Old Master paintings suspicious, to say the least. He rang General Ferrari of the Art Squad and demanded an immediate investigation. Surely, he shouted down the line to Rome, the canvases had been smuggled out of Italy in violation of the country’s draconian Cultural Heritage Code. The general promised to look into the matter, though his fingers were firmly crossed at the time. Needless to say, he did not inform the director that the paintings in question were all modern fakes and that he himself was operating in league with the forger.
The forger’s phantom front man—a collector and occasional dealer who called himself Alessandro Calvi—was currently living in an art-filled apartment within sight of the Uffizi, on the Lungarno Torrigiani. As it happened, General Ferrari had occasion to ring this disreputable character two days later on an unrelated matter. It concerned a piece of information the forger had received from a well-placed informant in Paris, an art thief and antiques dealer named Maurice Durand.
“Galerie Konrad Hassler. It’s located on the Kurfürstendamm in Berlin. There’s a coffeehouse on the opposite side of the street. Your associate will meet you there tomorrow afternoon at three.”
And so it was that the phantom front man, whose real name was Capitano Luca Rossetti, left the luxury apartment on the Arno early the following morning and rode in a taxi to Florence Airport. His tailored Italian suit was new and expensive, as were his handmade shoes and his soft-sided leather attaché case. The watch on his wrist was a Patek Philippe. Like his collection of art and antiquities, it was borrowed from the evidence rooms of the Carabinieri.
Rossetti’s travel itinerary included a stopover in Zurich, and it was approaching three o’clock when he arrived at the coffeehouse on the Kurfürstendamm. Gabriel was seated at a table outside, in the dappled shade of a plane tree. He ordered two coffees from the waitress in rapid German before handing a manila envelope to Rossetti.
Inside were two photographs. The first depicted three unframed paintings displayed side by side against the wall of an artist’s workshop—a Titian, a Tintoretto, and a Veronese. The second was a high-resolution image ofDanaë and the Shower of Gold, purportedly by Orazio Gentileschi. Rossetti knew the work well. At present, it was hanging on the wall of the apartment in Florence.
“When is he expecting me?”
“Three thirty. He’s under the impression that your name is Giovanni Rinaldi and that you are from Milano.”
“How do you want me to play it?”
“I’d like you to present Herr Hassler with a unique opportunity to acquire a lost masterwork. I would also like you to make it clear that you are the source of the three paintings that have resurfaced in London.”
“Do I tell him they’re forgeries?”
“You won’t have to. He’ll get the idea when he sees the photos.”
“Why am I coming to him?”
“Because you’re looking for a second distributor for your merchandise and you’ve heard rumors that he’s less than honest.”
“How do you suppose he’ll react?”
“He’ll either make you an offer or throw you out of his gallery. I’m betting on the latter. Make sure you leave behind the photo of the Gentileschi on your way out the door.”
“What happens if he calls the police?”
“Criminals don’t call the police, Rossetti. In fact, they do their best to avoid them.”
The Carabinieri officer lowered his gaze to the photograph.
