The Dead Don't Talk Read online

  Ennis was very mature.

  He slammed the phone down.

  We got to the NYU campus and found the art expert.

  “You asked about forging a painting,” he said.

  “Yes. Is it common?”

  “Oh, yes. Forgers have been at it for a couple of thousand years. Of course, every year we get better at spotting fakes. But there’s a psychological element.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Say you’re a forger. You meet someone, a wealthy lawyer, say, and he wants to start an art collection, only he can’t because he sees the prices in the papers. You look him over. You know the old saying. The con only works if the mark is dishonest. Anyway, the forger or more likely the forger’s agent tells the lawyer that he can buy contemporary paintings at a reasonable price, only no one will know if they’re ever going to become valuable or if the painter is ever going to become famous. The lawyer, though, is greedy. He wants a Monet for a hundred bucks. And so we go to the hook. The agent says he knows a Van Gogh or a Picasso or a Chagall. But there’s a problem. It’s been stolen. The thief is looking for a buyer, but no one can ever display it. You can hang it somewhere away from public view but you can’t say you own it. Now our lawyer might be the type who wants to brag, to hang the painting on his living room wall. Or he might be the sort to love the idea of having the secret. He’d love his Picasso and hide it in a special room he has built. He’ll think he’s superior to everyone because he has this secret that no one knows.”

  “And the agent is really selling him a fake.”

  “Sure. Our lawyer can’t pay to have it authenticated. He can’t show anyone. It’s a perfect scam. Except, of course, for the lawyer who has been cheated. And maybe he hasn’t. He genuinely believes he has the Picasso. Maybe that’s worth whatever he paid for it. Maybe, in fact, everyone really does win.”

  “Could this agent hire someone or some people to create fakes?”

  “That’s done all the time. You always see people painting the Great Masters. It’s a way of getting better, they think. A lot of people have the talent to make very good copies. The fakes would easily fool most people.”

  “And I take it there’s potentially a lot of money in this.”

  “A fortune, Mr. Ryle. It’s very tempting.”

  “I have a delicate question, Professor.”

  He just nodded.

  “Have you heard rumors about people in New York who are agents, people who hire painters to create fakes?”

  “There are always rumors.”

  “I’m looking for a name.”

  “It would be easier if you gave me a name, and I’ll tell you if I’ve heard such rumors.”

  I considered this. I didn’t like showing my hand, but I didn’t think I had a choice.

  “All right. There is a prominent art dealer by the name of Oscar Krieger. He...”

  “He’s very likely the man you’re looking for. He barely escaped jail a decade ago for selling a fake Modigliani. The word was that he was hiding a fake Seurat at the very moment the cops were questioning him.”

  “I’m not so off track then if I look at him.”

  The Professor shook his head.

  “You’d be doing the art world a great favor if you could remove him from the scene.”

  “Thank you, Professor.”

  “Art is interesting, right? More interesting than perhaps you thought it could be.”

  “The beauty of the paintings is captivating.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Ryle. I do hope you will continue to study it.”

  We said good-bye.

  Ari and I went to a nice restaurant that specialized in steak. The waiter was upset with me because I ordered it well-done, but it was delicious to my untrained tongue.

  After eating, we headed back to Long Island.

  I had some planning to do.

  Betsy met us at my house. I explained what I thought had happened.

  “You’re wrong,” Betsy said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “From what you’ve told me about Oscar Krieger, he’s too limited for such an enterprise. He might know who to hire to paint the fakes. And he might know some of the jokers who can purchase the fakes. But he’s too limited financially to support the whole set-up. Besides, Danny, you’ve forgotten. Two people are dead from this phony art scam.”

  “What does that all mean, Betsy?”

  “It means somebody is behind Oscar. Somebody who needs money or likes it or needs it.”

  She looked right at me.

  “Danny, I mean somebody very much like your boss, the Congressman.”

  I shook my head.

  “Then why would he ask me to look into Rabbi Siegel’s death?”

  She smiled.

  “He wanted to see how much you could learn. He was protecting himself. He wanted to see if the cops could get close.”

  “And what if I did?”

  “He can always hire a new fixer, Danny. Of course he’d insist on giving a moving tribute at your funeral.”

  I sat down, overwhelmed by the sheer complexity of life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  When I was young, my father had a standard line when he saw a diner in a restaurant who was very overweight. My father would say, “I bet he’s part of an experiment to see how far human skin can stretch.” This comment always satisfied him. I think it added to the enjoyment of his meal. As with so much else, I didn’t copy my father in making such a statement.

  But I had to admit that when I saw Oscar Krieger, the art dealer, my father’s comment raced to the center of my brain.

  There were various ways to approach Krieger. I made a choice and went ahead.

  “Mr. Krieger. My name, for the purposes of our discussion, is Paul Gauguin.”

  “You look remarkably well preserved.”

  “The Tahitian weather agrees with me.”

  “Come back to my office.”

  Ari stayed at the entrance of the office and I went inside.

  “All right, sir,” Krieger said, “Charades aside, what is this about?”

  “I have an interesting job, Mr. Krieger. I represent a ridiculously wealthy gentleman. I wouldn’t want to present myself as being influential. I’m not related to him. I’m just an employee.”

  “And why did this wealthy gentleman send you to me?”

  “My employer, like so many rich men these days, thinks of himself as a captain, a titan, a conqueror. He is bored with his success. He has acquired a hobby.”

  “We have many wonderful paintings in our showroom, sir.”

  “I am sure you do. I’m afraid my employer has more refined tastes. He became particularly interested in surrealism. I’m not sure why. In life, he seems quite set in his ways, and the idea of this attraction to a drooping watch hanging over a tree limb and so on strikes those of us around him as odd.” I was describing Dali’s painting The Persistence of Memory, which was one of the very few surrealist paintings I knew. I had seen it in the Museum of Modern Art. I was making this up as I went along and realized I should have prepared myself more carefully.

  Krieger just stared at me.

  “Your employer surely knows that particular painting is not for sale and never will be. It is priceless. Its previous owner made an anonymous donation of it to MoMA.”

  “I’m sorry if I misled you. No, it is not Dali that piques my employer’s interest. It is Rene Magritte. In brief, Mr. Krieger, my employer has asked me to come to see you. He has heard from friends, friends without names, that you have a remarkable talent for knowing what’s on sale and how to get it.”

  I leaned back.

  “My employer lives in the Hamptons. On the ocean. He enjoys the view, but he wants a Magritte quickly to place on the wall to the left of the window with the magnificent ocean view.”

  “Your employer wants a painting by Magritte, and he wants it quickly. May I recommend that your employer go to the Magritte Museum in Brussels? There are many wond
erful paintings there.”

  “My employer does not see himself as a tourist, Mr. Krieger. He would like to purchase a Magritte.”

  “He understands the price.”

  “Money is not an issue.”

  “Words I like to hear, Mr....Gauguin.”

  We both smiled.

  “If you would step out to allow me to make several discreet phone calls, perhaps we can both find a satisfactory conclusion to our conversation.”

  I left the room. Ari was smart enough simply to stare at me. I shook my head slightly, and we both stood there in silence.

  It took ten minutes for Oscar Krieger to open his office door and invite me back inside.

  “I don’t know if I can get a painting quickly.”

  “Mr. Krieger, let’s not quibble. My employer will pay a generous bonus for speed. I can’t go into the circumstances but speed is quite important.”

  “Is he ill?”

  “It’s not my place to say.”

  “Of course.”

  He steepled his fingers, implying his confidence and control of the situation, and continued. “Magritte painted The Mysteries of the Horizon in 1955. As he was preparing this exquisite painting, he worked on an early version. You won’t be able to read about it in the history books or in any catalog of Magritte’s paintings. He never mentioned to anyone except a close family member. That family member sold it for quite a bit of money. That is its provenance. From the family member to a buyer in Switzerland in 1972. To another buyer in New York in 1979. I have called the current owner. He agrees under certain conditions.”

  “And those are?”

  “Ten million dollars. No bargaining. The painting cannot be publicly displayed or discussed. Doing so in fact would vastly reduce its draw. Right now it is a tightly-kept secret, and that was the owner’s promise to the previous owner, and a promise he wants your employer to keep.”

  “As I said, the money is of no concern. But my employer did have a particular question.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “You understand a potential problem, don’t you, Mr. Krieger? May I be blunt?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You have, as I mentioned, quite a reputation as a hunter. You know where to find the gems.”

  “It’s an unearned gift.”

  Now it was time for the final touch to convince Krieger that I was genuine. It was time to do what a real collector would.

  “Quite a gift under any circumstances. But here’s the problem, Mr. Krieger. You also have a reputation as someone who peddles forgeries to unsuspecting dupes.”

  “You may leave my gallery.”

  “Please, Mr. Krieger. Your acting is sub-standard. It’s my job on the line if my employer receives a fake—if, for example, you hire someone to paint Mr. Magritte’s work and pass it off as genuine. In truth, given the story you’ve told me, we would have no way to determine if the painting was ever even painted.”

  “Anyone who knows Magritte’s style will recognize it as real. My goodness, there are three men with bowler hats in the original, and two men with bowler hats in the painting I propose to sell you. Perhaps you are not familiar with Mr. Magritte’s work, but bowler hats were common in his paintings.”

  “We will have an expert check it out.”

  “And the expert will be discreet?”

  “The expert is also an employee subject to a major cash penalty for revealing any information.”

  “Then by all means. Your expert will be eager to see a new Magritte, I’m sure.”

  “Get the painting, sir. We agree on ten million dollars.”

  “In cash.”

  “Of course.”

  “And the limitations the owner asks are agreeable?”

  “They are.”

  I leaned forward.

  “A favor, Mr. Krieger. For reasons that you have already assumed, time is very critical here. How soon can you have the painting available in your gallery?”

  “Since I’ve spoken to the owner, I should say no more than a few days.”

  I nodded.

  “That is very agreeable and appreciated.”

  “Splendid.”

  “I shall call you in three days. We can then schedule the exchange.”

  “Wouldn’t you prefer that I call you?”

  “In the spirit of the painting, Mr. Krieger, we wish to maintain full anonymity.”

  He smiled.

  “I will await your call.”

  We both stood and shook hands.

  Ari and I left.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The problem with humans is that they don’t always do what seems absolutely logical to you. My so-called wealthy and dying employer lived on Eastern Long Island. He needed a Magritte very quickly. An art dealer who sold fakes would, therefore deal with a painter of fakes who lived on Long Island. He would without question hire Penny Larsen, the artist who lived in the basement of the Rabbi Siegel house.

  At least that’s what I told Al Flanagan.

  “But,” Flanagan asked me, “what if she can’t paint this Magritte guy? What if the best Magritte guy lives in Chicago or Denver or San Francisco? We’ll never know who it is.”

  “Just set it up, Flanagan. Sometimes we have to work on blind faith.”

  “Yeah, blind faith and my reputation. Blind faith and thousands of dollars and a couple of detectives and a dozen men.”

  “It will happen. It’s his only logical choice.”

  “People don’t operate by logic, Ryle. They operate by low emotions and lower desires.”

  Then he laughed.

  “What’s that about, Flanagan?”

  “You’re not too bright are you, Ryle? We have a list of people from Krieger’s phone calls. There are only two other painters in the New York area he uses besides Penny. They’ve both been brought in for questioning. Somebody told them for their cooperation for a few days and turning on Krieger, they might be able to avoid unpleasant prisons with unpleasant prisoners. They were both very eager to cooperate.”

  “I’m learning.”

  “Speed it up, Ryle. Speed it up.”

  “So you’ve begun the coordination of all this.”

  A sigh.

  “I don’t suppose I had a choice. Although if this backfires in any way, I suggest you go into hiding.”

  “Believe me I will. But we have to do it. Suppose Penny does the painting only no one is there waiting. You miss out on all of it.”

  And so Flanagan went ahead and arranged for two detectives to stake out Penny’s house and follow her wherever she went. Some New York City cops got overtime to hang around Oscar Krieger’s art gallery.

  Amanda from Newsday was going to ride with me. She practically jumped up and down when I told her she was going to get an exclusive.

  We all got ready.

  Only Penny didn’t move.

  I kept telling Flanagan she was still painting, that it would only take a few more hours.

  Now I knew the true meaning of the phrase “waiting for paint to dry.”

  I was still waiting when I got a call from the Congressman’s office.

  It was Ennis.

  “Mr. Ryle, can you tell me today’s date?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Ennis, I have been...”

  “Today’s date, Mr. Ryle.”

  I told him.

  “Very good. And can you tell me when Election Day is?”

  “November 2nd.”

  “I’m amazed you can still remember. Am I wrong in thinking that if Election Day is in two weeks you might consider coming into the office and help re-elect the man who pays your salary?”

  “I’ll be able to explain soon, Mr. Ennis.”

  “Great. When? November 3rd?”

  “The Congressman will be pleased. That’s all I can say.”

  He slammed the phone down again. He’d probably bill me for the cost of a new phone.

  I went nuts every time the phone rang, which thankfully wa
sn’t that often. I wouldn’t allow Ari or Betsy to call anyone. They watched television, but didn’t pay much attention to the shows.

  The phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  It was Flanagan.

  “It’s on. She left the house with a big package wrapped in brown paper. It was the size of a canvas, though a relatively small one.”

  “The detectives are following her?”

  “Sure. From a safe distance. She’s an amateur and they’re very experienced. She won’t spot them. I was going to ask for a helicopter to hover over them, and I still might, but for now there are no problems. They are using fleet telematics.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They use a Block-1 GPS Satellite to track.”

  “I think you’re making this up, Flanagan. No one can do that.”

  “Right. You think that. Anyway, we won’t lose her. And of course there’s the little matter that we know just where she’s going. The cops around the gallery have been alerted.”

  Ari got behind the wheel and we headed toward the gallery.

  Ari was, to put it kindly, not the sort of person you’d hire to teach your teenager how to drive. I counted four times when I was convinced we were going to hit another car.

  “You know, Ari, those numbers on the signs aren’t speed suggestions. That’s the law.”

  He shrugged. “I learned to drive in Israel. We have our own rules. These are mainly that there are no rules.” He looked at me for a second. “You know the old joke?”

  I was silent so he continued. “People say ‘Did you see any terrorists in Israel?’ and I say, ‘Only the drivers.’ This is funny, no?”

  I didn’t at the moment think it was very funny.

  Many drivers digitally indicated to Ari that they were displeased with his skills in an automobile.

  Whatever Ari’s limits, we got to New York very quickly and parked near the gallery.

  I got out, went into a luncheonette, and called Flanagan. He wasn’t in because he had taken a helicopter into the City.

  I stayed in the luncheonette as long as I could, which wasn’t long. Then I went outside.

  I spotted Flanagan.

  “She’s almost here,” he said. “I talked to the City guy coordinating this.”