Heads You Win

“In my opinion,” Rosenthal eventually said, “you could not move a painting of that size without the help of a professional art courier, especially if you were sending the picture overseas, as there would have to be export documents and other paperwork to complete. There are only a handful of such specialists on the East Coast, and only one of them is based in Boston.”

“Do you know them?” asked Alex hopefully.

“I most certainly do, but I have no intention of contacting them, because immediately after taking my call, he would be on the phone to his client to let her know I’d been making inquiries.”

“But he might be our only lead,” said Alex.

“Not necessarily, because another company would have had to pick up the packages when they arrived in Nice, and then deliver them to Mrs. Lowell-Halliday’s villa in Saint-Paul-de-Vence. It wouldn’t surprise me if whoever that was had no idea of the contents, as that’s a secret Mrs. Lowell-Halliday wouldn’t have wanted to share with anyone else, including the IRS.”

“But how do we find out who was collecting the paintings without alerting half the art world?”

“By making sure we remain at arm’s length,” said Rosenthal. “And I think I know exactly the right dealer in Paris to assist us. May I use the telephone in the study?”

“Yes, of course,” said Alex, as Rosenthal poured himself a large whiskey and left the room without another word.

“What’s he up to?” asked Alex.

“I can’t be sure,” said Anna. “But I have a feeling he’ll be twisting a few arms, which is why he doesn’t want to be overheard.”

Rosenthal didn’t reappear for another forty minutes, and when he did, although he needed to refill his glass, Anna thought she detected the suggestion of a smile.

“Pierre Gerand will call back as soon as he’s tracked down the courier in Nice. He says it’s likely to be one of three, and all of them would want to retain his business. Meanwhile, Monty Kessler will set out from New York first thing tomorrow morning, and anticipates being with us around midday.”

Alex nodded. He would have liked to ask who Monty Kessler was, but had already learned when, and when not, to question Mr. Rosenthal.

*   *   *

When Alex came down to breakfast the following morning, he found Rosenthal halfway up the stairs, placing little red or yellow stickers on each picture on the wall.

“You’ll be glad to hear, Alex, that there are still seventy-one originals left in the collection, including some of the finest examples of Abstract Expressionism I’ve ever come across. However, I’m in no doubt that fifty-three are copies,” he said as the telephone rang.

“Long distance from Paris for Mr. Rosenthal,” said Caxton.

Rosenthal walked quickly down the stairs and took the phone. “Good afternoon, Pierre.” He said very little for the next few minutes, but never stopped scribbling on a pad by the phone. “I am most grateful,” he said finally. “I owe you one.” He laughed. “All right, two. And I’ll let you know the moment our shipment has left New York,” he added before putting down the phone. “I have the name of the French courier,” he announced. “A Monsieur Dominic Duval, who over the past five years has delivered a large number of different-sized crates to Mrs. Lowell-Halliday’s residence in Saint-Paul-de-Vence.”

“But if Pierre phones this Monsieur Duval,” said Alex, “won’t he contact Evelyn immediately?”

“Not if he wants to go on working for Pierre, he won’t. In any case, Pierre has already told him he has an even bigger consignment lined up for him, as long as he can keep his mouth shut.”

*   *   *

“There’s a large, unmarked white van coming up the drive,” said Anna, as she looked out of the front window.

“That will be Monty,” said Rosenthal. “Caxton, would you be kind enough to open the front door for Mr. Kessler? And be prepared for an invasion of professional art thieves.”

“Of course, sir.”

Shortly afterward, a small fat balding man marched into the hallway, followed by his six associates, all dressed in black tracksuits with no logos, none of whom would have looked out of place in a boxing ring. Each carried a bag full of the equipment required by any self-respecting burglar.

“Good morning, Monty,” said Rosenthal. “I appreciate your coming at such short notice.”

“No trouble, Mr. Rosenthal. But I have to remind you that as it’s Saturday, we’re all on double time. Where do you want me to start?” he asked as he stood, hands on hips, in the middle of the hallway, and looked around at the paintings with the fondness of a doting father.

“I only want you to pack up the ones with yellow stickers on their frames. And once you’ve done that, I’ll tell you where they have to be delivered.”