The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (10 page)

Holstering the PSS and without a glance at his victims, he exited the building like a ghost and locked the door behind him.

Chapter Ten

Covent Garden, London WC2

A
ugustus Moss, Chief Editor of
Art Auctions & Art Dealers
, looked out of the window of his Covent Garden office, glanced at his watch, stood and adjusted his pink bow tie, and prepared to leave for the night. The phone began ringing. He checked the caller display. Tony Gill, his Australian correspondent was calling. He picked up.

“Tony, what the hell are you calling me for?”

A husky voice came across the line. “Auggy, I’ll cut the bollocks. I’ve some interesting info and we may be able to help each other.”

“What’s that?”

“Two people, one the auctioneer of a respected Perth auction house, and his assistant, have been found in their saleroom, trussed up like a pair of prize turkeys. One of them was killed.”

“What’s that to do with me?”

“I’m not sure. The police said whoever was responsible was a professional. I’m not supposed to know this, and the police wouldn’t like it, but I spoke to the woman involved,” Tony paused. “She told me, in strictest confidence, that all the paperwork relating to the sale of one of their lots, numbered 275, a pair of unknown European paintings, was removed by a priest with a gun. Can you believe that? Look, I’ll email more details to you later.”

“What do you know about the paintings?”

“Not a lot. They went for $2000 Australian. Guess who bought them?”

“Surprise me.”

“An old buddy of yours, Jack Manton.”

Moss gasped. “What? Manton? He doesn’t buy anything unless he’s one hundred percent certain. Is he involved?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so, but who knows? I’ll send you an update tomorrow.”

Minutes later, Moss walked out of his office and made a mental note to follow up further in the morning.

~ * ~

Her inbox contained only three emails that morning. Tamsin Greene knew at once which one she’d open first. The cursor clicked on the blue envelope. It came from Katherine Danilovova, Archive Director, Kharkov State Academy, Russia.

It was written in English.

Mikhail Brodsky’s reputation and works, place him as one of our finest students. You already have the basic information including the sad circumstances of his final years. We cannot add much. I have traced his original application (see attachment). Born in 1907, in the village of Prokhorovka, near Kursk, now famous for the tank battle against the Nazis. He lived with his parents Ivan and Alena Brodsky before Kharkov accepted him as a student. He had a younger brother, Lev and a younger sister, Sofia. Later as an adult, he went to live in Golovchino. Golovchino was a small hamlet about eighty kilometres south of where he was born.

The whereabouts of many of his paintings are mostly unknown, apart from those in the art museums of Moscow, St Petersburg and Paris. Within the attachment, you will find a list and the whereabouts of his known works. There are two distinct possibilities about his missing paintings. They could be in the hands of relatives who don’t know what they have or the Nazis could have looted them during the Nazi-era artwork acquisitions of 1932-1946. Hitler had been an amateur painter, but had no success. He generally regarded anything that wasn’t Aryan or Wagnerian as degenerate, products of Jewishness or communism or others opposed to his racial theories.

The Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg, the ERR, was set up and basically administered the plunder or confiscation of works of art held in public institutions of defeated enemies. It didn’t stop there. Collections and other works of art held by Jews were confiscated. Those who resisted or complained were quickly shipped to the concentration camps or ghettoes. The ERR records are meticulous. I was able to access them, but can’t find any trace of works by Brodsky.

Currently, I’m sifting through birth registrations and lists of known relatives, catalogues, invoices bills of sale, museum records, and both collectors and government departments. I am excited by this and wish you success in your research, and would be pleased to know what you might find. I will conduct more research and will let you know my findings.’

Kind regards.

Katherine Danilovova.

“Wow, that’s a great start,” muttered Tamsin as she printed out the attachment. Having never heard of Golovchino, she googled it. There wasn’t much to go on, apart from it not being far from Kursk and close to a nuclear weapons storage facility. She doubted if there would be any living relatives, given the Nazi activity and tank battles in the region during the war. At that moment, the desk phone rang.

“Hello, Tamsin speaking.”

“Good morning, may I speak to Mr. Jack Manton please?” A cultured English voice spoke on the other end of the line.

“He’s not here at the moment. Can I get him to call you?”

“No that’s fine thank you. My name’s Toby Walker, but I’ll call again later.” The line went dead.

~ * ~

It had been ten minutes since a DHL courier had delivered a large package, wrapped with meticulous care, to Manton’s flat in Philbeach Gardens.

He stared down at it and she saw his hesitation.

“Well, are you, or aren’t you?” Tamsin handed him a pair of scissors.

“Here goes.” With caution, he proceeded to remove the protective layers of cardboard, all sealed together, before removing vast amounts of bubble wrap and cardboard. “Got you.” With a concerned expression, he eased them out into the light of his room. “Wow! They look even better than I remember.”

She stared with a raised eyebrow. “They’re unusual, I can say that.”

“And to think, they’re mine. I can’t believe it.”

“What’re you going to do with them?”

“If they’re confirmed as authentic, they belong to a museum, or an art institution. But first, I need verification from another source, and I think that will be Christie’s. Then, they will go into a major sale. With luck, the right home will be found for them. I just want to enjoy them for a while.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “How did the research go?”

“Didn’t uncover a lot, but I received a helpful reply from a woman called Katherine Danilovova of the Kharkov State Academy. Brodsky lived near Kursk and had a younger brother and sister. I’ve also got a list of his known works and their locations, with a chance of more to follow.”

Jack paused and looked thoughtful. “That’s a start. That area sounds as if it needs a visit. Fancy a trip to Russia?”

She clenched her fists tight and let out an exasperated sigh of frustration. “Shit Jack, here you go again! Don’t you ever sit still? Doesn’t it ever occur to you that I might not share your love of long dead artists?”

“What’s wrong? I thought you might enjoy to a trip to Russia.”

“Russia is a great idea until you insist on dragging me around like your very own personal assistant, from one dreary museum after another, all of which look the bloody same. Boring… boring… boring! You’ll go whether I go or not.”

“That’s not true…”

She interjected. “Jack, your head’s so far up your own arse at times you never stop to think or consider what I might want. I’ll do what you want now, but it’s the last time. Clear?” She slammed down a pile of magazines into his lap. “For a start, why don’t you start looking for information instead of relying on me all the time!”

“Calm down a minute will you. Of course, I understand you. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you and it won’t be like that I promise.”

“Do you?” Her tone was sceptical.

“I promise.”

From his lame expression, she knew that he wasn’t taking her that seriously. It would only be a matter of time before he finds out what his indifference had cost him.

“I’ve heard that promise before and I don’t believe it! Why should I now?” She swung into the kitchen to make coffee and slapped the kettle hard onto the burner with a force that echoed around the apartment. “And another thing, Brodsky’s paintings are crap!” She leant against the worktop waiting for the kettle to boil, forcing herself to cool down. It was then she recalled the earlier phone call.

“Oh,” she shouted out. “If you could manage the interest, a Mr. Toby Walker called earlier, and said he’d ring you back.”

“Never heard of him.”

Minutes later, they sat apart in edgy silence and sipped at their coffee. The telephone ringing broke the atmosphere. Manton put down his coffee and picked up the phone after its third ring.

“Jack Manton.”

“Hi Jack. Augustus Moss here.”

“Bloody hell! To what do I owe this pleasure?” He was relieved at the prospect of a diversion.

“I was hoping
you
could tell me. My Aussie correspondent telephoned and emailed me with some interesting and disturbing news.”

“What was that?”

“You bought a pair of paintings, lot 275, from Zimmerman’s in Perth a short while ago, two European examples of uncertain vintage and signature.”

“Shit. The grapevine is alive and well.”

“There’s more.”

“What?”

“The auctioneer was shot dead and his lady assistant was found tied and gagged in their saleroom. The paperwork for lot 275 was stolen by a priest with a gun, and your details were found on the computer records.”

“What! What are you on about?”

“You heard me. I’ll repeat. Your records were stolen and a man killed. Got it now? Man dead… your details stolen… Ding bloody dong! So tell me, what do you know about it? What did you buy to attract this sort of attention?”

Manton paused to absorb the news, then sidestepped the question. “That’s hard to take in. Who would do a thing like that? It doesn’t make sense.” He paused, uncertain of how he should react. “Jesus, this is awful.”

Moss pressed further. “C’mon Jack, you never buy anything unless you’ve a reason for doing so. Someone else may have an idea that lot 275 could be more important than it appeared. So, what’s it about?”

“This is a bit sudden. I don’t know what to say.”

“Just say who the works are by and why you bought them.”

“I’ve nothing to say.”

“You mean there is, but for your own reasons you don’t want to. That’s more to the point I think. You’re hiding something. Am I right?”

Silence.

“Well, okay for now Jack, but playing dumb speaks volumes. Hopefully, I’ll find out more from Australia tomorrow and then I’ll call you again. Maybe it’ll jolt your memory.” He hung up.

Manton put down the phone, feeling a knot in his stomach.

“I thought it was too good to be true.”

“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve climbed out of a coffin.”

“Wrong expression there, Tamsin.” He repeated Moss’s news.

“Shit! That sounds bad.”

He saw her concerned expression. “Look, I’ll take them over to Christie’s right now and trust me, I’m certain they’ll want to keep them for further examination. In fact, I’m going to insist on it. Okay?”

“I’m okay. You going to be long?”

“Probably. I’ll stop for a few drinks on the way back. While I’m out, can you get details of how we get to Kursk, that sort of thing?”

Her fist hit the table. “Jack, what the fuck have I been trying to explain to you? Just how stupid can you be…?”

Before she could finish, he’d left the room and slammed the door. He picked up his Indiana Jones-style hat, his overcoat and the paintings on his way out.

Outside, the air tasted of a large city – of diesel and petrol fumes. The rumble of trucks and buses cut through the cosmopolitan aromas of kebabs, burgers and BLT’s, wafting through a sub-spring temperature. He turned up the collar of his coat and walked down the elegant curve of his road to catch a cab at the Earls Court Road junction. A sullen sky hit by blasts of wind sent black clouds scudding in disarray.

~ * ~

Tamsin knew him well enough and guessed he’d be out for several hours. After about an hour, and not without resentment, she’d sourced all the information she could get on travelling to Kursk. A meeting with Katherine Danilovova should be arranged. Later, she decided to run a bath. There was nothing she enjoyed more than a prolonged soak in hot water. It would give her some space to think about what she was going to do about their relationship.

The tub was full before she emptied in several capfuls of expensive bath foam. After lighting scented candles, she stripped off her clothes, dropping them on the floor and switching off the lights. She tuned in to Classic FM, her favourite music station, before swishing the water about to make foam, and dipping in her big toe.

Perfection.

Sinking backwards into the water, she emitted a long sigh. On the tiled bath ledge stood a cold glass of Sauvignon Blanc. She reached out for it. The room swam in the delicate aroma of soft cinnamon.

Bliss.

Three things niggled away at her. The call Jack had received from Moss, deciding when and if she could break up with him, and if she really wanted to.

She ran through a series of possibilities. Either break up with him completely, refuse to do what he asked and letting him find alternatives, or join him without reservations. There was no halfway house. She dismissed total immersion, as that would reduce her to an existence that would not be her own. If they remained together, he would have to find his own way around in life and he would also need to enjoy some of her pursuits. If not, then their existence together was doomed. She had enjoyed much of their relationship, but now he had become a heavy piece of baggage.

The water began to cool.

Pulling out the plug to drain a few inches of water, she topped it up again with more hot water. The candles gave an unexpected flicker as a gust of cold air blew in, caused by a door moving open.

“Jack, is that you? You didn’t take long. I thought you said you were going for a drink?” She lifted her head as she heard a scuffling sound move across the tiled floor. There was no reply. “Jack, are you playing silly games again? You know I don’t like it.” She became aware of the door now being fully opened. She sat up and turned around.