by Peter Corris
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D |
o you know much about the art world, Mr Hardy?’
‘Less than nothing,’ I said.
I was talking with Mr Charles Stevenson in his Vaucluse house. Mr Stevenson had had something stolen and wanted it back. Getting stolen items back is something I do know about. He led me through a few big rooms which let in views of the water at a million dollars a square metre, to a softly lit chamber near the back of the big house. Paintings hung on the walls, lots of paintings. Too many.
‘I’m a collector,’ he said. ‘Occasionally I sell in order to buy something I want more than that I’m selling. You understand?’
‘I guess so. I once traded up from a single fin to a thruster.’
Stevenson raised an enquiring eyebrow. He was in his fifties, tall and slender with a mane of white hair and a nifty little white goatee. He wore a dark suit with a tie and appeared to be as comfortable dressed that way as I was in drill slacks, an open-neck shirt and a linen jacket. The jacket was advertised as ‘unstructured’—read crumpled.
‘Surfboards,’ I said.
‘Ah, yes. Now if you’ll come over here.’ He drifted across the parquet floor to a wall that was less cluttered than the others. In fact it held only one painting. Beside the painting was a mounting where something else had been hung but it wasn’t there now. Painting to me means Van Gogh, Toulouse-Lautrec, a bit of Streeton and Tom Roberts, and the odd Brett Whiteley, so that initially I paid more attention to the vacant space than the painting.
‘It’s a Galliard,’ he said, ‘perhaps his best.’
It was my turn to say, ‘Ah.’ The painting was of a woman wearing a black velvet dress. She was pale and beautiful with dark hair, sitting very straight in an upholstered chair. The neckline of the dress came to just above her nipples and sitting there against her glowing skin was a pearl suspended on a black ribbon. The woman was glancing down at the pearl and her right hand was positioned as if about to reach up and touch it. The effect was amazingly erotic and Stevenson smiled when he saw its impact on me.
‘Powerful,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘But I’ve tired of it I’m afraid, and have my eye on something else altogether. Now you’ve noticed the empty space. That’s where the pearl was, the very same pearl that Galliard painted. It took me a great deal of effort and money to acquire it but I finally did. Needless to say, the value of the painting goes up immeasurably when accompanied by the pearl. It’s vulgar, I suppose, but I felt the same way myself, I have to confess.’
‘What sort of money are we talking about?’
‘Oh, say one point five million for the painting itself.’
‘And with the pearl?’
‘Three million, possibly more, depending on the buyer.’
‘What’s the pearl worth on its own?’
‘I’m not sure. It’s not extraordinary in any way. Perhaps a hundred thousand. It’s insured for a little less.’
‘So the thief got the wrong thing?’
Stevenson shrugged. ‘I have to assume he didn’t know what he was doing.’
I stared at the painting for a while. I liked it a lot and thought it’d take me a long while to tire of it, but I could find much better uses for a million five. Most recovery of stolen property work is done through insurance companies and the recoverer gets a percentage of the insured value. Nice enough most times, but Stevenson was talking about a different situation altogether and the payoff had to be big. Tempting, but a bell named caution rang not too far distant.
‘There are specialists in this sort of thing, Mr Stevenson. Why me?’
‘For a very good reason,’ Stevenson said as we moved away from the painting. ‘I’m planning to auction the picture and the pearl in a few weeks. That information is abroad, but not widely. Sufficiently, shall we say. Subtlety is of the essence in these matters. People like to think they’ve acquired the knowledge through their own cleverness, or that it’s held by a few. You understand?’
I was beginning to dislike this phrase of his. Patronising. But with nothing else important on hand, the credit cards up near their limit and the bills coming in, I couldn’t afford to be choosy. I nodded.
‘If I used one of the usual agencies the information would leak out that the pearl is missing. Interest would drop immediately. The atmosphere would be . . . negative.’
I said, ‘I see,’ before he could ask me if I understood.
It sounded okay. We went through to a room he called his study. It was book-lined, with more pictures and a big desk with a computer and other high-tech equipment. I’d done the usual quick check on Stevenson before I’d arrived. He’d inherited a lot of old money and made a lot more new money on the stockmarket. He had an old money wife and two daughters who’d married on the same financial level. Money cosying up to money the way it does.
I had one of my standard contracts with me and we signed it and he wrote me a retainer cheque. I was guaranteed fifteen thousand dollars for the return of the pearl on top of my usual daily rate and expenses. I put my copy of the contract and cheque in my pocket and shook his cool, dry hand.
‘I wonder if there’s a photograph of the pearl,’ I said.
‘Of course. He opened a drawer in the desk and removed a plastic envelope. From it he slid out two photographs, one, a bit above postcard size, of the painting and the other, slightly smaller, a close-up of the pearl on its ribbon. Both were expertly done, vibrant and alive.
Then I was given an inspection of the alarm system that protected Stevenson’s collection. State of the art, probably, twenty years ago, but now pretty primitive. No laser beams or photoelectric cells, just a pulsing alarm and a hook-up to the police call board. The main doors to the house had deadlocks but Stevenson showed where a wall had been climbed and a window, not connected to the system, had been expertly cut out. Stevenson and his wife had been away in the Blue Mountains (acreage at Blackheath) at the time of the burglary.
‘I’m surprised the insurance company was happy with these arrangements,’ I said.
Stevenson let slip a wry smile. ‘Ah, now there you’ve caught me out a fraction. That’s another reason for my . . . preference for your services, Mr Hardy.’
It’s nice to find that people aren’t completely straightforward. Humanising.
* * * *
Stevenson was right about leaks in the detective business, but there was one sure way to plug them, at least temporarily—with money. I knew some of the art theft boys in the game, and my first move was to get in touch with one I could at least partly trust. Quentin James is an art validator, assessor and recoverer of stolen objects. We’ve worked together successfully a few times. Money is his god, and the right amount buys his total discretion.
I went to James’ office in Pitt Street and laid out the story. James is close to sixty, very fat and wheezy, a chain smoker and boozer, but he knows his business. As an ex-smoker I find it hard to spend much time with him in the fug he creates. He’s not a window opener, not a fresh air man.
‘Hmm, I believe I heard something about a Galliard going up for sale. Not which one, mind. Interesting.’
‘What d’you think of the amounts mentioned?’
‘Hard to say. Could be right.’
‘Is it possible that someone might think the pearl is worth more than the painting?’
James shook his head as he exhaled and a cloud of smoke wafted towards me. ‘No. More likely a ransom job. “I’ve got the pearl. You pay up and you’ve got your package back.” He hasn’t been approached?’
‘Not yet. So who’re the likely candidates?’
‘Alarm system disabled, wall climbed, glass removed. Wall hard to climb?’
‘Hard for me, impossible for you.’
He smiled. ‘I find climbing stairs taxing enough. There’s work involved here, Cliff, my boy. Ring around, find out if Stevenson’s had any inside work done on the house lately. Who did it, if so. Who they might pass info to. Like that.’
‘I’m on a big earner, Quentin. I’ll pay.’
‘Leave it with me.’
* * * *
I busied myself with other matters for the next few days. Then two things happened. First, the story of the theft broke in the newspapers. The report described the painting and the pearl and said that the Sydney private enquiry agent Clint Hardy was investigating. I rang Stevenson immediately.
‘It wasn’t me,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t get my own name wrong.’
‘I believe you. It’s most unfortunate. Perhaps my wife, perhaps one of my daughters ... I don’t know. They gossip. Have you made any progress?’
‘Some.’
‘Well, our arrangement holds.’
‘You haven’t been approached with an offer?’
‘Offer?’
‘To buy back the pearl. Understand?’
He said, ‘No,’ quite sharply, but whether he knew I was getting at him was hard to tell.
Later that day, Quentin James faxed me a list of three possible burglars.
I rang him. ‘Sandy Foreman’s in jail,’ I said.
‘You’re well informed.’
This was just part of the fencing that goes on in this business. James would have known that Foreman wasn’t a candidate and put the name in to pad the list and check that I was on the ball. I was left with two names—Jim ‘the fly’ Petersen and Kevin Barnes. James gave me last-known addresses for both.
‘Something’s troubling me about this business of ours,’ James said.
I liked the ‘ours’; James has a way of inserting himself into things. ‘And what’s that, Quentin?’
‘Can’t quite put my finger on it. When the penny drops, I’ll let you know.’
That could mean almost anything or nothing at all. I had to hope it didn’t mean that James was dealing a hand of his own. These days, he was too fat and lazy to take the trouble, but he had a reputation for playing both ends against the middle and you never knew.
* * * *
Kevin Barnes was nearest to home. He lived in a rent-controlled flat in Darlinghurst, one of the few remaining. Barnes’ family had been in crime for three or four generations, stretching back to the days of the razor gangs and before that to ‘the pushes’ of the inner city. James’ fax included brief notes on the subjects. Barnes had served a number of terms for burglary and break and enter, having graduated from shoplifting. He was also an arsonist when the price was right and was not above a little standover work. Bit of an all-rounder, Kevin.
I climbed a creaking iron staircase that was insecurely attached to the building in Riley Street and knocked on the door of the flat. Most of the space on the tiny landing near the door was occupied by cartons containing empty beer cans. Naturally, cats had pissed on the boxes.
The woman who answered the door had a pair of the most tired eyes I’d ever seen. She had dyed blonde hair, a lot of make-up and wore a halter top, bikini pants and white spike-heeled shoes. Her hair, clothes and body put her in her forties; her eyes made her a hundred and ten.
‘You Clive?’
‘No.’ I got my foot in the door before she could close it. ‘I’m looking for Kevin Barnes.’
‘At the pub.’ She put her heel on my instep and pressed down a little. I pulled the foot back and she slammed the door.
She meant the nearest pub and that was the Seven Bells, a block away. It was an old-style Sydney pub: dark and smelly with faded advertisements showing people wearing clothes that had gone out of date about the time I was born, and drinking from glasses of a shape I could barely remember. There were four men drinking in the bar—one pair and two singles. I ordered a middy, paid the correct money, and put a five dollar note on the bar. ‘Kevin Barnes?’
The barman palmed the note and inclined his head at one of the single drinkers. Not a word spoken. I carried my drink across to where he sat on a stool. ‘Mr Barnes?’
He looked at me, raised his glass and took a drink, then picked up his cigarette from the ashtray and had a drag. There was one cigarette left in the open packet. Both hands shook and I could tell that Kev’s burglary and standover days were past. He was big but the flesh was sagging on his bones as if something was sapping him from inside. The ashtray was full of butts and his bleary eyes and slack mouth told me the middy he was drinking was more like his tenth than his first. His woman was on the game and cats were pissing on his doorstep.
‘I’m Barnes,’ he slurred. ‘An’ I wish I wasn’t. Cop?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Sorry to trouble you.’
I moved away and finished my drink. I put ten dollars on the bar and the barman stood ready to pounce. ‘His next packet of smokes is on me,’ I said.
* * * *
It took me three days to track down Jim Petersen because he was in funds, and when Petersen was in funds he went to racecourses. I caught up with him at Rosehill. ‘Jockey-sized’ was how James’ notes described him, and others had told me about his dressing—New York gangster style, pork pie hat, dark shirt, light tie. I watched him place a large bet and then stroll to the ring to take a look at the horses parade. It was an unimportant race at an unimportant meeting and not many people were about. When I joined him at the railed fence there was no one else within ten metres. I stood slightly to his left, partly blocking anyone’s view, and bent his right arm halfway up his back while clamping his left hand on the rail with my left.
‘Gidday, Jim,’ I said.
‘What the hell’re you doing?’
‘Engaging you in conversation.’
‘Piss off.’
‘Jim, if you don’t cooperate, I’m going to break your right arm, dislocate your right shoulder and break your left wrist all in two seconds flat.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘You’ve climbed your last wall.’
I increased the strain on his arm to just short of breaking point. Sweat broke out on his face.
‘Okay, okay’
I escorted him to a quiet spot under the grandstand and we had a talk. Not much to it. Stevenson had hired him to steal the pearl, helping out by disabling the alarm system and pointing out the most accessible window. Five grand for the job.
‘I figured it was an insurance job, you know how it is.’
‘Where’s the pearl?’
‘I ditched it according to orders.’
‘Jim.’
I was thirty centimetres taller than him, ten kilos heavier, and clearly not in a good mood. He was backed up against a metal post. I flipped his hat away and pushed against his forehead so that the metal bit into the back of his head.
‘It’s in my car. In the upholstery.’
I let him watch the next race and collect his winnings. As we walked towards the car park, the question in my mind was: Why did Stevenson hire me if he didn’t want the pearl to be found? Why not just let sleeping dogs lie?
Petersen dug the pearl on its ribbon, all sealed in a plastic bag, from the back seat upholstery and handed it to me. Then he gave me the answer to my question.
‘Guess I’ll have to do what I said I’d do,’ he muttered.
‘What’s that?’
‘Use the ticket he gave me to fly to Perth. I’m my own worst enemy. Couldn’t resist a flutter against these bloody bookies.’
* * * *
I don’t like being taken for a ride by a client, so I made another call on Quentin James to talk things over. I’d agreed to pay him a percentage of my bonus, so he had a stake in the matter.
‘Very considerate of you, Cliff,’ he said, turning the pearl over in his pudgy hands. ‘As it happens I’ve worked out what was troubling me. And by the way, the leak about the missing pearl came from Stevenson himself. Quite contrary to what he told you, the publicity would add value to the painting, pearl or no pearl.’
‘Okay, but I still can’t see why he wanted it to go missing.’
James pulled down a book from his dusty shelves. ‘You have to understand how the art business works. At any one time there are three or four versions of a valuable painting in circulation, or out of circulation. They all have provenances, documents and so on. Now here is a photo of that particular Galliard. It was taken over fifty years ago. The picture was in private hands then and now Stevenson claims to have it. No doubt he has proof of its authenticity, but. . .’
He opened the book to show a high quality photograph of the woman in the black dress. He produced a magnifying glass. ‘If you look closely at your pearl and then at the one in this photograph, you’ll see that they’re rather different. Slightly different shape and colouring. Yes?’
‘Mmm, yeah, I guess so,’ I said. ‘Therefore Stevenson’s picture’s a fake. Or this one is.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ James said. ‘As soon as doubt arises the damage is done. My guess is that Stevenson twigged to the problem and couldn’t afford to display the pearl in case someone made this same comparison.’
‘He won’t be well pleased when he gets it back then.’
‘Correct, but he’ll honour your contract.’
‘Oh, he’ll honour it all right, and you’ll get your cut, Quentin. But aren’t you concerned that he was trying to pass off a fake picture as the real thing?’
James shrugged and lit a cigarette from the butt of the previous one. ‘Not at all. They’re both beautiful pictures and, my boy, the art business is a racket.’