Hanging the Devil, page 22
“That sounded vaguely like a confession,” said Cape.
“Confession?” asked Beckett. “You a cop or a priest?”
“We’re art lovers,” said Maria.
“Really?” Beckett’s bobblehead tilted at the wall of paintings. “Then take a gander at my gallery.”
Maria scanned the wall. Cape gave it a cursory glance until he heard Maria curse. She looked like she’d seen a ghost.
“That’s my painting.”
Cape recognized most of the artists, not from any deep expertise but because the brush strokes were so iconic. The bold colors of Van Gogh and pointillist perfection of Monet competed for wall space with the abstract musings of Chagall and idyllic interludes of Renoir. Very few collectors could afford a wall like this.
Maria ignored them all save for one painting on the left. It was a Rembrandt, a self-portrait done sometime in his later years. Maria extended her hand like a supplicant but didn’t touch the canvas.
“This is the Rembrandt painting I recovered,” she said, almost inaudibly.
“Did you?” Beckett sat up straighter. The towel fell off his head but he took no notice. “Or didn’t you?” His tone was playful, and his eyes had a smug glint.
Maria stepped to the side to look at the painting from an angle. She stared at the frame.
“It took months to find,” she said.
“A painting was recovered,” said Beckett, “but you’re looking at the original.”
“That’s not possible—”
“—swapped for a forgery after they stole it.” Beckett shrugged. “When this landed on the black market, no way I could pass it up.”
“We had it authenticated,” said Maria. “By two different experts.”
“You see that Chagall?”
Marie and Cape found the vibrant canvas.
Beckett gingerly moved his good arm to lift the bourbon to his lips.
“That’s not a Chagall,” he said. “It was painted by Guy Ribes.”
Maria muttered something in Spanish, each syllable dripping with acid.
“Who’s Guy Ribes?” asked Cape.
Beckett watched Maria.
“He’s a Frenchman,” said Maria. “The most notorious forger of the last century.”
“Wikipedia page and everything,” said Beckett. “Still alive but retired.”
“He retired because he went to jail,” said Maria. “A condition of his release.”
“He painted this Chagall?” asked Cape.
“He painted hundreds,” said Maria.
“More,” said Beckett. “The man was a savant, a chameleon. He could paint like Chagall, Picasso, Renoir, you name it, down to the brushstrokes. He would pass them off as lost paintings, undiscovered masterpieces found in private collections, sketches passed down through generations. He fooled auction houses, appraisers, galleries—”
“—and museum directors.” Maria turned from the wall to look down at Beckett. “They greedily bought into the hoaxes, provided certificates of authenticity, and shared any profits from a sale or reaped the rewards of having the art in their gallery. Many were naïve, others turned a blind eye, some were—”
“—business partners?” asked Cape.
“Yes,” said Maria. “Never caught but forever suspect.”
Beckett raised the bottle and took another swig.
“Ribes wasn’t a villain, really,” said Maria. “He grew up poor, had a gift and saw a way to make a living. Most forgers are tradespeople, simple craftsmen working for crooks.”
“Hundreds of paintings…by one forger?” asked Cape.
“Maybe more,” said Maria. “His paintings got certified in catalogs, so there’s no way of knowing how many are still out there. You could be looking at a Renoir in a French museum that was never actually painted by Renoir. But it’s hanging in a museum with a plaque—”
“—which makes it real.” Beckett sounded proud.
Maria was disgusted. “People believe anything a so-called expert says is real.”
The corner of Beckett’s mouth rose as he studied Maria. “Carabinieri Art Squad?”
“They are Italian,” said Maria. “I am Spanish.” She stepped forward and took the Rembrandt off the wall. “The Carabinieri TPC are a special branch of the police, while I…” Maria glanced over her shoulder. “…am a humble tourist.”
“She’s not very humble,” said Cape, “but she is a tourist.”
Maria shifted her gaze from the painting to Beckett. “The recovered painting, your alleged counterfeit—”
“—perfect forgery,” said Beckett, “Carbon-dated paints, layered patina on the canvas, reclaimed wood for the frame.”
“Who made it?” asked Maria. “Who painted the forgery of this Rembrandt?”
Beckett shook his head. “The people who made that are not retired, and they don’t plan on going to jail.”
“It’s not a single forger,” said Maria, “is it?”
“Let’s just say the art business is now a manufacturing business, and leave it at that.”
“An art factory,” said Maria.
Cape played a card he didn’t have. “Your partners sold you out.”
“I might get charged for tipping off some art thieves about a shipment,” said Beckett. “Big deal…I’ll claim it was coercion, blackmail, extortion…my lawyer can mix-and-match…I’ve got bigger legal problems from my divorce…either way, I’m fucked.”
“Then why would they come after you?” asked Cape.
“They wanted another way into the museum…an easy way in,” said Beckett. “Giving up a date is one thing, giving them keys to the front door is another…my hands go into the cookie jar, that makes me an accomplice…thank you, but no, Perry Mason, you can kiss my ass. So here I sit, not only wounded but hurt, deeply hurt. I almost died defending my reputation.”
“A guard died defending your museum,” said Cape. “He was decapitated.”
“I was in Napa.”
Cape rubbed his temples. Beckett liked to talk, and they caught him off guard, but now he had regained his footing. He was drunk but answered questions like a man standing in the witness box.
“Who painted a copy of this?” Maria was practically shaking but held the Rembrandt steady. “Where…where was it painted?”
“Sorry,” said Beckett, “this is when I ask to call my lawyer.”
“You lost your phone,” said Cape, “remember?”
“Then I plead the fifth,” said Beckett. “They could hurt me.”
“We could hurt you,” said Cape.
“I’d like to hurt him,” said Maria.
Beckett’s eyes moved between them like a shuttlecock. “Who are you?”
“We told you,” said Cape. “Art lovers.”
“Real art lovers.” Maria set the Rembrandt down carefully. “Not fake art lovers.”
“What’s real?” Beckett scowled. “You like the painting, it made you feel something, that’s real. People want to believe. There’s no such thing as a fake in the art world.”
“You might qualify,” said Cape.
“You think that bothers me?” said Beckett. “The art world is all make-believe…somebody decides Picasso’s a genius, but your kid’s crayon drawing of flowers is shit…why? You’re a loser if you don’t rig the game, because the rules are arbitrary. None of it matters.”
“It matters to me,” said Maria.
Cape caught Maria’s eye. “Ready to go?”
“Please.”
“Hey,” said Beckett, “aren’t you going to make the call?” He glanced at his wounded shoulder, where a red Rorschach test was spreading through the fabric of the towel.
“I don’t want to use my phone,” said Cape. “Caller ID and all.” He tilted his head at Maria. “Do you?”
“Not a chance.”
“Give us the passcode to the museum’s security system,” said Cape.
Beckett coughed. “What?”
“Did I stutter?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Okay.” Cape shrugged and turned to leave. “I hope you don’t bleed out—”
“—that would be a dumb way to die,” said Maria.
Maria and Cape moved toward the door. They were crossing the threshold when Beckett barked at them.
“Zero-one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine.”
Cape and Maria returned to Beckett’s gallery room.
“You’re not serious,” said Cape.
“It’s a ten-digit code,” said Beckett, “those are almost impossible to crack.”
“That’s an ordered list,” said Cape, “not a code.”
“He did use every number on the keypad,” said Maria.
“Oh, the pound key,” said Beckett. “Almost forgot…you have to punch the pound key at the end.”
“Gracias,” said Maria.
“Unbelievable,” said Cape.
“I gave you the code,” said Beckett. “Now give me a phone.”
Cape had noticed a bulge in Beckett’s pants when handing him the bourbon. Beckett clearly loved to drink, but Cape doubted a gunshot wound plus alcohol triggered tumescence.
“Check your pockets, dumbass.”
Beckett blinked and shifted in his chair. The bottle tumbled out of his lap onto the floor. What little bourbon remained spilled in a syrupy stream across the carpet until it merged with the dried river of blood.
“Son of a bitch.” Beckett fidgeted until he could reach across his lap with his good arm to fish the phone from his pocket. “You must be a detective.”
Beckett tapped his phone screen.
Maria picked up the Rembrandt and headed for the door.
“Hey,” said Beckett, “you can’t take that.”
“Stop me,” said Maria.
“Maybe you should call the police.” Cape crossed to where the shotgun lay on the carpet. He got the tip of his shoe under the barrel and lifted his leg like a soccer player. The gun jumped into the air, parallel to the floor, and Cape caught it with both hands.
The slide made a ca-chunck sound as Cape racked a new shell into the chamber. He gestured with the barrel of the shotgun.
“That Chagall is a fake?”
Beckett stopped looking at his phone to watch Cape’s every move. The barrel swung back and forth idly between the paintings until it landed on the forgery.
Beckett nodded. “It’s still worth—”
The shotgun boomed with an Old Testament clap of thunder.
Maria clutched her painting so it faced her, to shield Rembrandt from the horror. Beckett shrank into his chair but failed to squeeze between the cushions and disappear. Cape’s ears were ringing. He wrinkled his nose against the acrid tinge of spent powder to ward off a sneeze.
The Chagall was obliterated, a supernova of color collapsed into a black hole. Light from the adjoining room shone faintly through the shredded canvas.
“I don’t think it’s worth much anymore,” said Cape.
“You c-c-c-cks…” Beckett eyed the shotgun and stopped in mid-curse, sounding like a man clearing his throat.
Cape racked the slide three times in rapid succession until the remaining shells kicked out of the breach onto the floor. Using his shirttail, he wiped his prints off the gun, then tossed it onto Beckett’s lap.
Beckett caught it reflexively with a sharp cry as his shoulder tightened. “Wh—?”
“Just wanted your prints on it again,” said Cape. “Thanks for the art lesson.”
“And thanks for the art.” Maria hefted the Rembrandt under her arm. “We’ll show ourselves out.”
Alistair Beckett sat in his armchair and watched them leave. He had a hole in his arm and a hole in his wall. And despite the bravado, he knew his reputation would get blown apart like the faux Chagall, once the headlines were written.
He looked from the phone in his lap to the gun in his hands.
From where he was sitting, both choices looked about the same.
47
“They look the same,” said Wen. “Can you see any difference?”
“I painted it,” said Peng, “so I probably—”
“—you’re too modest,” said Wen. “I taught art history for years and know the paintings of Forty Scenes of the Yuanmingyuan like my own reflection. These two are identical down to the smallest detail.”
Wen stood over the table where Peng’s version of the painting Harmony with the Past and Present sat alongside a high-resolution digital reproduction of the original. He had inserted colored pins at key junctures where brushstrokes changed direction or hues faded, subtle and almost imperceptible moments that demanded an artist’s touch. The difference between a copy and clone came down to those details.
“They feel the same,” said Peng. “So I guess you’re right.”
Wen studied the young prodigy. “You feel the painting?”
“I see them, of course, but, yes, when I finish a painting, it feels…” Peng blushed as he tried to find the words. “…it feels like…what is the name of this painting again?”
“Harmony with the Past and Present.”
“Exactly.” Peng smiled. “That’s exactly how it feels.”
“The Greeks believed an artist was inspired by a muse who shared secrets from the past.”
“My muse is my girlfriend, Yan. She works downstairs in the factory.”
“That’s the best muse of all,” said Wen. “One you can take home.”
“I could never have done this alone,” said Peng. “I learned so much.”
“You learn fast,” said Wen. “This is the final painting of the four.”
Peng took a long look at his handiwork before nodding to himself, satisfied. He moved the canvas to the opposite side of the table where packing materials had been arranged. A wooden frame, packing straw, twine, and cardboard.
The wall behind them was dominated by a latticed window which overlooked the factory floor. Long tables were arranged around stations for each section of a mass-produced painting. Artists and production assistants stood on both sides of each table, passing a canvas along as soon as their background, detail, or base layer was finished. Peng spared a glance to find Yan, but only her body was visible at the far end of the room. Her face was blocked by one of the hanging lights that extended the length of the factory. Peng turned his attention back to his painting and laid it carefully inside the wooden frame.
Wen came around the table to move a portable hot air gun away from the packing materials. It was a plastic appliance sold in craft stores to heat paints, soften clay, or shrink dry plastics. Peng had used it for matching textures between different sections of the painting. It was shaped like a pistol and powered by an electric battery in the grip.
“We don’t want to burn your masterpiece,” said Wen.
“No, we definitely do not want to do that.”
“What do you think?” Wen held the hot air gun at arm’s length in a pose worthy of an action hero. “Should I use this to break out of here?”
Peng glanced nervously at the door. “Don’t you think they’ll send you home, now that you’ve helped?”
“I honestly don’t know.” Wen lowered his arm. “I may not have a home to go back to.”
“Maybe you’ll stay here and work with me.”
“Anything is possible.” Wen tried to strike a positive chord, but it sounded flat to his ear.
He thought of his daughter, Grace, and how badly he wanted to see her. Wen acted like an optimist but was a realist at heart. For taking a selfie in a park, he had been sent to a labor camp. Now he was under house arrest at an art factory. Even if he could return to Hong Kong, he would be banned from teaching, his travel restricted, put on a list for the rest of his life.
That was no life for a little girl like Grace. With every brushstroke that his young friend made across this final painting, Wen had inched closer to a decision. Now he was at peace.
His daughter was safely out of the country. Only he knew where. The best way to give Grace a happy life was to take that secret to his grave.
When you’ve taken care of what you love most, all your fears melt away.
Wen finally understood the advice Bohai had given him on his first day at the camp. Forget your daughter. What Bohai really meant was that Wen should act in such a way that his handlers forgot he ever had a daughter. His hope was their leverage.
Wen was going to take away that leverage. He was going to die in this village.
“Are you okay?” Peng was staring at him with a worried expression.
“Yes…thank you.” Wen smiled. “I just hope Mogwai is satisfied with your latest masterpiece.”
“Speak of the devil and…”
Peng jumped at the sound of the digitized voice.
Wen clenched his hands and spun on his heel.
Mogwai was standing in the doorway. Black robes billowed in a draft from the hall.
Wen and Peng watched the figure glide across the floor. Mogwai slid between the two of them and stood at the edge of the table. Peng shuffled sideways so their shoulders didn’t touch. A thin bead of sweat ran down his cheek into the collar of his shirt.
The faceless head tilted toward the painting.
“Peng, you have surpassed yourself.”
Peng’s eyebrows yo-yoed up and down a few times. “I…had…h-h-help.”
“Of course you did.” Mogwai’s head swiveled toward Wen. “The professor.”
Wen gave a modest nod of his head. “Where are the paintings being sent?”
Peng’s eyes tried to leap out of his head. He couldn’t believe Wen had the temerity to ask the Devil a question.
Wen smiled benignly as the bottomless hood tilted in appraisal.
“To a museum.” Mogwai’s digital rasp seemed to rise an octave.
Wen wrinkled his nose and took a deep breath. “It’s a beautiful forgery, isn’t it?”
Peng blanched at the word. Wèizào. For years he’d painted canvases for collectors and printed posters for dorm rooms. Replicas designed to democratize art. He should have realized they were working on something more sinister but had told himself the attention to detail was for realism, not deception.
Yan had said that he was naïve, and now Peng wondered if he was willfully so.
