Page 111 of Brushed By Moonlight
I masked my skepticism, because records could be forged too.
The other paintings propped on the table were a hideous still life by Kirchner and a bleak landscape that screamedEdvard Munch had a bad day.
Henrik beelined straight to that one.
“I see love, hope, and possibility,” I murmured, testing him.
He sighed happily. “I see darkness, death, and despair.”
Aha. Just the theme for his apartment in Paris, then — if he actually had one.
I caught myself wondering. If Henrik were actually shopping for art with his own money, would I tell him that overly bright red pigment in the Munch made me peg it as another forgery?
Nah. Which only proved how far my morals were sliding.
I motioned to the crate beside the table, where more paintings were stacked sideways like framed posters at Walmart. Downright sacrilegious — if they were real. Another reason to doubt them?
“May I?” I asked Dobrov.
The art dealer turned to me, though his eyes went to my cleavage, not my face. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Especially if you convince your date to buy one.”
I gritted my teeth. God, I hated being eye candy.
Placing my purse on the table, I started flipping through the paintings.
“Lukas? I’d like to hear more about this piece, please,” one of the other guests called.
Dobrov scurried away, and Henrik sidestepped, blocking their view of me.
“Anything?” he whispered.
Everythingmight have been the best answer, given the works in that crate. A Canaletto. A colorful, abstract Paul Klee. A glowing, sixteenth-century portrait by Caravaggio, if the label was to be believed.
By my amateur estimation, about half the works appeared genuine, although their provenance or owners were probably shady. Why else would the work of a great master be traded in a backroom deal like this? A very posh back room, but still. Either the paintings had been purchased with dirty money, or they’d been carted off by one or another army in World War II and written off as collateral damage, when they’d actually landed in private collections.
Briefly, I thought of Clement. What would he think of my being here? And, shit. Hadn’t he worked for a task force that brought down crime syndicates in Marseilles? Had my host, Ronald Baumann, or Dobrov come up in any of his cases? Had Gordon?
Dammit.I ordered myself to focus on the paintings.Concentrate.
The other half of the works in the crate appeared to be forgeries, like the Monet. Very good forgeries, but still. Some were so good, I almost preferred them to the real thing — like the delightful unicorn I came across “by Franz Marc.” My favorite artist had painted lots of horses in all colors of the rainbow, but never, ever a unicorn. A damn shame.
That painting was big enough to jut above the others. The next was smaller. I turned to it and inhaled sharply.
Henrik coughed into his hand.Watch it.
Easier said than done, especially when stumbling across a long-lost Van Gogh.
I blew out my cheeks. What my father would have given to be in my position now.
“You’re here to assess, not admire,” Henrik hissed.
Right. Assess. Was thatThe Painter on the Road to Tarasconthe real thing?
Veteran art critics assessed paintings by the details, but also by intuition, often on the basis of an initial, split-second impression.
I wasn’t a veteran, but damn if my intuition wasn’t screaming,This is the real thing!
I leaned in, trying to be scientific. Brushstrokes…paint…the canvas… All matched other works by Van Gogh. The composition also matched the original, as captured in a 1930s photograph. My sister and I used to argue about two leaves on the left side of the image. Were they falling or just not clearly connected to the tree? Either way, the leaves in this painting were exactly as I remembered them, right down to the way they’d been dabbed onto the canvas.
