The Unknown Masterpiece Read online

  ‘Only her mother.’

  ‘Was Josephina gay?’

  This brought the young Swiss up short. ‘No idea. Never heard much at all about her private life except her old mother over near Lugano. We just thought of her as…as single.’

  ‘Did your boss love art?’

  Not an especially useful question, but Rudi took it at face value. ‘Some.’

  ‘Do you love art, Agent Bucholtz?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘What about Reubens?’

  ‘I appreciate it. But love…?’ Agent Rudi Bucholtz took the opportunity afforded by a moment alone with a French cop to pronounce, ‘It has to be a fake.’

  She enjoyed the fact that he would dare to do this. She wanted to know more. ‘Has to be?’

  ‘Why would someone kill Justin Aebischer and not take it?’

  Which prompted her to recall Gregory Huet’s considered opinion that the shoemaker found near Martin Bettelman had to be the genuine article. People did not kill for fakes. She said, ‘You’d better come and see our shoemaker. We’re having trouble identifying him.’

  ‘Sure.’ He met her eyes. ‘Have you ever killed a man?’

  ‘No. But some men have died on account of me.’ She proceeded to explain that guns were a distraction in her work, not to say messy in her bag and about her person. She was trained to shoot, of course. To kill, if necessary. She hinted (falsely) that she could kill a man with her bare hands, if required. But she preferred to meet her adversaries on a higher level.

  ‘We rarely do,’ Agent Bucholtz responded. ‘Kill. I mean the art squad.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, Rudi…may I call you that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The way he said it, the way his eyes stayed fixed on hers, Aliette Nouvelle heard herself suggest, ‘And perhaps you should come and see Bettelman’s apartment.’

  ‘Why?’ His soft gaze held steady.

  But hers was softer. ‘It’s part of the investigation, Agent.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon. Tonight?’

  ‘Should I bring wine?’

  ‘Beer…Boxer beer.’

  Rudi Bucholtz nodded and made a note. Then he went to call Herr Dieter Taub at VigiTec, to ask if a French investigator might have a half-hour of his time on a Friday afternoon.

  15

  View from VigiTec

  Swiss side

  It took twenty minutes to walk it, across the Middle Bridge and straight up Clarastrasse. The Basel Trade Fair Tower was the city’s tallest and highest-priced corporate redoubt. VigiTec headquarters were in a suite on the 27th floor. The blue-tinted glass filtered the light, creating an ambience of silent, shining purpose. VigiTec VP Resource Allocations Dieter Taub was a doleful Buddha, motionless in his sumptuous chair, shiny head and hairless face offset by heavily lidded cornflower-coloured eyes. The inspector wanted to ask if they’d met before, but the Buddha look is nothing if not monolithic and she dreaded the wrong words. Instead she thanked him. Herr Taub was kind to receive her at such short notice at this late hour.

  His English was impeccable. So was his French.

  Yes, Josephina Perella had informed him of Martin Bettelman’s cause of death — he had heard but assumed suicide — and about Bettelman’s gun when she’d called before heading off to her own ‘very tragic’ end. ‘We worked with Josephina often.’ When the inspector added the fact of the role of Bettelman’s gun in the killing of Justin Aebischer, Taub said, ‘It is quite against the rules for our staff to carry their sidearms when off-duty, and especially so for our French staff to take them across the frontier.’ Yes, he’d met Justin Aebischer a few times — ‘he was affiliated with the Kunst Technical Department,’ but their paths had not crossed for ‘at least a year.’ No, he hadn’t been to the murder scene — not his business, but he was aware of the museum’s efforts to help locate the client. ‘As our list is fairly widespread, they thought I might be able to suggest a name or two. Problem is, they won’t divulge the artist he was working on.’ And, he added, dry and laconic, giving out client names willy-nilly was never a good business move.

  The inspector was not going to divulge Hans Grinnell’s facts and suppositions regarding Perella’s role in Wednesday’s events in and around Biel. Nor about a secret apartment where upwards of fifty pieces of very likely stolen art had been stored, then disappeared with the murder of Martin Bettelman. What she wanted was information situating the slain art cop close to events in Basel. Close to Bettelman. Something to take back to France. Aliette placed the list of gallery owners Josephina Perella had given Franck Woerli in front of Dieter Taub. ‘She thought one of them might provide information as to Justin Aebischer’s latest contracts.’

  Taub bowed, a quick dip of his bullet-like head. ‘Yes. All my clients. I called them to smooth the way for Josephina’s colleague. In theory, a logical place to start. Very logical. But — ’

  ‘But he gets nothing, she’s murdered. Any sense of what’s going on here, Herr?’

  Taub morosely signalled negative. ‘I don’t know the first thing about Josephina’s purposes and I would never ask. It’s a tragedy. I can only assume she tumbled onto some kind of conspiracy and made a very wrong turn, but…’ leaning forward a fraction of a millimetre, ‘I can tell you that she had to know her colleague would get exactly nowhere trying to pry business information out of the likes of Rutger Mettler. Josephina knew these people. It’s business, Inspector.’ Big business. The private galleries open to the public were the tip of the art business iceberg. Vaults in basements were overflowing with art for sale. Files were bursting with notes regarding paintings on offer, paintings sought. Money was made by being in the middle and inventory information was proprietary. It was a fantasy to expect cooperation without the heaviest judicial pressure, which, on the spur of the moment, a FedPol agent did not have. May as well casually ask a banker for details of his currency transfers. The laws were made for the benefit of private business, not the Federal Police. That was the bottom-line reality in Switzerland.

  ‘Meaning it’s a one-way street.’

  Dieter Taub caught her drift. ‘Meaning it’s difficult. Privacy and discretion? Oftentimes, when a problem arises there’s only so much my client will permit me to share. Other times they’ll ask us to sort it out without the police, regardless of FedPol’s needs or networks. Or they write it off.’ A shrug. ‘I work for my client, Inspector. Josephina knew that.’

  ‘But she would know markets? I mean black markets.’

  ‘It was her job to know things like that.’

  A pause. And very difficult to get the measure of Dieter Taub.

  She asked, ‘How well did you know her?’

  He looked into her eyes for an instant, slightly askance. But he understood. ‘I knew her professionally. Same with poor Martin, as far as that goes. I have been in the same room with both of them on occasion, always for professional reasons.’

  ‘Meaning the theft of a piece of art.’

  ‘That’s all that would ever bring us together, Inspector. I mean all three of us. Martin would describe what he saw or, more usually, didn’t see. Josephina would bring gathered intelligence as to whom or where said piece might be headed. I suppose I should add that I consulted with Josephina countless times on issues related to my clients.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as stolen art or forged art or missing art that has surfaced on foreign territory.’

  ‘And she helped you?’

  ‘If she could. As far as it went.’

  ‘At these places?’ Referring to the list.

  ‘Sometimes. Usually at the Kunst. I’m in and out of there all the time. Biggest client. Always some issue or other to be settled. Josephina spent a good deal of her time there as well.’

  ‘And Martin Bettelman was assigned there lately.’ A nod. ‘How difficult would it be for Martin Bettelman to remove paintings in the course of his duties as a security guard?’

  Another nod. ‘Y
es, Josephina mentioned that you’d also recovered a painting.’

  When she did not respond to that, he bowed again in the slightest way — an odd tick, it was like a headwaiter, or a circumspect psychiatrist — and opened the file that lay waiting at his right hand. Martin Bettelman had an unblemished history as a VigiTec employee going back almost fifteen years. He’d started off working the range of VigiTec clients, from banks to football stadiums to private homes, gradually settling into a rotation through the firm’s cultural contracts. He had worked in every gallery and museum around Basel but was eventually more or less permanently posted at the Kunst, the venerable Basel Museum of Fine Art. ‘They like it there,’ Taub noted.’ Lots of people, lots of variety… Involves more than just standing around, mind you. Our staff are trained in how to hang art securely, pack and transport, store at proper climate. It’s a value-added service we provide.’ Not cheap was clearly intimated. And, closing the file with a corporate sigh, ‘no complaints about Martin… None.’

  ‘But that’s not what I asked, Herr.’

  ‘Just so.’ Dieter Taub bowed. ‘We do try for perfection, Inspector,’ now taking a ring-binder from a stack by his left hand and handing it across the table. ‘We have to. Ours is a very competitive industry.’ Aliette began flipping through laminated pages featuring photos and schematics of the latest security technology while her host explained. ‘We’re constantly upgrading our methods, and of course, that involves constant retraining of our personnel. But we are constrained by our clients’ budgetary constraints. And, to be frank, by their sense of urgency in these matters. The mindset of the culture industry is not that of the security industry. What I mean is, it attracts a different kind of person. We do our best to push them forward. Case studies. General awareness. Each time a major art crime is reported anywhere in the world, we prepare press packages and forward copies to each of our clients. Public relations? Perhaps your people do the same sort of thing. Maybe it’s effective… But we cannot force them to spend more money protecting their treasures. Lots of paintings go missing, both the great and the lesser. As I say, often they’ll just live with the loss — which isn’t really a loss if it’s a piece that’s no longer admired or even known. At least that’s how they think when putting it against the size of the collections in their vaults and the cost to their reputation.’

  ‘At the museum? …You say Bettelman was on duty during some thefts?’

  Taub reached for yet another binder, found a page. ‘A dozen times. Small pieces, mid-range value. Off the wall and out the front door. No discernable pattern. Or market, for that matter — not according to people like Inspector Perella. We reviewed it in each instance and found nothing to hold him at fault. The client will confirm this.’ The client being the Museum. ‘They know they have a problem. They’ve got their own security department, of course, but…well, Frau Zeidler…’ Dieter Taub’s smooth face cracked a rueful smile, ‘that’s why they need us.’ He re-opened the Human Resources file on Martin Bettelman. ‘So long as our personnel are cleared through the entry screening and all goes well, we are not inclined to look. Martin knew his job. All enquiries said he was honest. I do find this very odd.’

  She passed him the police photo of the battered shoemaker. ‘Found in the river with your employee. We’re having it restored. We’ll go public, if need be. Someone will come forward.’

  Dieter Taub perused it. He had no idea who had made it or who might own it. Handing it back, he said, ‘I’d be very grateful if you’d keep me informed.’

  It seemed the meeting was concluded. She again thanked him for his time.

  Dieter Taub leaned forward with an offer. Would she like to view the museum surveillance tapes? The Kunst was a public institution, not so problematic where it came to disclosure rules, and he would personally arrange it. ‘With Della. You’ll like Della.’

  Aliette accepted. Not sure what she’d see, but it was something.

  His agent would meet her at the Kunst reception at nine sharp next morning. Beyond that, Herr Taub was sorry but they had different priorities here and a man in his position sometimes had to split himself down the middle where it came to responsibilities.

  ‘This is not France, Inspector.’

  Part 2

  Fantasy Weekend for One in Basel

  16

  A Bit of Pleasure

  No, not France. Not France at all… It had been a long day amongst the Swiss. Inspector Nouvelle walked out of the sleek blue tower and into a pleasant late afternoon. Clear sky. A warmish southwest wind. She headed back toward the river. She needed some supplies.

  Aliette didn’t know if she was going to sleep with Agent Rudi Bucholtz — but it was a notion she was willing to explore. Because she needed to. But it would be for him to make her want to. But if he did… She found a boutique in Claraplatz where she bought a change of underwear. Black, and not too skimpy. Au contraire. Black and slightly reserved.

  Next on her list was leckerli, the ginger-flavoured cookie that was a justly famous Basel specialty. She looked inside a chocolate shop and asked where she might find some. Anywhere, was the reply — from your corner grocery to highest-end gift shops, but the ones in the grocery store were all you needed. Aliette bought a huge bar of hugely expensive pure milk chocolate by way of showing her gratitude to the lady for the tip. She paid with her card.

  ‘Merci, Madame Bettelman,’ the woman said, handing back the card. ‘Enjoy yourself.’

  She was planning on it.

  She stopped at a pharmacy and bought a toothbrush, paste, and a bar of goat’s milk soap.

  There was also a phone card among Martin Bettelman’s rejected personal effects. She found a phone and called the office. Monique answered. The garage had called looking for the Opal. The inspector said tell them probably Monday, and asked to be passed along to the boss.

  Claude, without so much as a hello, said, ‘Everyone outlives their cat, Aliette, and everyone deals with it. Why not you? Unless you get a cat when you’re eighty, you are going to outlive it. This is nature. This is — ’

  Aliette hung up the phone. He had no idea. Being in Basel helped her see this.

  She removed the card, then reinserted it and tried another number — in Nantes, on the far side of the world. Her mother answered. ‘Salut. C’est moi. What are you doing?’ She and Papa were going to eat at the club with some old friends. Aliette felt the usual twinge that came with each reminder that her life was so different from Maman’s. There were no ‘old friends’ on this side of her life. She pried news from her mother. Bridge group, exercise class, new neighbours. What are you reading? Some wretched bestseller that was nothing but sex, it made you wonder how far the notion of taste had fallen. Aliette hadn’t read it. ‘How is Papa?’ When Maman finished her usual droll litany of complaints about the man she had loved exclusively for almost sixty years, Aliette told her about Piaf.

  ‘Ah, ma pauvre…’ Maman knew Piaf. He had started off, white and helpless and so cute in a basket in the kitchen, directly below her mother’s feet where they rested on the bottom rung of the ancient kitchen stool. Piaf had been nine, a well-seasoned veteran, by the time he had started life on the third floor by the park in a dull mid-sized city on the eastern edge of the universe. So Maman commiserated in the way only a mother can. The subtext was: life changes, life ends. Maman and Papa were both closing in on eighty.

  And Aliette was crying, silently, huddled with the phone in the corner of a chic café.

  When the lesson in life was concluded, she informed her mother, ‘I’m in Basel.’

  ‘C’est bon, ma chère… A change of scene will do you good.’

  Yes and no, Maman. She mentioned some interesting biscuits she and Papa would love. ‘I’ll bring a box at Christmas.’ She did not say a word about Claude and her mother didn’t ask.

  Then she crossed the street and went into a corner store and found a 1.3-kg tin of leckerli. Memories of Switzerland. A photo of a Swiss mountain scene on the li
d. Forty Swiss francs. Outrageous. But the nice Swiss lady assured her, ‘These are very special cookies, madame. Lots of pure honey. Just wonderful.’ It was exactly what she needed to hear. In appreciation, she added three bottles of Boxer beer to her purchase. Did that mean she did not trust Agent Rudi to show up? No, it meant she couldn’t wait to enjoy her treats. She put the beers in the crepe bag with her underwear and chocolate and continued on, wandering up and down charming and immaculate Klein Basel streets, considering boutique windows, laughing quietly at the absurd prices. She stopped again at a kiosk and bought an apfelküchlein. An apple donut.

  Hands full, the inspector began circling northward, in the direction of the secret apartment. She hoped. Once she’d found Mulheimer and knew she was almost home, as it were, she pulled up in a small park and sat on a bench… She beckoned a passing teenager. Yes, he had a bottle opener — on his Swiss army knife, where else? Merci. Danke. She sipped and chomped.

  Boxer beer and an apple donut. With a ginger cookie for dessert.

  Claude could fuck himself. This evening she was entertaining Rudi.

  Where that might lead, well, they’d have to wait and see.

  She cried again as she sat there on a bench with her treats and a beer.

  No one would notice. No one would know her. She cried because she didn’t know…

  Aliette Nouvelle knew the value of relationship. Her own mother had conveyed this elemental message since before she could remember. It had been internalized and tested. Then tested to the nth degree with a man called Claude Néon. But it wasn’t right… It wasn’t right.

  If sex is central to the bond — and it has to be — then sex is a way of destroying it. A way of breaking free of an intolerable mistake the body can’t let go.

  Two hours later, FedPol Agent Bucholtz gazed, rapt, as the French cop told the story of her life and her beliefs. In French, of course, and Rudi followed, willing, enchanted as she spoke of love in the higher echelons of the French police, the profound thrill of going into action hand in hand. Rudi believed every word. Her story, which was also her confession, included the death of Piaf, the shoemaker’s dedication to craftsmanship, a mysterious ivory-skinned man naked on a rock at midnight, and her double life as Lise. She wondered if Rudi was cop enough to take an undercover turn at Zup. He insisted he was. ‘Turn around,’ she commanded. He did. The moment was preternatural, in a place that had nothing to do with her life yet felt essential to her soul. From ten steps away, in the dim light of the fifth-floor window Rudi’s back and buttocks were lean and deathly white. ‘You could almost be him,’ she murmured.