A Sudden Change of Heart (11 page)

Laura paused, gave Mark a careful look, and finished. “It was confiscated by the Nazis.
Confiscated
being another word for
stolen,
of course.”

“I see.” Tabbart nodded his understanding, then added, “And that is why the Gauguin that Norman Grant owns is in jeopardy.”

“Exactly. I’m not sure whether you are aware of this or not, but the World Jewish Congress’s Commission for Art Recovery is hell-bent on retrieving art that was stolen by the Nazis from the Jews of Europe … whenever it turns up somewhere, whatever the circumstances, and
if
there is a claimant.”

“And there’s a claimant for
Tahitian Dreams
!” Mark said. “Of course! That’s it. There’s a Westheim heir who can prove that the painting belonged to the Westheim family. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Yes. Some new documentation has come to light that leaves no doubt.”

“And where does this development put Norman Grant?”

“With a problem. He could lose the painting.”

“It seems to me he’s an innocent bystander.”

“Perhaps. On the other hand, the painting was stolen, and it therefore belongs to its original owner, the person from whom it was stolen originally.”

“Come on, Laura,” Mark said, his tone irate. “The painting was apparently lost in 1938 to 1939, and that is some fifty-nine years ago now.
Really.
”

Laura shook her head vehemently. “It can’t be reasoned that way. No, no. Listen to me. If I go into your house and steal something, be it a painting or a small object of some kind, and then I go and sell it to someone else, it’s still your property. It’s not mine. You haven’t sold it. I have sold it … a
thief
has sold it. Am I correct?”

“Yes. But that doesn’t wash in this instance, does it? There are some extenuating circumstances here, Laura.”

“I don’t think there are. That painting was seized illegally by the Nazis, and therefore it rightly belongs to the
heir of the Westheim family. As does the rest of the Westheim Art Collection, actually. As I just told you, that vanished without a trace.”

“I don’t know …” Mark’s voice trailed off, and his expression was one of uncertainty all of a sudden. He seemed less sure of himself than he had been a moment earlier. “Half the art world’s going to be up in arms about this if the Westheim heir sues,” he muttered. “It’s opening a can of worms, isn’t it?”

“Maybe it is. On the other hand, I truly believe it is wrong to shield the provenance of stolen goods from proper scrutiny, which is what happened all those years ago. This problem goes back to Arthur Marriott, who should have asked for, no,
demanded,
the proper provenance when he bought
Tahitian Dreams
from the Herman Seltzer Gallery in 1950.”

“And would the owner of the gallery have given it to him, do you think?” Mark asked, a hint of skepticism in his tone.

“I don’t know, although I think General Josef Schiller would have had plenty of phony documentation to make it appear that he had come by the painting legally. The gallery is probably an innocent party to this also. Well, there’s one thing I’m absolutely certain of, and it’s this. The heir of Sigmund and Ursula Westheim is the rightful owner of the Gauguin, and it should go back to that family, no matter who possesses the painting at this moment.”

Mark was thoughtful for a moment, rubbing his chin with one hand. Then he glanced across at her, his eyes narrowing as he said, “I suppose you see a string of lawsuits ahead. You do, don’t you?”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going to happen. The situation could get volatile, yes.”

“I can hazard a guess, make a prediction even,” he volunteered. “Norman Grant will have to sue the woman he bought it from, and she’ll have to do the same thing, and so on and so on, right down the line. I can now understand why you don’t want me to go anywhere near the painting.”

“I’m glad you do, Mark.”

“Does Norman Grant know anything about the Westheim heir?”

“I have no idea. But the story has begun to make the rounds. At least, it has in the art world. A few people I know are aware of it. But I don’t think any legal steps have been taken yet. By the Westheim heir, I mean. I did hear the heir has been doing a lot of digging, investigating, trying to trace the painting’s long journey over the years, and so I’m certain that by now he knows Norman Grant owns it.”

“How come
you
know so much about this situation anyway?”

“I explained before, a great deal of material comes to my office, and it’s my business to sift through it all. And then a friend in the art world told me something about it, quite a lot actually, and what a story it was. You see, my friend knew how much I loved Gauguin’s work. He wanted to alert me.”

“I doubt Norman Grant knows anything. Shouldn’t he be told?”

“Not by me. Or you, for that matter. Stay out of it, Mark.”

“You know what, Laura, this is all wrong.” Mark settled back in his chair. “The painting was lost all those years ago, and the Westheim heir should accept that, not expect to receive reparation or to get the painting back. Not only that, let’s not forget that Norman Grant paid good money for it,
in good faith,
and now he could be sued for it, could lose a painting that cost him millions. And he’s done nothing wrong.”

“Tahitian Dreams
was stolen by a Nazi general, a member of the SS. It is morally wrong to say that Grant owns it. What he bought is a stolen painting, and now the rightful owner wants it back.”

“But Grant didn’t know—and doesn’t know—it was stolen,” Mark protested, his impatience with her flaring again.

“As far as we know, he doesn’t,” she snapped back acidly.

“I bet Norman won’t give it up so easily,” he announced, and laughed dryly. “I don’t know him, but he looks like a tough son of a bi—son of a gun, and the heir
will
have to sue if he wants to get his hands on that Gauguin. I sort of sympathize with Norman, I must admit. Nobody wants to be out millions of dollars.”

Laura said slowly, “A moment ago I thought you saw this my way, but obviously not.” She bent forward, drew closer to his desk, frowning. “Don’t you think that acquiring art from those condemned to die in the death camps, and not paying them or their families for that art, is an unacceptable way to build an art collection?”

“Put that way, yes, I have to agree with you. But, look here, this situation had its genesis in 1950 at that gallery in
Vienna. The gallery sold the painting to an innocent person who had no knowledge of the provenance.”

“We don’t know that, Mark. In those days, people in the art world knew of the Westheim Collection and what was in it before the war. We’re talking about only twelve years here, from 1938 to 1950, and remember, the fellow who bought it from the Seltzer Gallery was an art dealer.”

“Point well taken, but we’re dealing with the present, the here and now. Incidentally, just out of curiosity, who is the Westheim heir?”

“Sir Maximilian West.”

“The British industrialist?”

“Yes.”

“He changed his name,” Mark asserted.

“No, he anglicized it. From what I’ve heard about him, he went to England as a child, grew up there, and became a British citizen after the Second World War.”

“I see.”

They both fell silent for a moment or two, and it was Mark Tabbart who spoke first. “How come he hasn’t done anything about the painting before now?”

“According to my information, he only recently found out who owns
Tahitian Dreams.
Also, he apparently just came across some old documents that absolutely support his claim of ownership.”

“I see.”

Laura said, “Shall I call Norman Grant and tell him you’re going to pass on the Gauguin?”

Mark gave her an odd look out of the corner of his eye, glanced down at the photographs, and answered without looking up, “No, no, I’ll talk to him myself.”

“But I don’t mind making that call, as your art adviser.”

“I said I’d handle it myself,” Tabbart snapped, and rose. He looked at his watch pointedly. “I’m afraid I have another meeting, Laura, if you’ll excuse me now.”

11
     

L
aura was angry.

She walked back to her office at a rapid pace, seething inside. There was no question about it, Mark Tabbart had literally pushed her out of his inner sanctum, and so unceremoniously, his behavior had verged on rudeness.

Maybe he did have another appointment; on the other hand, he had never propelled her out into the reception area so quickly and in quite the same way before. All of a sudden he had wanted to get rid of her. In order to make a phone call to Norman Grant? she wondered. Obviously she could not be certain about that, but it was a strong possibility.

It struck her that Mark was not going to take her advice. He was convinced he was infallible. Perhaps he was in business, but not in this particular matter. He knew very little about the art world. What to do? How to get him to see it her way? Her mind raced.

Then abruptly she stopped in her tracks as it suddenly struck her that she must get rid of her anger. And immediately. Being angry with Mark for not heeding her was ridiculous. In the end he would do what he wanted, because that was the nature of the man, and it was his money after all. I must be calm, she reminded herself, continuing
up Madison, shivering in the cold evening air. Anger blocks all rational thought, and I must think rationally. Yes, that’s what I must do now. And I must endeavor to protect Mark Tabbart from himself. If he’ll let me, that is.

A
s Laura let herself into the office and slammed the front door behind her, Alison Maynard, her partner, came out into the reception area to greet her; Alison’s pretty face was full of expectancy, and her eyes were questioning.

Slender and petite with short blond hair, Alison Maynard gave the appearance of being delicate, even breakable, but there was nothing fragile about her. She was tough, a woman of some force, with strong opinions, good values, and, like Laura, she prided herself on her integrity. Also, she too could strike a hard bargain when necessary, and she knew her own mind, her own strengths and weaknesses. The two women made a good team, balancing each other well.

Alison asked, “How did it go? Uh, uh, need I ask? I can tell from the expression on your face that Mark was difficult.”

Taking off her coat and hanging it in the closet, Laura answered, “I don’t think difficult is the right word. He was quite adversarial at one point. And he asked a lot of questions … in the most challenging way. And, of course, he took the attitude that Norman Grant was an innocent bystander.”

“He
is,
in actuality, Laura,” Alison reminded her.

“I know,
he
didn’t steal the painting from the Westheim Collection, a Nazi general did, and I wasn’t pointing a
finger at Grant. We’re trying to
protect
Mark, if he’ll allow us to do so.”

“From himself!” Alison exclaimed. “Look, we both know he’s a tyrant, and that he thinks he’s the greatest. But surely he understands that if he goes anywhere near that painting, he’ll find himself entangled in the biggest mess?”

“I made that crystal clear.”

“As his art advisers, how would we extract him, Laura? If, in fact, that happened?”

Laura shook her head and followed Alison into her office. Laura’s expression was thoughtful, worried actually.

It was a large, square room with two windows overlooking a small yard in the back, and a high, coffered ceiling. The antique furniture was handsome, predominantly mahogany and almost masculine in feeling, and the walls were covered with old art posters from the 1920s and ′30s, beautifully framed.

Alison walked around her antique Georgian partners’ desk, sat down in the wing chair upholstered in old tapestry, and stared across the polished mahogany expanse, waiting.

Laura flopped down in the leather chair placed at the other side of the desk; she leaned forward intently and explained. “I had a strong feeling that Mark was going to call Norman Grant the moment I left. He practically
hustled
me out of his office. In fact, he couldn’t wait to get rid of me.”

“Do you mean he wanted to call Grant to make an offer for
Tahitian Dreams
? Or to alert him that he was about to become enmeshed in enormous problems?”

“I’m not sure,” Laura admitted honestly, and sat back, biting her lip, pondering for a second. Then she said swiftly, “I don’t think Mark would be foolish enough to make an offer for the painting now. He’s a financial genius, and smart as hell, and as a businessman he has great respect for money. So he’s not going to spend it casually. He knows the painting has a bad history. I’m sure he’s no longer interested in it. But he might feel obliged to tell Norman Grant what I said, explain about Maximilian West and the provenance of the Gauguin.”

“It’s possible. No,
very probable.
But according to Hercule Junot, Sir Maximilian is about to put Norman Grant on notice that as the Westheim heir he is the rightful owner of
Tahitian Dreams,
and that he’s seeking its return. Isn’t that so, Laura?”

“Any moment. Perhaps it’s already happened, for all we know. When I spoke to Hercule in Paris yesterday, he said there was no reason why I couldn’t explain the situation to Mark, tell him everything. Otherwise I couldn’t have done so, since I’d given my word of confidentiality to Hercule.”

“It’s a peculiar situation when you think about it,” Alison murmured, leaning forward, putting her elbows on the desk, propping her chin in them. “Norman Grant
did
buy the painting in the most legitimate way, and in good faith. Now the poor guy’s about to find himself in the middle of a major scandal.”

“I feel a bit sorry for him, but our main concern must be our client,” Laura murmured.

Alison nodded.

Laura went on. “Mark won’t do anything foolish. Having calmed down, I now realize that. But I was furious
when I left his office. He can be so superior, such a know-it-all.”

“That’s Mark’s personality.”

Laura laughed. “But knowing that, understanding his quirks, doesn’t make him any easier to bear,” she shot back. “Still, I’d better keep reminding myself he’s an important client … I guess I’ll just have to bite the bullet where he’s concerned, and so will you. Of course, we might get lead poisoning in the process.”

“What we must do is distract him,” Alison announced, smiling beatifically at her partner. “And I have just the right thing for that.”

“
Oh
. What?”

“A small bronze. A ballet dancer.”

“Not a Degas?”
Laura said, sounding suddenly awed.

“A Degas, yes indeed.”

“Oh, my God! Where is it?” Laura’s excitement was evident on her face.

“En route to New York from Beverly Hills as we speak. It’s being shipped to us in care of Hélène Ravenel. She agreed to accept it on our behalf and keep it for us at her gallery.”

“That’s fantastic! What a coup. And aren’t you the secretive one. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“First of all, I wanted to be sure we could get it. This particular Degas has changed hands several times in the last few years, and there was a question about whether it would go on sale at all. Then again, I wanted it to be a surprise for you. I thought, when I first heard about it, that we could offer it to John Wells, Laura, but don’t you agree it’s the ideal thing to distract Mark?”

“You’re absolutely right. What a clever girl you are. Go to the top of the class.”

Alison laughed, and so did Laura.

Laura now said, “I can just picture Mark salivating over the Degas.”

“Instead of the Gauguin.” Alison pushed her chair back and rose. “I’m afraid I have to go. I promised to meet my sister at the Carlyle for a drink, and I’m already running late.”

Laura also got up and walked toward the door of Alison’s office. “And I’m going to see my grandmother. I must go over some of the papers on my desk, and then I’ll be leaving myself in half an hour. So I’ll lock up.” Turning, she blew her partner a kiss. “See you tomorrow.”

Alison said, “Give my love to Grandma Megan, and tell her she’s a fantastic example for all of us.”

Laura nodded. “I will indeed. It’s the truth.”

Laura smiled to herself as her thoughts stayed with her grandmother. What a remarkable woman she had been, and still was, formidable really. She had always been proud to be descended from her.

Megan Morgan.
The beautiful, feisty, gifted girl from the Rhondda Valley of South Wales who had come to America in 1922, at the age of eighteen, to marry her childhood sweetheart from Port Talbot, Wales. Owen Tudor Valiant. Named for Owen Tudor, legendary Welshman and progenitor of the three great English Tudor monarchs—Henry VII, Henry VIII, and Elizabeth I— because nothing less than a heroic name would do for
him,
his doting parents had announced, for wasn’t their son going to be a king among men?

From the steel mills of Port Talbot to the steel mills of
Pittsburgh, Owen Tudor Valiant had gone, seeking his fortune and a better life. But it was in New York that he ultimately found it, where the streets were not paved with gold after all, but with opportunity. Those with guts seized it immediately.

Leaving the steel mills behind forever, Owen had cheerfully, and very optimistically, migrated to Manhattan, filled with belief in himself and his darling wife, the incredible Megan.

Loving music as she did—had she not sung three times a day every Sunday in the chapel in Port Talbot since she was a little girl—and being enterprising by nature, the young Megan had used the world of music to make friends and further their fortunes in Pittsburgh. She had entered local singing competitions, appeared in amateur theatrical productions, given renditions of her favorite songs at recitals, many of them Welsh in origin, and had won superlative reviews for her efforts. Everyone loved Megan, taken by her dark good looks and presence, awed and moved by the purity of her voice.

And so it was that one day in 1923, Owen Valiant, twenty-three years old and full of piss and vinegar, drive and burning ambition, made a momentous decision. It was the third most important and decisive step of his life; the first had been proposing to Megan before he left the Rhondda, the second had been emigrating to America. Now came the third: They would go to New York and take their chance in that gleaming metropolis of skyscrapers and seething humanity, the Great White Way and dreams of glory, the center of the world as far as Owen Valiant was concerned.

In his mind, Owen had no doubt that they would succeed,
that Megan would conquer Broadway, soon have her name glowing in lights on a marquee. As it turned out, his faith in her was more than justified. She made a name for herself after only two years of playing small roles and acting as understudy to various leading ladies. Her great chance, the break of a lifetime, came when she was just twenty-one years old, in May 1925. The actress she was understudying at the time fell seriously ill; she stepped into her shoes forthwith and never looked back. Megan Morgan had become a star overnight.

“Because she has a bell in every tooth,” the proud young Owen was wont to pronounce about his wife’s thrilling voice, one that excited and captivated all those who heard it.

Musically talented himself, he and Megan had decided that he must become her agent and manager. Together they made a wonderful combination, were a great team; they built a happy and successful life for themselves, and raised four children, each one born in between Megan’s long runs in a string of Broadway hits.

One of those four children was Richard, Laura’s father, and it was from him, as well as from their grandparents, that Laura and her sibling heard so many fascinating stories about the Valiants of Port Talbot and their early years in America. They were also regaled with marvelously entertaining stories about Wales, these tales told with relish, amazing flourishes, and a great deal of hyperbole. Always heroic, mythic, these were grand tales that glorified the Welsh above all else.

“Nobody like us,” Owen would boast, meaning not only the Welsh race but the Valiants. And so Laura and Dylan grew up on Welsh legend and myth and were made
to feel proud of their Celtic heritage. It was this heritage that made them different, Grandfather Owen was swift to point out; by
different
he meant better, special.

Her father had been a composer and conductor, successful, well-known, well thought of and sought after, but never as celebrated or as popular as his very famous mother, who was
the
great musical stage star of the 1930s, 1940s, 1950s, and even well into the 1960s. Her popularity with the public never waned; the people loved her, and they had for half a century.

If Owen persisted in boasting about Megan, she played down everything about herself, always saying she was “just a little girl from the Welsh valleys who was lucky to be born with something of a voice.”

Amazingly, their grandmother was still alive, a sprightly ninety-two-year-old, going on ninety-three, remarkably clear-headed and healthy, who still went out and about socially in Manhattan, as well groomed and as chicly dressed as ever. Owen had died in 1989, at the age of eighty-nine, but Megan was still going strong, defying the years, much to the joy of her family.