Caveat Emptor (35 page)

It seemed that some months back, a curious thing had happened in New York City. An unscrupulous art dealer, whom I'd never heard of, and who had once lived in Florida, had been arrested for selling fake paintings. Two “Buttersworths” (obviously mine) were among the collection that made up his inventory. In the course of the subsequent investigation, it was discovered that both “Buttersworths” closely matched two others that had appeared and been sold nearly a decade ago, one at Sotheby's and the other at Christie's in London. Further investigation revealed that both paintings had been consigned by one Ken Perenyi. This remarkable coincidence demanded an explanation.

My guests proceeded to make themselves at home, and, opening up a sinister-looking black-leather briefcase, they began to spread out photocopies of pages taken from auction-house catalogs that pictured the two “Buttersworths.” Fortunately, due to my long absences from home and the robbery years ago, I never kept more than a few paintings in the house, instead preferring to fill up secure storage units with piles of them. It didn't bother me that decorating my living room where we were sitting was a “Gilbert Stuart” above the fireplace, an “Antonio Jacobsen” on the opposite wall, and a couple of small sporting paintings lying about, because it soon became apparent to me that art was neither of my guests' strong suit.

No matter how uninformed they might be on the subject, however, I was still uncomfortable knowing that just upstairs in my bedroom was a beautiful pair of “Buttersworths” flanking my bed and that behind the door of another room that served as my studio were several masterpieces in progress. For the time being, at least, the feds stayed put on the couch. Pulling out pens and a form from the nasty-looking briefcase, they explained, “We have to write down a few facts. It's just routine, and we'll be leaving in a minute.” Then, after spending half an hour filling out vital statistics about my life that covered everything from where I was born to whether I suffered from hemorrhoids, they began an interrogation disguised as a friendly conversation.

“Well, exactly what do you do for a living, Mr. Perenyi?” they inquired.

After I explained to them that I was simply a harmless antique dealer and stock-market investor, they explained to me the awkward situation involving the “Buttersworths.” They wanted to know how I'd come to own them, and how they came to be placed in the London auction houses. The second I looked at the dates of the sales, one nearly ten years ago, I pretended bewilderment.

“I don't remember where I bought these,” I said, as though it was absurd that they should even ask. “I go all over Britain buying art and antiques. Then I turn around and put them in auction sales for a quick profit. Probably I found them in some London market or an antique show in the country.”

As one of them was writing down every word I said, the other broke in and asked: “Can you show us receipts for the purchase?” After dismissing the question as ridiculous, I explained that sales at antique markets were always “cash-and-carry.”

Still, they tactfully let me know that the matching of these paintings was an extraordinary coincidence. Then, looking at me intently and referring to a list of names, they told me the name of the dealer in New York City and wanted to know if I knew him. I stated emphatically that I knew no one by that name. The same was true for the others as they ran down the list, until they named my old friend Mr. X, the picker. A chill ran down my spine, but again I denied knowing him. I confessed to being as baffled as they were, but I could offer nothing more. Convinced that I couldn't or wouldn't make any more comments on the paintings, they sought to keep the dialogue going by pretending to be fascinated about how I bought and sold antiques in Britain.

Finally they packed up their papers and rose to leave. Now that we were all the best of friends, I walked them to the door, but just as they were leaving the living room, one of them stopped, glanced around the room, and remarked: “Those are beautiful paintings you have here. By the way, do you paint yourself?”

“Actually, I do,” I admitted, “but strictly as an amateur.”

I had a lot to think about after they left. How, I asked myself, had they tracked down those two “Buttersworths” and had they discovered them to be fakes like the ones in New York? It was a good thing, I thought, that those paintings had been sold a long time ago, and also that I hadn't seen Mr. X in years. No matter what their suspicions might be and no matter how incredible the coincidence, it didn't prove a thing. All I had to do, I reasoned, was just stick to my story.

But how had they connected the dots? Only a Buttersworth expert who tracked the sales of his works could possibly have matched up those paintings. Someone, I concluded, had to be helping them. Needless to say, this was an investigation that was being conducted from New York. Whether it would end with the interview I had just given or expand, only time would tell. But one thing was for sure: this unnerving event caused me to radically change the way I did business, and I wasted no time in retaining the services of a local law firm—just in case.

For the time being, I stopped putting any more paintings into the auction houses. Instead, I made private and technically legal sales. Just as always, I had a few friends in the business—dealers, collectors, and now even some high-end decorators—who were willing to buy my pictures for “strictly decorative purposes.”

Nearly a year passed without my hearing any more from the FBI and, indeed, I probably would never have heard from them again had it not been for the continual and uncontrolled third-party sales of my pictures. Just as in the 1970s, another critical mass of paintings had been building up, and the stage was set for meltdown number two. The catalyst in this circumstance took the form of two separate incidents that took place in two countries half a world apart.

In order to advertise a sale of British marine paintings in their salesrooms at Knightsbridge, Bonhams had chosen a delightful little painting by James E. Buttersworth consigned by an American woman, which was reproduced for a promotional postcard sent to their clients all over the world. And out on the West Coast of the United States, a failed actor posing as a decorator and would-be relation to the royal family (as in Windsor) was pulling off handsome scores by selling some “family treasures” (as in oil paintings).

The problem was that the Buttersworth had a striking resemblance to another that had sold at Sotheby's a few years previously, and the British paintings being peddled by Queen Elizabeth's “nephew” were just a little too good to be true—so someone alerted the authorities.

It didn't take long for the feds, and whoever was helping them, to connect the dots and round up the culprits. However, this time not only would they discover that the paintings had come directly or indirectly from me, but that I was the artist as well. Nevertheless, the feds would have to prove that a conspiracy existed between me and the scoundrels who had sold those paintings in order to have a case against me.

No matter what the feds found out, they still faced a dilemma. Conspiracies are easy to suspect but difficult to prove. The testimony of cooperating witnesses is not enough. Usually they will lie in order to get themselves off the hook. Incriminating statements made by the target of the investigation and gathered by either wiretaps or hidden recording devices are needed to make a case strong enough to stand up in court.

They were also aware that it's not illegal to create or sell fake paintings, as long as they're sold as such. So instead of raiding my house with a search warrant, which would only have yielded more paintings for their growing collection but prove nothing, the feds—either convinced that I was part of a conspiracy or in an attempt to create one where none existed—chose instead to rely on tricks everybody's seen on TV a million times.

When I got a call from someone who had purchased paintings from me some months previously and was in cahoots with the Royal Decorator, I assumed that he wanted to buy more pictures. But when he nervously said, “There was some trouble over those paintings,” I was immediately on my guard. The FBI, he went on to explain, had contacted him and wanted to talk about some paintings. He then asked, “What should I tell them?” I knew at once that this was a setup. “Tell them the truth,” I said, and added, “I hope you didn't defraud anyone with those pictures.”

As for the “Buttersworth” that wound up on the Bonhams postcard, I had the girl I'd stayed with in New York to thank for that one. Some time back, I had given her the painting, a duplicate of one I had sold at Sotheby's. Then, when she took a trip to London, she decided to take the piece along and, unbeknownst to me, consigned it to Bonhams. When the postcards were circulated, the match was made.

Now that I had stopped spending time in New York, the feds sent her down to me. Pretending to just “happen to be in the neighborhood,” she showed up at my door, wearing a preposterous-looking hat. Before I knew it, she launched into a contrived conversation, obviously cooked up by the feds, in order to get me to make an incriminating admission. It didn't work. First of all, I was on the Bonhams mailing list too. I had already received a postcard inviting me to attend the sale. Recognizing the painting and realizing what she had done, I was on my guard. And, secondly, every time I said something to her, she aimed the hat at my face. I knew at once that there was a fucking tape recorder in that hat!

Having failed in their initial attempts to nail me, the feds didn't take long to make their next move. Instead of sending the men in black to visit me, this time they dispatched a sweet-natured woman who turned up at my door and politely showed me her badge. She was no doubt hoping, like the agents who had preceded her, to be invited into my home for tea and a nice little chat. Unfortunately, all she got was my lawyers' card and a door slammed in her face. I had engaged two of the best legal brains in town, and, only a few days after Miss Marple's visit, I got a call to come down to their office. When I got there, we sat down in a conference room and, without mincing any words, they told me what was going on.

“There's an investigation being run by the US attorney's office, Southern District of New York,” one of them began. “Apparently they have a number of paintings, fakes, sold by your ‘friends,' and they want to know your connection to them. The FBI agent handling the investigation is a James Wynne. His office is in the Queens Bureau.”

Holy shit! I thought.

“I spoke with him a few days ago,” the attorney explained. “He runs the FBI's art investigation department.”

“I know,” I said. “I've read about him. He's the country's top Art Cop.”

This was not good news, and, for openers, Special Agent Wynne had lots of paintings and lots of questions. But before we addressed that issue, and before my attorneys could begin a dialogue with Agent Wynne, we had to decide what position I should take.

The best course of action, we agreed, would be to tell the truth. At that point, trying to deny that I painted pictures wasn't an option. True, I'd been painting and selling fakes for decades, but not all the sales were fraudulent. In fact, the more we thought about it, perhaps none of them were. After all, apart from my youthful exploits, which were no longer relevant, I had no idea that selling my paintings at auction could get me in trouble, and it wasn't my fault that Christie's, Phillips, Sotheby's, and Bonhams sold them.

“Besides,” I said to my lawyers, “I never told them the paintings were for real. And what business did Wynne have looking into those ‘Buttersworths' sold in London? It's outside the FBI's jurisdiction!”

My lawyers agreed completely and immediately sent off a letter to Wynne explaining that “Mr. Perenyi is a respected member of the art community. He has been creating high-quality reproductions for years and never misrepresents them.” The letter also stated that not only was I not involved in any conspiracies to defraud collectors, but that I was a victim myself. Furthermore, I would be available as a witness to help prosecute those who committed fraud and put them behind bars where they belonged.

Fat chance Wynne will buy that one! I thought after leaving my lawyers' office. At least the response we had decided on would put me in a defensible position, and it would let Wynne know that I wasn't rolling over. If he didn't believe in my innocence, he would just have to prove otherwise.

I didn't have to wait long before I got another call from my lawyers. As expected, the feds weren't buying my story. They were convinced that I was involved in conspiracies—indeed, that I ran, according to them, an “international network.” Waiting for me at my lawyers' office was a stack of photos. Discovering my identity as the forger must have been for Special Agent Wynne like finding the Rosetta Stone. The photos submitted for my consideration were part of the federal collection of Perenyis accumulated over the years and awaiting identification. Indeed, Inspector Wynne fully expected me to look at them and be so kind as to authenticate them as the work of my hand.

“Holy shit!” was all I could say as my lawyers spread a retrospective of my work out upon the desk. The collection of photos came with a personal invitation from Special Agent Wynne to come up to his offices in Queens and “talk things over.”

This was Wynne's first big shot at me. He knew damn well that I had painted all the pictures in the photos, but the problem for him was still the same: none of the paintings had been sold directly by me. Obviously, his invitation was meant as an intimidation tactic. But as far as my running up to New York to make a confession was concerned, I was afraid he was in for a disappointment. My reply would be based on an important fact. If they had proof of these so-called “conspiracies,” instead of sending down a bunch of photographs for me to look at, they'd have sent federal marshals with handcuffs. For the moment, I either had to reply or simply refuse to answer.