‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘I don’t give a damn about some dead artist, or if every one of his paintings turned out to be fake. Why should I care? The art world’s corrupt anyway, always has been. Perhaps it’s time for them to get what’s coming to them.’
Surprised by this outburst, Marshall stared at him and asked, ‘So why
are
you helping me?’
‘Because of Georgia.’
‘Because of how you treated her mother?’
‘Jesus, you still don’t get it, do you?’ Philip said, turning away. ‘Georgia is my daughter.’
45
At seven in the morning a thin rain covered Manhattan. It came from the river and slid against the high rises, sullen and cool as a shroud. Oyster-coloured clouds scuffed against minuscule slashes of blue sky, the sun making no entrance on the day. It was very cold. As the temperature dropped, the heating came on in Philip Gorday’s apartment and the dog scratched at the door to be let out. Rubbing his neck, Philip phoned down to the doorman and asked him to come up for the Labrador. He handed over the dog at the door, relocked it, then flicked over the morning’s papers and stared down into the street below.
The previous night he had slept little, rising often and walking to Marshall’s door to listen and see if he was also awake. But his visitor slept well, undisturbed, and no noises came from the guest room. Philip did hear the cistern flush once in the early hours, but after that there was silence. Plenty of silence to give him time to think. And – in between dreaming and waking – he thought of his affair with Eve, and of Georgia, his daughter. It had been an arrangement between himself and his lover that she should pass Georgia off as her husband’s child. It would be better for both of them, and save both marriages, Eve had said. He had agreed, and their affair continue intermittently.
Never an easy child, Georgia had been difficult to know, and believed that Eve’s ex-husband was her father. When he died, Philip had been tempted to step forward, but resisted. Georgia, he surmised, was beyond being able to understand and forgive, and if he was honest he thought it unlikely that she would ever accept him. To Georgia, he was just one of her mother’s lovers, no more. Not one of her favourites either, not one she even liked. Keeping the truth to himself, Philip had never confided in Charlotte, and when he heard that Georgia was marrying Owen Zeigler’s son he had appreciated the irony.
Opening the fridge for some more fruit juice, Philip remembered Marshall’s response when he had confessed last night. He had not reacted violently, just got up from the sofa where he had been sitting and stared at the older man.
‘I need somewhere to stay for tonight.’
Subdued, Philip had shown him to the guest room, watched Marshall walk in, and then seen the door closed in his face.
The door which was
still
closed now. Philip went to the guest room door and knocked. No response. He waited, knocked again and then walked in. The bed was made, the curtains drawn – nothing to indicate that Marshall Zeigler had ever been there. He could have left soon after he had retired to bed, or only half an hour ago. But he had gone.
Swearing, Philip moved back into the sitting room and stared at the the mantelpiece: his invitation to the auction had disappeared.
Startled when the phone rang, Georgia reached out for it, her voice groggy.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me, Marshall.’
She had been sleeping on top of the covers, too nervous to take off her clothes and relax. Samuel had gone to bed early but she had found herself reading, anything and everything she could about Rembrandt and his history. The study was pointless, she knew that, it had just been a way of keeping her mind occupied, her fears at a distance. Several times she had heard footsteps on the gravel outside and tensed, waiting for someone to break in. But no one did. The hours had meandered by, listless and malignant, round the clock. Apparently Greg Horner was also restless, and he seemed to spend a lot of the evening moving back and forwards from the kitchen to one of the guest rooms. Then, for some reason, he had a bath around half past midnight. The action had been oddly comforting to Georgia, and finally she had drifted off to sleep.
But now, at four in the morning, she was alert. ‘Marshall, are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. Don’t worry about Dimitri Kapinski, he’s OK. Teddy Jack’s looking out for you, you’re fine—’
‘I know, I got your messages.’
‘How’s Harry?’
‘Off the ventilator, making real progress. He’s out of danger now, thank God.’
‘I’m glad. I should have never got you involved with all of this,’ Marshall said quietly. ‘I’m so sorry. Really, Georgia, I’m so sorry. You know I’d never hurt you deliberately.’
Her stomach knotted.
‘Marshall, you’ve got to get some help. I assume you’re in New York; did you go to see Philip Gorday?’
He smiled at the name. ‘Yes, he gave me all the help he could.’
‘So get out of it, while you still can.’
‘It’s too late for that,’ Marshall replied. ‘I couldn’t get out of it now, even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. I just wanted to make sure you were safe, that’s all. You know, just in case something happened to me … we had some good times, didn’t we?’
She clung to the phone. ‘We did. And we will again—’
‘No, not like before. You’ve got a family, a new life. Live it, Georgia, and make it work, OK?’
‘Jesus, you sound like you’re saying goodbye!’
‘I don’t regret anything,’ Marshall said, his tone sincere. ‘I want you to know that, Georgia. Whatever happens to me, I’m glad I got into all of this. I hadn’t cared about anything for a long time – not since we split up. It felt good to have something in my life that mattered. Besides, I wanted to see the art world take a beating, particularly Tobar Manners.’
She felt herself tense up. ‘You said
wanted.
What have you done?’
Marshall ignored the question. ‘I felt sorry for Geertje Dircx. Just one of the ordinary people that are trampled on. She made me wonder about all the histories which have been blotted out to preserve a reputation or make someone a hero. What Rembrandt did to her was brutal, nothing excuses that. Not even being a genius.’
‘Marshall—’
‘Look, one way or the other, it’ll all be over soon.’
‘The auction, you mean?’
‘Yes, the auction.’
‘Have you got a plan?’
‘I
had
a plan,’ he said, ruefully. ‘Now I have no plan at all.’
‘You’re scaring me.’
‘You never get scared, you’re too tough,’ he teased. ‘I love you.’
Putting down the phone before she could answer, Marshall dropped the mobile into the nearest waste bin and moved on.
He had left Philip Gorday’s apartment around eight. From the foyer he could see the men outside, watching him. Getting back into the elevator, Marshall had got out at the next floor, but pushed the button for Philip Gorday’s floor, watching the lift rise to the twenty-first floor. Then he took the back stairs to the street and made for the nearest newspaper vendor. Grabbing a copy of the
New York Times
, Marshall had read the front page with surprise, then, panicking, hurried through the rest of the paper. There was no mention of the Rembrandt letters. Not a word about the fakes coming up for sale in two hours time.
He had lost. In that moment Marshall realised that the assistant manager at the bank had
not
sent his letters. They had been thrown away, discarded. The damning news was still hidden; the Rembrandt secret still unknown. Throwing the newspaper onto the street, Marshall began to walk towards the Museum of Mankind. He felt cheated, let down, betrayed. He felt stupid too, and hardly cared if he was being followed.
Angrily he pushed past a pedestrian and stumbled across the road, the traffic blaring its horns, a cab swerving to avoid him. He was aggressively alert, staring at people who passed him like a man looking for a fight. Or someone still drunk from the previous night. Damp from the rain, Marshall arrived at the entrance of the Museum of Mankind and stared up at the posters – REMBRANDT AUCTION. And on the hoardings were images of the portraits. Portraits Rembrandt had never painted, portraits Carel Fabritius had created, many years before in Delft.
Weaving slightly on his feet from tiredness and despair, Marshall stared at the banners and remembered his father.
‘
I can’t explain it, Marshall, you either have a passion for the work, or not. This is my passion, I would give my life for it.
’
And then he remembered the corpse of Owen Zeigler, the way his father had been butchered, the body suspended from the waste pipe. He remembered touching his father’s face and then thought of Tobar Manners. Thought of his lying voice, his threats.
‘…
start running, Marshall Zeigler, and don’t stop.
’
‘What do I do? What do I fucking do now?’ Marshall said out loud, a man skirting round him as he stood in the rain.
He had no chance and he knew it. At any moment he could be stopped and he wouldn’t even see it coming. He had relied on the news being printed, otherwise he would never have left the safety of Philip Gorday’s apartment and be standing – out in the open – on a New York street. Angrily, Marshall reached out his arms in the rain.
‘Well, come on then!’ he said, staring down the portentous street. ‘Come and get me!’
But nothing happened, and the rain kept falling.
Laughing to himself, Marshall dropped his arms and walked to the side entrance of the Museum. There he paused in the doorway. His moment of despair had passed; he was suddenly calm and was forming a plan. It was a long shot, unlikely to work, even if he got into the auction – but it was worth trying. Reaching into his pocket, Marshall felt for the invitation he’d purloined from Philip, then realised that no one would let him in looking so dishevelled. He had to get cleaned up, composed.
In a drugstore across the street, he bought a razor and a comb, then returned to the back of the Museum, moving behind a row of waste bins under an awning outside. Wincing at the sharpness of the blade, Marshall shaved himself, stepping out from under the awning and letting the rain cool his face. Then he combed his hair, took off his coat, and – taking a deep breath – walked towards the entrance of the Museum of Mankind. Through inner doors he could see armed security men moving around and members of the Museum staff gathering in the foyer. Knowing that if he was admitted, Marshall would be shown into the auction hall – and anxious that his invitation should not be questioned – he back-tracked. Spotting a side entrance on the left, which led to the main gallery, Marshall took the steps to the next floor. There were four doors facing him, only one open as Marshall entered a deserted office. Walking in, he locked the door behind him and then paused, looking round. The room was obviously used as a store for kitchen supplies; the door which led from the chamber into the main body of the Museum was locked.
Oddly calm, Marshall looked at his watch. There was one hour left until the auction. And he was in the Museum. All that stood between him and the Rembrandts was one door.
On tenterhooks, Tobar Manners kept peering around him. Many of the biggest dealers in London had come to New York, Rufus Ariel and Leon Williams being among the first to arrive for the auction, fanning their invitations like geishas. Both London and New York had been resonating with the news of the letters, but as the day of the auction came around and nothing was exposed, Manners had begun to relax. He would make his bloody fortune and nothing would stop him – especially not Marshall Zeigler. Who had, apparently, disappeared without trace. Him, and the letters – or so people presumed, although there had been another rumour that Marshall had come to New York.
Tobar allowed himself a moment of triumph. If Marshall Zeigler had been able to stop the auction, he would have already done so. For a moment Tobar he did consider the possibility that Marshall might have been killed, like his father, but consoled himself with the fact that someone had to be the winner. If the letters had cost Marshall Zeigler his life, it was hardly Tobar’s concern. He knew only too well that Marshall would have seen him ruined without batting an eyelid.
Taking their seats, Leon Williams turned to Rufus Ariel. ‘It must have been a hoax, all that fuss about those Rembrandt letters.’
‘Four people died for that hoax,’ Rufus replied. ‘Still, people die everyday, I suppose.’
He glanced towards the dais, staring at the preoccupied man who was going to be holding the auction. Sombrely dressed, he had the air of a churchman, with the right amount of pompous solemnity. As the chairman of one of the world’s biggest auction houses, Rufus knew how much the sale meant to him. If the reserve wasn’t reached, it would mean a further hit to the art market. If the reserve was exceeded, the business would see it as an upturn. An indication of recovery.
Having been threatened with a rent rise in the last week, Rufus was hoping for the latter result. Glancing around, he noted the concentration of dealers who were genuinely anxious; in the previous weeks there had been precious few openings on either side of the Atlantic. Rufus nodded to Timothy Parker-Ross, just entering the hall, then turned his attention towards the auctioneer again as the two Rembrandt portraits were brought onto the dais by the security men and placed on a couple of gilded, over-embellished easels. A collective gasp went up around the select gathering. In the chill drizzle of daylight the portraits were coolly compelling, the dark backgrounds flattering the sitters and bringing out the froth of their ruffs, white as azaleas. Both the male sitter and his wife had a sheen of triumph about them. Wealthy Dutch merchants, come into money, hiring the greatest painter of the day to immortalise them. Smug to a fault.