DAVID MCLAIN

--------

IT all started, with a house.
It was a little two-bedroom, two-bath in Amherst, a cape cod that
was
deceptively smaller looking on the outside than in. It was painted a
light blue gray color, with white trim and shutters, built in 1825
about
ten minutes south of the University of Massachusetts. The lot it was
on
was fairly small, but the front yard was surrounded by a nice stone
wall
that gave it a quaint New England look that was really very
pleasant. It
had been terribly dilapidated in the year that George had bought it,
and
he had to make this strange arrangement with the previous owner that
he'd
be the one to clean out all of the junk in the garage, and yet he
bought
it anyway. It was old, which was neat, and it was close to the
university after all, and he was tired of renting. All the
apartments in
the area were either taken up by students, or had just been
abandoned by
students, and as a result they usually had become run down and badly
in
need of repair. Of course, this house was pretty run down now too.
The
garage was a disaster, the closets were tiny, and the electrical
wiring
was a fire hazard, but all of that was different. It was one thing
to do
repairs when you owned your own house, it was quite a different
thing
altogether to do them when you were renting. His only real concern
was
the basement, which was an old root cellar, terribly wet and moldy.
Most
of the house itself was rock solid. Besides, George reasoned, there
was
pride in ownership. Even if he didn't have anyone to share the
house
with, just the fact that he owned it meant something.
He paid roughly four years salary for the property, although the
payments
would take him more than thirty. He was pleased with his purchase,
it was
an amount he could easily afford, and he moved in right away. He had
only
a little furniture from his old apartment, so he bought a new dining
room
table and chairs, and a new bed, and a few other odds and ends from
a an
old antique store. He felt like it was the beginning of a new
chapter in
his life. He was more right than he knew.
George Liddel was about thirty-five, and tall, with brown hair and a
bristly mustache that he had grown to keep the other professors from
asking him if he was a graduate student. He taught renaissance
literature
and theatre to undergraduates at the University of Massachusetts. He
was
the sort of teacher that the students always liked on the first day,
but
he had a habit of talking your ear off, so inevitably a third of the
students in his lecture dropped the course. He was very friendly
though,
and personable, if you didn't mind his odd habits. Saliva had a
tendency
to collect in the corner of his mouth, for one thing. He believed
nearly
everything in Shakespeare's plays had homoerotic undertones. This
made
the entire student body believe that he was gay (he wasn't) and gave
him
a number of unusual theories on Henry the IV, part one. The faculty
mostly regarded him as a harmless character, basically little more
than a
grown-up college student, a characterization that while not
inaccurate,
he objected to.
It was a nice warm spring day when he arrived to move in some of his
furniture and to clean out some of the house. He got started early
that
morning, arriving alone. He backed the rental truck with all of his
worldly belongings into the driveway, scraping bottom on the curb.
It was
warm that day, the sun was shining, and George was enjoying dressing
down
in an old pair of blue jeans and his Catherine of Aragon T-shirt
from
last year's Renaissance fair.
He decided to start with the bedroom on the right and the work his
way
down. He swept out the room, cleaned the windows, and scrubbed the
floors
with a bottle of Murphy's oil soap. (He figured he would probably
never
do this again, so he might as well give it a try now.) He made a
mental
note that the closet would need painting soon. The room probably
would
too, not because the paint was chipping, but because it was painted
a
hideous blue green that looked like the sort of shade you'd see on a
bridesmaid dress from the 1970's. He knew the woman who had lived
here
before him was old and had passed away- the room had probably been
this
color for thirty years. He remembered signing some sort of lead
paint
disclosure agreement, so it probably had that too.
After cleaning the bedroom George went back out into the truck, and
grabbed some of the bedroom items and began hauling them upstairs.
Clothes came first, then a dresser. After that he grabbed a lamp and
a
nightstand that he'd bought at a Salvation Army a few years ago. He
had a
few other odds and ends that went up there, and brought them up too.
(The
bed was scheduled for delivery tomorrow.)
He crossed over to the second bedroom, which would eventually be his
study, and began there, with the same approach as before. He cleaned
each
room as best he could, making a note of the repairs that he would
eventually need to do and thinking about how he would arrange what
little
furniture he had in each room. Looking now, he could see that the
house
was going to need a good deal more work than he had originally
thought,
but that was all right. It really was a nice little house, just the
perfect size for a man in his situation. The foundation was solid,
there
was a lot of light and the design was sound. Everything about it
that was
unchangeable was as good as gold, and the rest could be worked out
in
time.
He stopped for a break around one-thirty. The work was harder than
he had
expected and slow, and he hadn't eaten all day. He had hoped to
clean out
the garage next weekend, and he realized now that that was probably
going
to be a few weeks away. He unpacked a box of books, and finding an
old
edition of The Jew of Malta he decided to head down to the local pub
for
a burger and a pint, as he liked to call it. (He taught English
Literature, the joys of the BBC were not lost on him.) It was an
irresponsible thing to do, but he couldn't help it. It was such a
nice
day. It would be a shame not to enjoy it a little.
After an hour or so, he returned to work, this time starting
downstairs.
The kitchen, it turned out, was a mess, and he spent a good deal of
the
afternoon cleaning the tiles and fixing the cabinets and getting
everything just so. Then, in the early afternoon, the furniture
movers
showed up with the bed and the dining room table, even though they
weren't scheduled to bring them until the next day. ("It was too
much for
one man." The driver explained. "An' I'm the only one working
tomorrow.") As a result he had to move his own truck, and was forced
to
pick up a number of large boxes that he'd casually dropped in the
living
room, and planned to move later.
He got to the living room last, and by the time he was finished with
it
he had already decided that the basement would wait until another
day.
All of the furniture was in the house, which was what counted. The
rest
could wait until morning. He was actually quite glad the furniture
store
had delivered the bed today- it meant he wouldn't have to sleep on
the
couch. He decided to celebrate that night by ordering a pizza and
watching Wuthering Heights. It was a decidedly antisocial way to
spend a
Saturday night, but he really wasn't up for anything else.
It was only after the movie, while he was heading upstairs that he
decided to check out the attic. He hadn't looked in it before. It
was
really just a little crawl space, a narrow passageway about three
feet
tall and four feet wide that ran the length of the house. It was
accessible only by a little hole at one end of the bedroom. (There
was a
board covering the hole to make it look like part of the ceiling,
you had
to push it out of the way in order to climb up.) George went and got
a
flashlight from his toolbox. He quickly discovered that if he stood
on
the nearby windowsill he could remove the board and then swing his
way
into the space above.
Almost instantly, George regretted not doing this during the light
of
day. It was pitch black in the attic, and the space was small, hot,
and
very unpleasant. The boards running across George's ceiling were
unvarnished, and the beams that he was forced to crawl on were
basically
a breeding ground for splinters. Although the little windows on each
end
wouldn't have provided much light, George wished that the sun was
shining
right now. It felt a little too much like being on the inside of a
coffin. Still, he had decided to do his best to check it out
completely,
since this was his house, after all. Slowly he made his way on his
hands
and knees to the window at the other end, checking as he went for
any
damage to the roof with his flashlight. (The inspector had said the
roof
was sound, but he'd like to make sure.) Finally he came to the far
end of
the attic, and that was where he found the painting.
It was a small wooden frame- about two feet by eighteen inches,
covered
with plastic and a layer of dust so thick that it looked like it
must
have been there for at least a decade. With only his flashlight to
see
by, George couldn't really see what it was a painting of, although
it
seemed to be oil on canvas. He decided to grab the picture and
dragged it
down into the bedroom.
Upon returning to the bedroom, and having more light to see by,
George
set about to inspect the package. It was a painting sure enough, one
that
someone had taken the care to cover with a heavy, clear plastic, and
then
apparently left in the attic several years ago. Carefully, George
tore
off the plastic so he could take a look at it. It was probably some
old
landscape or portrait that somebody had forgotten about.
"Hmmph," he said, looking at it, a bemused tone in his voice. He
held it
up and inspected the signature. "That's odd."
He was tired, and decided he would deal with it in the morning. He
had
trouble sleeping though, and it wasn't just because of the
strangeness of
the house.
He decided the next morning to call Irene. After all, he should call
her
anyway. It was really more of an excuse than anything else. She'd
get a
kick out of the painting, and maybe they could get caught up in the
meantime.
"Hello?" She asked, when she answered the phone.
Unfortunately George hadn't set the clocks yet. He'd had to unpack
the
phone before he could even call, and suddenly it dawned on him that
it
was probably obscenely early to be calling on a Sunday. "Maybe she's
goes
to church," he rationalized in his head. (He knew full well that she
didn't.)
"Uh-Hi!" George stammered, trying to sound polite, even though he'd
just
realized his mistake. "Hi Irene! It's George. George Liddel?"
Irene made a little grunt that could only truly be uttered by a
person
who hadn't been awake yet.
"George?" She mumbled weakly. "George?"
"I'm sorry, I probably woke you." George realized this was a
terribly
weak apology, but decided to forge ahead anyway. "I just moved into
a new
house you see."
Irene was an associate professor of art history at Amherst College-
the
one individual George had known in the area before coming to
Massachusetts. She actually lived nearby, but things being what they
were, he hadn't really thought much about calling her since he'd
first
come to the University. They were at different schools, in different
worlds. It was the sort of thing that happened to everybody.
"What time is it?" Irene asked.
"I don't know," George admitted. "I moved into a new house just
yesterday, and I haven't plugged the clocks in yet."
"A new house?" She asked. "Well. That's something."
"Yes. It's very. well." For a moment George marveled at how in spite
of
studying English for ten years he seemed to have almost no command
over
the language. "It's really well.I'm very interested in it right now,
and
I was wondering if you would like to come and see it?"
George couldn't see her, but he was pretty sure she had an angry
look on
her face.
"You want me to come and see your house?" Irene mumbled.
"Well, not the house." George mumbled again. "It's really very
interesting. I'm sure it's not though and I was just hoping you
wouldn't
mind."
George paused, took a deep breath, and started again.
"I have something I'd like to show you, a painting actually. I was
hoping
you would come over and take a look at it."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
"George, do me a favor, go figure out what time it is, set your
clocks,
and then call me back much, much later."
The line went dead.

HE figured he wouldn't call at all, or at any rate she wouldn't
answer,
or at the very least she wouldn't come over. Only she did, much to
his
surprise. She was actually quite pleasant, and after he explained
about
the new house he'd moved into and the misunderstanding with what
time it
was, she was quite pleased to come over and see his new place. They
agreed on a time and discussed the possibility of going out for lunch
afterwards.
He didn't mention the painting again. It seemed silly now. At best
it
would be a laugh and at worst it would be merely pedestrian. He
could
show it to her when she got there if he liked. In the meantime the
painting sat in the bedroom, where he'd propped it up on top of the
dresser, against the bedroom wall.
George had met Irene when they were both undergraduates, when they
had
both gone to the same small college in Connecticut. They had been
in a
production of Moliere's 'Tartuffe' together, and he had seen her off
and
on ever since. They both had gone to graduate school in New York,
and as
such would bump into each other now and then. They seemed to be at
cross-purposes back then though. Whenever he saw her she seemed to
be on
her way to some gallery opening, and he was usually running for his
life.
Irene arrived in the early afternoon, just as George had gotten
around to
unpacking a box of classical French plays. He was upstairs and
hadn't
heard her knock, so she let herself in. (He had left the door wide
open.)
George jumped about a foot and a half when she called his name. "Why
hello," he said, startled.
"You shouldn't leave your door open," Irene said, with a small sort
of
smile.
"You're right." George stumbled over a nearly invisible nail
sticking out
of a floorboard. This made him jump about a foot and half into the
air
and then nearly fall flat on his face.
"I have a sister who's pregnant. When you called that early - I
thought
something had happened."
"Pregnant?" George asked. "Well, er congrat-"
"Pregnant and SINGLE," Irene replied, emphasizing her sister's
marital
status.
"Right, er," George said apologetically. "Sorry."
"She's single. I worry about her. That's why I answered the phone
that
early."
"I'm really very sorry," George admitted. "It's the silliest thing."
"That's all right," Irene said. "Just make sure you set your
clocks."
They embraced, somewhat uncomfortably, and then George gave her a
quick
tour of the house, heading back downstairs again. In each room he
paused
for a moment to give her a brief explanation of his plans, including
both
short term and long-term projects. Irene was very complementary, she
said
the house was very nice, especially for someone like George, and
even
gave a few suggestions about curtain colors and room design.
(George,
being male, naturally hadn't given a thought to curtains.) It wasn't
until they were heading back upstairs again that he decided to show
her
the painting.
"You know I found this thing." He tried to casual, as though he was
talking about a tennis racket or an old pair of shoes. "It was in
the
attic."
"A thing?" Irene asked.
"A painting actually," George stammered. "It was very. Well- I just
thought you might take a look at it."
"All right," Irene agreed. "Where is it?"
"I found it in the attic," George explained, walking into the
bedroom.
"It was wrapped in plastic."
George led Irene into the bedroom where he gestured towards the
dresser
with a stylistic wave of his hand. (He almost instantaneously
regretted
doing so.) He covered his embarrassment by making a sound about
halfway
between a cough and a giggle. (He regretted that too.)
Irene took a good, long look at the painting. She didn't say
anything.
Her eyes narrowed and then widened again.
"I see why you asked me to come over," she said.
"It's just that. It's not, is it?"
"I really couldn't tell you," she said. "My specialty is in
renascence
and religious art. I could tell you that judging by the color usage
and
the depth of field that it looks like an early work, but that's
about all
I can say."
"So you don't know if it's real?"
Irene shrugged. "It certainly looks real."
She took a step closer and tipped the painting backward, running a
finger
along the edge of the canvas frame.
"You don't think it's real, do you?" George asked, sounding
disappointed
already.
"I told you- I couldn't really verify that." Irene replied.
"Although if
you want my opinion, I'd say no."
"Really?" George asked, hoping at least if the picture might provide
them
with some conversation, than that would at least be something. "Why
is
that?"
"Because you found it in your basement," Irene said simply.
"Actually, I found it in the attic," George mumbled. "But that's not
really. I see your point. I didn't think it was. It's just that
it's
good to check on these things, you know?"
Irene flipped the painting over and studied it carefully. A yellowed
sheet of thick paper had been stapled somewhat carelessly along the
backside of the frame. There were several red, green, and blue
stamps on
the paper. Most were illegible. The only one that George could make
out
said "Tangiers, 1946."
Irene placed the painting back against the wall and looked at it
very
closely. George couldn't help but notice that she put it down much
more
gently than she had picked it up.
"Whoever it was who did this, they did a spectacular job," Irene
said.
"It's really very." George trailed off before finding the end of his
sentence. "I mean I'm sure these things are all accounted for, but."
He
stopped again. "It's not real, is it?"
Irene was eyeing the picture very closely now, studying the texture
of
the brush strokes and the dried ink of the labels on the backside.
"You know," Irene said thoughtfully. "I have a friend who
specializes in
this period. He might like to see this. I'm sure he'd be interested
in
what sort of fraudulent material is out there. This is really well
done."
"But not so well done that it could be genuine?" George asked,
disappointedly.
"No," Irene said. But of course, what else could she say. There
wasn't
any way it could be the real thing. People simply didn't find things
like
that in their basement. (Or their attic, for that matter.)
After looking at the painting, George and Irene went out for a very
pleasant lunch at the pub down the street where George had eaten the
before. She talked about her classes and they discussed a
documentary they'd both seen recently on the Coliseum in Rome.
(George
and Irene were, naturally, both subscribers to PBS.) George couldn't
keep
his mind off of the painting though. He had no reason to doubt what
Irene
had told him, but he couldn't help but hope that she was wrong. If
it
wasn't real though, that was fine. As long as he didn't hold any
illusions about what it was, it would certainly make a fine
conversation
piece. Still, he could help imagining what it would be like if it
were
real. After all, who wouldn't dream of owning something so rare?
It was another four days before George heard from Irene again. He
suspected that he wouldn't hear from her at all. It was one of those
things. She had her own life and had other things to do than to hunt
down
an estimate on the painting he found. In the meantime George set
about
working on the house. He had been lucky enough to time the closing
of the
house with the beginning of spring break, so he had a lot of time to
get
things in order. Over the next few days he quickly fell into the
chores
of home repair- He painted the bedroom, and the living room. Briefly
he
tried to put new tiles in the upstairs bathroom before deciding to
call a
contractor and make a trip to the emergency room instead. (Although
not
necessarily in that order.) Slowly, the house began to take shape.
He
could see that it would be a long time before it would look just how
he
really wanted it, every time he turned around there seemed to be new
things to do. Still, he decided that he would enjoy the challenge.
He
bought some picture hangers so that he could hang up the painting.
It
really was very nice, regardless of what it really was.
It was Thursday evening when Irene called. George had given up for
the
day, and was watching a BBC adaptation of "Middlemarch" when the
phone
rang.
"Hello?" George asked in a sleepy voice. (He'd had a little too much
Merlot.)
"Hi George. It's Irene." Irene was normally very matter of fact on
the
telephone. "I was wondering how the house was coming?"
George was quite pleased to talk about his new home, and a quick
discussion evolved about the work he had done and how things were
progressing. Irene related her own stories about the home she had
bought
just a few years earlier, which she was quite pleased with, and gave
several encouraging suggestions. It was very pleasant, but George
couldn't help but feel that it was a fairly thin premise for a phone
call. Finally, Irene brought up the painting.
"I have a friend." She explained. "He's a specialist on the subject.
I
told him about your painting and he'd like to see it, just for
comparison."
"I see," George mumbled. "You told him about it then."
"Just who it appeared to be by and that it was a landscape." Irene
seemed
to be focusing on something else while she was talking to George. "I
mentioned some of the details on the back, but those wouldn't matter
much
to anyone outside of the field. Anyway, we were thinking of stopping
by
on Saturday if you'd be home."
"That would be great," George exclaimed. Deep in his heart he
wondered
what sort of things he might read into 'we were thinking of stopping
by.'
They discussed a time and a few details of the situation, after
which he
hung up.
It was about three o'clock on Saturday when Irene and "Stephen"
knocked
on George's door. Stephen was tall, like George, and good looking,
with
black hair and one of those smiles that had a long, pointed shape
like a
v. He was very well dressed, which was odd for a professor,
especially on
the weekend. He wore a nice, well-tailored summer suit, with a blue
silk
tie. He made a point of telling George right away that his name was
spelled with a 'ph' and not a 'v', but stopped short of pronouncing
it
like an 'f'. He spoke with clear, crisp, direct tones in the way
you
hoped that politicians would but never do.
George hated him almost instantly.
George started by showing them into the house, where Irene started
things
out by commented on what a beautiful day it was, and how nice it was
to
finally have some really beautiful weather. Stephen mentioned that
he
liked the house. George found that a little hard to believe,
although he
thanked him for the compliment just the same.
"So," Stephen said, rubbing his hands together in an impatient
gesture
that suggested he was clearly aiming to get down to business. "I
believe
you have something to show me?"
"Err. yes," George mumbled awkwardly. "Right up the stairs."
They went upstairs, and George led them into the bedroom. He
gestured,
somewhat pathetically, with his left hand towards the painting.
"Here it his." He smiled weakly. "Ta-da."
Stephen stopped in the doorway. He looked at the painting. Taking a
moment to think, he let out a large "Ha!" and rolled his eyes at the
ceiling.
"Very funny," he said. "But what did I do to you?"
George looked at him, confused. Irene had an embarrassed look on her
face.
"It is a joke right?" Stephen asked, looking at Irene. "I'm not
wrong am
I?"
"If it is, the joke's on me," George explained. "I found this
painting
and Irene thought you could tell me a little bit about it."
Stephen looked puzzled. "You mean this is legitimate? You're not
pulling
some sort of practical joke on me?"
Irene and George both reiterated that they were not.
Stephen walked up to the painting, and rather brazenly, took the
painting
off of the dresser. He held it up with both hands, inspecting the
paint
with his eyes just a few inches from the canvas. Then he flipped the
painting over and looked at the backside.
"And you just found this in your basement?" Stephen asked.
"The attic," George mumbled. "But I don't really see."
"I see," Stephen said.
He mumbled something that George couldn't quite catch. Then he
turned the
painting around again, and placed it neatly back on George's dresser.
"I'll need to go home and get my microscope, and a few other
things,"
Stephen said. "And I'll call Phil. You two can go run out to the
liquor
store."
"The liquor store?" George seemed surprised. "What for? I don't
really."
He trailed off, not quite knowing which one of the indignant
feelings he
was having really ought to come next.
"For drinks," Stephen explained.

STEPHEN was right about one thing- drinks were definitely necessary.
Within two hours George had more art history teachers in his bedroom
than
you'd find in the Louvre on a Sunday. They all seemed to shuffling
around
his room talking to each other in muted tones and speaking in long,
arid
sentences. In addition to faculty there were a number of artists,
easy to
distinguish from the rest of the crowd due to the fact nothing they
wore
was clean. There were also several graduate students who were
working on
verifying the paintings' authenticity. One young man was conducting
tests on a small splinter of wood that they'd split off of the back,
and
two others were sitting with a pair of laptops on the bed, reading
things
on the Internet. They had quickly downloaded information about the
painter and his work, and now seemed to be arguing about something
one of
them had found on another artist altogether. George wondered about
this,
but didn't say anything. Three others were assisting Stephen, who
had
been inspecting the painting very closely with a number of different
microscopes. One of them kept saying "man oh man." over and over
again.
Irene was schmoozing.
George was serving drinks.
Considering that this was his house, he felt remarkably out of
place.
Irene had done her best to stick by his side, but it was her
department
after all, so she was much better connected than he was. George had
been
spending most of the time running back and forth between the kitchen
and
the bedroom, until he finally gave in and found an old card table
which
he set it up in the hall as a makeshift bar. Phil, who was the head
of
Irene's department, had cornered George immediately. Phil looked to
be
about forty, was bald, and slightly overweight. He didn't appear to
pick
his suits as well as Stephen did, although the style was similar. He
seemed to have decided it was time to explain the facts of the
situation
to George.
"If it proves to be the original, it was painted sometime between
1878
and 1880," Phil explained. "We know that because of the setting,
which is
actually near his boyhood home. The house was sold in the fall of
1880.
You can tell by the color and the style that it's clearly an early
work,
so it probably wasn't painted from memory. We believe that this is
one of
the paintings that were bundled and sold together by a Paris tavern
owner
in 1890, when the artist was forced to find a way to clear an
outstanding
bar bill. They sold for fifteen francs."
"Fifteen Francs?" George repeated.
"I know. Crazy, Isn't It? Anyway, who it was bought by isn't quite
clear,
although we do know that a number of other early works that were
similar
and probably sold with it were eventually bought by a Paris art
dealer in
1895. At any rate it turns up in the collection of the fifteenth
Duke of
Sussex, who wasn't much of a collector, and may have bought the
painting
to give to his mistress. She was an art collector, and prominent
member
of the London art society around the turn of the century."
"And he gave it to her?"
"Not exactly. Word of the purchase was actually mentioned in the
society
pages of the London Daily Press. They also mentioned that the Duke
had
just return from France, and had been seen at a very fashionable
London
Party just a few days earlier. The Duke's wife, who was under the
impression that he was hunting in the Scottish countryside, read the
article, and quickly figured out what was going on. At least, that's
how
the story goes. In any case, the Duke held onto the painting until
his
death in 1910."
"And then what happened to it?" George asked.
"The Duke's son, Frederick, was a bit of a gambler, and racked up a
few
debts. He sold the painting for ten thousand pounds in 1913."
"Still a very good price."
"Absolutely. He sold it to a German financier named Strauss, who had
an
extensive collection of Impressionist and Post-Impressionistic
works. He
had the painting in the parlor of his home in Bonn, where I
understand it
hung for many years."
"Oh my." George said, believing that he had figured out the end of
the
story. "Was he Jewish?"
"No, he was a Nazi," Phil explained. "In fact he ran for mayor of
Bonn in
Germany's last free election in 1933. He financed the campaign
himself,
and in the process."
"He ended up selling the painting," George finished for him
dramatically.

"Precisely. Strauss valued it at one hundred and fifty thousand
German
Marks. Which, if you don't know the exchange rate from the nineteen
thirties, is still a pretty good deal. He sold it to a Parisian art
dealer, who doubled the price and sold it right away to a man a
named
Francois Lemmer."
Phil said the name 'Francois Lemmer' with an odd dramatic emphasis,
in
the way that most people might name-drop Marilyn Monroe or a
Kennedy.
George didn't know who he was. While Phil had been talking, Stephen
and
Irene had slowly drifted over to George's side, listening quietly.
At
this point in his story, Phil regarded Stephen's presence with an
acute
disinterest.
"I suppose you've come over to tell your side of the story," Phil
sneered.
"Somebody has to," Stephen replied, quite tartly. "Francois Lemmer
was
the director of the Luxembourg City Opera," Stephen explained. "He
was
also a spy. He was married to the beautiful French Soprano Dominique
Moselle in 1933 and bought the painting for her shortly thereafter.
After
that-."
"What happens after that." Phil interrupted. "Is a matter of some
dispute. What we know for sure is that the Nazi's invaded Luxembourg
during the Second World War. Lemmer went into hiding for awhile,
then was
caught, taken to a Nazi concentration camp and killed. His wife,
Dominique survived the war and eventually ended up living in
California,
where she died in the late Nineteen-Sixties."
"I see," George mumbled. "Is that how the painting ended up in
America?"
"Not exactly." Stephen explained. "The truth is we don't really know
what
happened to the thing. What we do know is that Dominique moved from
Paris to New York in the spring of 1949. The painting we have here
says
that it went through customs in Tangiers in 1946."
George nodded. He remembered seeing the stamp on the back of the
picture.
"That's the thing that's really intriguing to us," Phil was studying
the
label on a bottle of Merlot as he spoke. "Your painting may be the
missing link in a very old mystery."
George took a large slug of wine. He had a feeling it would come in
handy.
Phil set the wine bottle on the fold-up table and uncorked it. As he
poured the wine, Stephen laid his own glass down on the table next
to the
bottle. Phil grimaced and then filled his up too. Stephen continued
the
story.
"Lemmer knew that the Nazi's would eventually come for him," Stephen
continued "-but the work he was doing was too important to the
allied
forces, so he couldn't flee, at least, not at first. He loved the
painting very much, and his wife, and he didn't want the SS getting
hold
of either. That was when he sent for a man called the asp."
"The asp?" Irene repeated.
"The asp was the best art forger in Europe," Phil explained. "Known
to do
museum quality reproductions that only the most trained master could
distinguish from the original. His name is not known, we know him by
reputation. We know he did reproductions of Suerat and Monet for
wealthy
French families in the late 1920's, and there are a few pieces that
are
hanging in museums that we think were actually painted by him. We
know he
was quite expensive, and that he was active for quite sometime.
There's
even been some talk that he might have been a well known artist-"
"Some talk," Stephen interrupted, in a voice that didn't sound
entirely
kind.
"Some talk," Phil repeated, emphasizing that those were in fact the
words
he meant. "Although who he really was we can't be sure."
"And Lemmer went to see this guy?" George was starting to put all of
the
pieces into place. "To make a copy?"
"Actually he sent his wife, a fact that has long given my colleague
here
cause for wild speculation," Phil said, handing Stephen's drink to
him.
Stephen nodded, and took a long slow drink of red wine. "I take it
you
would like to go first then?" he asked.
Phil nodded. "I would appreciate that, thank you."
"Be my guest."
"Supposedly the asp copied the painting, and returned the original
and a
copy." The details of this story were clearly important to Phil. "We
know
this much from Lemmer's diary. He doesn't reveal the identity of the
asp
or the details of the transaction, but he says that it cost him
100,000
Francs. Once the original is returned Lemmer claims that he put the
copy
in place of the orignal, and hid the real painting. He doesn't say
where."
"Why didn't he just ship the painting out of the country or
something?'
Irene asked. "Why bother to copy it?"
"Because when you are rich and you are a spy behind enemy lines, it
is
important to keep up appearances." Stephen explained. "His wife was
French and a regular patron of the arts and went to Paris often. Her
absence for several weeks, even months could be explained. The
painting
however, was well known. It hung prominently in their living room
and had
been commented on by the German ambassador when he visited their
house at
a dinner party in 1938."
"And from there-" Stephen finished dramatically. "It disappears-
into
thin air."
"We don't know how, but eventually Lemmer's secret was discovered.
The
Germans arrested him December of 1940," Phil agreed. "We assume they
took
the forgery from his house. What they did with it, no one knows."
"We did believe that the Russians have it," Stephen explained.
"There's
been a rumor for a long time that they took a number of paintings
from
the Nazi's when they sacked Berlin. The Soviets, of course, denied
this
for years, but recently the Russian government has been more
forthcoming."
"None of which matters," Phil snapped, quite irritably.
"You always say things like that," Stephen sighed. "Didn't the
therapist
tell you not to use words like never?"
George wondered about the way Stephen said 'The Therapist.'
"There is some evidence in the past that the forgery is with the
Russians," Phil acknowledged. "Let them keep it. The real question
is
what happened to the original."
"Is it . I mean." George tripped over his own words and tried again.
"You
don't suppose."
"Dominique Moselle, the widow of François Lemmer sold a large number
of
art and other artifacts in New York City to a private collector when
she
immigrated to America in 1949," Phil said. "We've always believed
that it
was sold at that time."
"Don't you mean you've always believed?" Stephen asked, somewhat
rhetorically.
"Don't start with me now," Phil said. "You know perfectly well that
all
the evidence we have supports that."
"All of the evidence we've had until now," Stephen corrected.
Irene held her hands up in the air in a gesture that showed it was
time
to take a break. "I don't have a clue what the two of you are
talking
about, and I'm sure that goes double for George."
"Well, Actually-" George began.
"Perhaps you could explain to him in plain English just who painted
his
painting and why you think so?" she suggested.
"Dominique died in 1968." A devilish gleam appeared in Stephen's
eye.
"She was living in a little house on the Pacific Ocean with a whole
bunch
of cats. An art historian working for the Met had gone to her house
in
California, in part to help her sort out her effects. According to
him
she claimed that she had an affair while she was married to Lemmer.
Apparently she never told him whom she had the affair with. She only
described him only as a "great man" and that she had met him Paris
on
business. She added that she loved him passionately, but that he
took
"everything."
"All right," Irene spoke with the patience of a nursery school
teacher.
"How do you think this is helpful? And Phil- please wait your turn."
Phil grimaced. Stephen continued.
"I think the man she had the affair with was the asp. I think that
he
took the painting from her. Or rather, when he made the forgery he
painted two copies, not one. He gave both of the forgeries back to
her,
and kept the original for himself."
"All right. That's very clever Stephen," Irene commented. "If
nothing
else, that would make a great plot on "Masterpiece Theatre." Now I'm
sure
Phil will be happy to tell us why it's wrong."
"There's no real evidence to support that theory," Phil explained.
"And
if you want my opinion, it does sound a little too convenient. The
painting we have here could have been made at any time. It could be
the
work of the Asp- Perhaps he made a copy for himself as well, and
then
later sold it on the black market. Or it could be something else all
together. We really don't know."
"You said that this forger could have been a well known artist,"
Irene
said. "Do you have any idea who?"
Stephen looked at Phil, who looked at Stephen, who in turn looked at
Phil
again. It was clear from the long silence between the two of them
that
this was, at least for them, a very weighty question.
"Think about it. Who else could it be? An artist, in Paris, during
the
war, maybe someone known for seducing women."
Stephen trailed off. It suddenly occurred to George why one of the
graduate students in his bedroom was reading material online about a
different artist. He decided, quite spontaneously, that it was time
to
talk to them.
George pushed his way quickly through the crowd of people hovering
in the
general area of his bedroom. One of them tried to hand him an empty
wineglass. He didn't take it. Irene, Stephen and Phil followed him
purposefully; they were all on a communal mission, of sorts.
"What do you have?" Stephen asked. "Have you found anything?"
A rather disheveled graduate student with a long ponytail looked up
from
his computer screen.
"I think so." He said, pulling up a page he'd bookmarked. "It's
right
here."
The file was a long list of dates. The print was very small, and
George
had trouble reading. The background of the page was a brown picture
with
the number "1946" written in italics. Stephen, in particular,
studied the
file closely.
"That's no good," he said. "That says he was in Brazzaville."
"Yeah, it's says he was there on a hunting expedition," the graduate
student explained. "But Brazzaville is in the Congo," the student
looked
at George like he was a fourth-grader in need of a geography lesson.
"In
central Africa. In the 1940's, if you were heading to Brazzaville,
and
you were coming from Paris, I'm almost positive that you would've
gone
through Tangiers along the way."
"You're sure?"
"It would be like flying to Trenton, New Jersey from Paris, and then
not
stopping in New York. Look-"
"The graduate student scrolled up the page a little, and then
pointed to
a date on the screen."
"There," the graduate student pointed to the screen "There's at
least a
week missing from this timeline, right before he leaves Ex En
Provance,
but before he gets to the Congo. He's got to be somewhere in
between."
"Tangiers?" George asked.
"He was there," the graduate student insisted. "The old bull
himself."
"But why would he sell it there?" Irene asked. "Why not just go into
any
old art gallery and have them sell it?"
"No commission fee, for one thing," the graduate student answered.
"Mostly likely though, he didn't want to attract attention, probably
because he didn't want anybody asking a lot of questions about where
he
got it. It could be some kind of tax dodge, though. It's also
possible
that he had a customer for the work who wanted to avoid problems
with
customs in Paris. I would know more if I could pin down who he sold
the
painting to."
"Wasn't there a large American and English expatriate community in
Tangiers in the 1940's and 50's?" Irene asked.
"Yesssss," George replied, somewhat hesitantly. "I think I remember
reading about that in-"
"Naked Lunch?" Stephen nodded in agreement. "That could even explain
how
the painting ended up in the United States."
Everyone in the room turned and looked at the painting. For a moment
no
one said anything, most likely out of reverence for the museum
quality
masterpiece sitting on the dresser.
"Why would he do something like that?" Irene asked, looking at the
painting for the first time as though it was a piece of evidence to
an
unspeakable crime. "He was very successful. It wasn't like was
starving
and needed the money."
"I don't know," Stephen admitted. "There are a lot of mysteries in
this.
But I do know that he had a real complex with regard to some of the
post-impressionists. Although he was very popular, even in his own
day,
many of the critics' felt that he wasn't as important as someone
like
Monet."
"He was a real ladies man too," Irene pointed out. "Didn't he have
five
wives and three mistresses."
"Like the song says:" Stephen replied. "'He was only five foot
three and
girls could not resist his stare.'"
"The painting really is." George remarked. "It's most remarkable.
It's
either-"
"It's either an original. Worth a fortune," Irene continued.
"Or it's a forgery, in which case it's priceless," Stephen finished.
Suddenly, George was rich.
Phil quickly pointed out that a good deal of this evidence was
circumstantial, and that the asp could have been anybody. It was
entirely
possible that the whole thing was a fake, and that no one should be
running to conclusions. The point was moot. Everybody had already
run to
conclusions, complemented each other on a fine race, hit the showers
and
were now toweling off. Phil and Stephen quickly got in an argument
about
which one would never admit they were wrong. (Both were claiming it
was
the other.) Somehow salmon came into the discussion, which
apparently one
of them had ordered at local restaurant, over the objections of the
other. Eventually the two men decided this was an inappropriate
discussion to have at a party, and contented themselves with giving
each
other dirty looks for the rest of the evening.
George felt the evening went pretty well, with most of the crowd
leaving
at a respectable hour. George decided that he actually liked Stephen
after all, and they talked at length about the Italian renaissance,
a
subject it turned out that they were both interested in. (Although
George
didn't know nearly as much about it as Stephen.) At the end of the
night
Irene thanked George for a lovely night and promised to call him
during
the week. He promised Phil and Stephen that he would call his lawyer
in
the morning and see what he could find out about the history of the
house.
For the first time since the night he'd moved in, George was happy
to be
alone in his house. By the time he finished cleaning up, he was
terribly
tired. In the morning, there would be lots to do.
He made himself a cup of Chamomile tea just before he went to bed
that
night. Resting his mug on the dresser, he took a moment to look at
the
picture. It would have to be moved, of course. Regardless of which
of the
two masters had painted it, it wouldn't be safe.

EARLY the next morning George called the law offices of DiRupo and
Crane,
which was the law office who handled the purchase of his house.
George
had been trying to get them to send the rest of the paperwork on the
house for several days now, and nearly every time he called he had a
sixty-second telephone conversation with an extremely rude
secretary.
Each time the secretary promised to send him the information he was
requesting right away, and each time she hung up, George was pretty
sure
that she had no intention of sending it to him whatsoever.
The unpleasant secretary once again promised to send him the
material on
the house, and once again he was quite convinced that she had no
intention of actually doing it. He asked her if she knew where he
could
find out about the history of the house. She said she didn't know,
but
would be happy to disconnect him. After that, the line went dead.
George decided to go out on a limb and phone the Office of Deeds, or
the
Registry of Deeds, or whatever it was called. This turned out to be
a
challenge, since he didn't know exactly where the registry was, if
it was
a city office or a county office, or what the correct name actually
would
be. After doing a rather extensive survey of the phone book the
previous
resident had left in the kitchen, he discovered it was called the
registry, and was about twenty miles south, just off of the
Massachusetts
Turnpike. He called the number listed, and was invited to push a
long
series of buttons. Each series of buttons that he tried seemed to
end in
his being disconnected, except for one, which prompted a message
saying
that all of the lines we're busy, and then asked him to call again
later.

It seemed that the thing to do was to go down there in person and
see
what they could tell him, but he had classes to attend to, and so it
would have to wait for another day.
He felt distracted that afternoon, as he lectured about Milton. It
didn't seem to inspire the levels of passion in him that 16th
Century
English Literature usually did. (The students didn't usually find
any
passion in the subject anyway, so they probably didn't notice.) He
found
himself thinking a good deal more about the painting than Paradise
Lost,
and when his office hour came along, he didn't give as much as a
second
thought to canceling it. After sticking his head in his office, he
grabbed a stack of term papers from his desk and flew out of the
building, making some excuse about a sick mother. Two or three
students
waiting to have him advise them on course selections for next year
looked
at him wearily.
He drove down to the registry, which was inside what appeared to be
an
old high school, and parked outside. The registry itself was on the
first
floor, in what must have once been the first grade room for wards of
the
state who had asked for a second bowl of gruel. It was damp, and
musty,
and small. The windows were all along one side, and seemed to be
built
around the premise that children only deserved as much sunshine as
they
could get during the summer months.
There were four desks in the room, all of which looked like "Our
Miss
Brooks" had left them there when she stopped teaching. Of these,
only one
was occupied, by a heavy set middle aged women, who was working on a
computer that looked like it should have been donated to some museum
several years ago.
"May I help you?" she asked, looking at George over a pair of gray
reading goggles.
"Yes. I have this-" George began, and then stopped, and then began
again. "You see it's really very interesting and I was wondering if
you
could tell me about the history of it?"
"You have a piece of property that you would like to know the
history
on?" the lady surmised.
"That's right," George said, breathing heavily. "Is there any way
you
can do that sort of thing?"
"We do title searches. They are twenty-five dollars and I can only
give
you the last fifty years. More than that and you'll have to petition
the
state. Will that be all right?"
"Can you do it today?" George asked "I'd be willing to wait. if you
think-"
"You're in luck," The lady said. "It's the middle of the month, so
we
don't have too many closings today. "If you come back in two hours,
I
should be able to finish a title search by then."
George gave the woman twenty-five dollars and went back out to his
car,
where he listened to Talk of The Nation on PBS. They were
discussing the
significance of the Libertarian Party in modern American politics.
It was
a warm day and the car was in the sun, and before long George found
himself stretching out the bucket seat on his Toyota and taking a
nap.
When he awoke the radio was playing classical music and it was much
later than he expected. He returned to the registry, where he asked
the
woman once again for the title search on his house. She sighed
heavily,
and with what seemed a Herculean effort, tapped the keyboard in
front of
her several times and then got up and walked over to the shared
printer.
After several minutes she handed him A manila folder full of about
fifty
pages of what appeared to be internal government business jargon,
printed
on an old dot-matrix printer, and tailored to be more or less
completely
unrecognizable to the untrained eye. George took the document back
out to
his car and studied it carefully.
George drove back to his house, where he flipped through his mail
after
checking his messages. (Stephen had called, asking him to call him.
George made a mental note to call him back after he finished reading
through the title history. The mail consisted mostly of junk mail
from a
computer company named Infocom asking him to buy their games.) He
then
opened a Coca-Cola and spread the document out on the kitchen table.
What
he had in front of him appeared to be some sort of history of his
house,
or rather, some kind of history of the property, although the pages
were
filled with long series' of numbers that George didn't immediately
understand. He looked over all of the pages, and after a good deal
of
study he found a page with "Liddel, George" printed on it, along
with
what appeared to be the day of his closing. He decided to start
there.
After three hours, two Coke's and a trip to the bathroom, George
had
decided that Real Estate Law was the calling of strange and cryptic
group
of people. The document in front of him was not as much fun to read,
as
say, a Esperanto translation of the screenplays of the last season
of
Charlie's Angels.
As near as George could figure out, there were four things listed
in the
document that seemed to have any relevance to him at the moment. The
first was that the house next door had been built on what was
originally
an empty lot that had once been attached to this house. (Actually,
that
wasn't relevant at all. George just thought it was interesting.) The
second thing was that he'd bought the house from a man named Peter
Ford.
(George recognized the name once he read it.) Ford had inherited the
place just a few months before from a woman named Tricia McMillian.
Mrs.
McMillian had bought the place with her husband several decades ago,
from
a man named Arthur Douglas. (Mr. Douglas had bought the place in
the
nineteen fifties, and the records didn't really go back before
then.)
Clearly, one of these people had owned the painting. But the
question
was who, and why had they been so careless as to leave it in the
attic?
He knew that the house had been part of an estate sale. George could
assume that Peter Ford was some sort of a relative of Mrs.
McMillian's,
although from their names alone the relationship wasn't clear.
Perhaps
she had left it in the attic, and had forgotten to mention it to
anybody.
Still, anything that valuable deserved to be guarded more
carefully.
Had the previous owners thought it was a fake? Even if they had, why
not
put it on display? It was a very nice painting, in any case. If the
junk
in the garage was any clue, the previous owner hadn't had a great
deal
invested in the décor. On the other hand, if the painting was real,
why
would you even keep it in such a small and unprotected little house?
Of course, that was why you could keep it, because the house was so
little and unassuming. No one would ever think it a million years
that
something so precious would be hiding inside. Expecting to find it
there
would be a little like breaking into Nelson Rockefeller's mansion
and
looking for money under his mattress. If anybody ever broke into the
house, they would probably just steal the TV. Maybe they would go
looking
for Jewelry, or maybe they would take the stereo, but nobody would
go
looking through the crawl space above the second floor. You just
wouldn't
look up in the attic. It just wasn't done. As long as no one else
knew it
was there, it might as well have been locked up in a safe deposit
box.
George decided that perhaps he should try and call his lawyer again.
He
thought maybe if he told the rude secretary he was in jail or
something,
she might be legally obligated to let him speak to the lawyer. There
might be some obscure rule about that sort of thing though. Making a
phony phone call to a lawyer seemed like it could be misconstrued.
Although the possibility seemed remote, he could wind up in trouble.
He
decided not to take any chances. He picked up the phone and dialed
Irene
instead.
Irene was quite chipper when he called, and eager to hear about the
results of George's investigation. He told her about the three
previous
owners that he'd found.
"Arthur Douglas." She repeated, thoughtfully, after George had told
her
the name.
"What's that?" George asked. "Does the name ring a-"
"It's a common enough name, " Irene explained in a non-committal
tone of
voice. "Although I could look it up for you on the Internet if you
like."

George, who generally treated computers like they were the children
of
the damned, said he would appreciate that.
"Stephen is still working hard on verifying your painting," Irene
replied. "I saw him yesterday, and he seemed very agitated. I was
worried
about him."
"Worried?" George asked.
"Phil said he hasn't been looking well. When I saw him I asked
about
your painting. He said something about 'New York City'. I'm
surprised he
hasn't called you."
George suddenly remembered the message Stephen had left on the
machine.
"He did actually," George mumbled a tad embarrassed. "I should get
back
to him."
"You should call him back right away." Irene suggested. "You'll
want to
get as much information as you can before the press calls."
"The press?" George asked. "I suppose it might be an interesting
story,
but how-"
"You had roughly twenty people, in and out of your house the other
day,
looking at a painting worth seven or eight figures that you say you
found
in your basement." Irene stated, in a very matter of manner. "The
media
will give you a call, pretty soon."
George thanked Irene for the suggestion and assured her that he would
take it to heart. Irene said it was nothing, and promised once again
that
she would look up the names of the people who had owned the house.
She
asked if he would like to have dinner Saturday, perhaps they could
go out
someplace in Northampton, with Phil and Stephen, to get caught up on
the
same page. George thought that was a nice idea, promised to make a
reservation someplace nice, and then excused himself to call
Stephen.
After hanging up, he picked up the phone again, and dialed Stephen,
at
the number he'd left on the answering machine. Stephen picked up on
the
first ring.
"George?" He asked, in a tone that sounded a little too hopeful.
"I.er.Yes." George stuttered. He wondered if he had called at a bad
time.
"I left you a message." Stephen sounded a little like he was
gathering
his train of thought. "You disappeared on me for a couple of days."
"I'm sorry. The thing of it is-"
"It's all right. I've been working on your painting." Stephen didn't
sound like he'd had a lot of sleep. "I was just pouring over some
old
copies of The New Yorker."
"Really?" The mention of George's favorite magazine sparked his
interest.
"Does it say anything about the painting in there?"
"No," Stephen said. "I just thought it would help me to relax."
George wasn't sure how to respond to this and before he could get a
word
in edgewise Stephen began to speak again.
"The truth is, I haven't been able to find much of anything, except
that
the painting probably came through New York City when it came into
this
country from Tangiers."
"How do you know that?"
"Logic mostly. " Stephen admitted. "Back then there were only so
many
ways out of Tangiers, and only so many ways into The United States.
Assuming the owner went from Tangiers to the United States in the
most
direct route possible, he probably would have traveled through
either
London or Paris. From there he could have traveled directly to New
York."

"What if he-" George began, but didn't finish. Stephen picked up the
slack quickly.
"If he didn't return directly to The US, it was probably shipped
directly
here." Stephen explained. "Given the value of the painting. I can't
imagine you would take it with you if you were planning on traveling
through a number of different countries, assuming you believed it
was
genuine. In that case it would make a lot more sense to have it
shipped
back to the United States directly. And that-"
"That would also mean going through New York." George concluded.
"Because that's where all of the shipping companies are."
"Exactly," Stephen said. "The mark from US customs was smeared
badly.
Otherwise, I might know more. What ever happened after that is a
mystery.
I was hoping maybe you had some information you could give me."
George told him about the previous owners of the house, their names
and
the dates that they'd bought and sold.
"That's a start," Stephen said. "I'll look for those names at the
library
and see if I can figure out who they are."
George mentioned Irene's idea about dinner on Saturday, and Stephen
promised that he and Phil would be there. He said he had a friend
who
worked in a very nice restaurant over in Northampton, and he thought
he
could get them a table.
"It shouldn't be hard to find a table anyway," Stephen added. "I bet
by
then you'll be famous."
It was Wednesday, two days after his trip to the registry when they
called. George was a little surprised by this, since he had thought
that
they'd be at his door the very next day. News people had that
reputation.
He hadn't called them naturally, since it didn't seem like a good
idea,
but there had been quite a few people in his house that weekend. He
wasn't surprised that someone had gotten wind of the story. It was
around
six o'clock when the telephone rang.
"Hello?" George said, after taking a moment to hunt around the
living
room in search of the cordless phone.
"Yes?" A crisp, female voice came out of the receiver. "Am I
speaking
with Mister George Liddel?"
"That's right." George said.
"Mister Liddel, my name is Mary Elisabeth Scott, perhaps you've
heard of
me. I'm a reporter with WHCZ in Hartford."
"Oh really?" George said; doing his best to sound impressed. (He
actually
hadn't heard of her at all.) "I guess you'd be wanting to."
"My understanding is that you've recently acquired a painting," she
finished for him. "Do I have that correct?"
"Yes, yes, I suppose that's more or less right."
"I understand that you found it in your basement?" she asked.
"The attic actually," George corrected her. "It's really very. well,
it's
interesting anyway?"
"I understand that, if it's verified, it has the potential of being
a
very valuable piece. Is that correct?" Miss Scott asked.
"Well, yes, as a matter of fact, it really could," George commented.
"Although we don't know just yet."
"In that case, if it's all right with you, I'd like to come over and
do a
story with you about it," Miss Scott said. "I'm sure my editors
would
like to show your painting on the news."
They came that evening, around six o'clock. George waited patiently
for
them, not going out to the grocery store until after they arrived.
Mary
Elizabeth Scott was a very attractive young woman, George noticed.
She
seemed to be about thirty, in that way that all television reporters
seemed to be "about thirty." Her hair was dark black, shoulders
length,
and slicked back in the front in a way that was awkward looking. She
looked a former beauty queen, in spite of the fact that she was
smartly
dressed in one of those asexual business suits that female reporters
all
seemed to wear. The cameraman she brought with her on the other hand
was
an overweight man who seemed to view personal hygiene as some sort
of
offense to the natural order of things. She introduced herself again
and
was very friendly.
George shook her hand, and then shook the hand of the cameraman.
Mary
Elizabeth Scott smiled pleasantly.
They set up in the bedroom, where the painting had remained since
George
had found it. (He still hadn't found the time to hang it properly.)
The
cameraman went out to the van and got a very large bag, which turned
out
to be a bunch of lighting equipment, and began to set up. The lights
were
bright enough to make George wonder if he should have changed a fuse
before they arrived.
"Er. high," George said. He was never really sure how exactly to
talk to
very, very attractive women, and in spite of her odd-looking hair
Mary
Elizabeth Scott looked as though she could give Bond girls a bad
name. He
smiled awkwardly. She gave him a look that would have made the Mona
Lisa
rage with envy.
"It's really very lovely," she said, turning away from him and
looking
back at the painting. "And you found this painting sitting in your
basement?"
"The attic actually," George said. "But that's really-"
"That's truly amazing," Mary replied, clearly not listening to a
word he
said. "I can't believe it. Do you have a story there?"
"No actually," George shrugged sheepishly. "I just sort of found it.
I
just bought this house, a little while ago."
Mary Scott's eyelashes fluttered like a butterfly in a summer field.
"You have excellent taste," Mary said.
"I've been having trouble finding furniture to fill it up."
"That can be difficult," she agreed.
George tried to think of something clever to say and couldn't.
"I understand you're trying to verify whether or not it's genuine,"
Mary
Scott continued, she turned her head back toward the painting.
"Yes it's really, I mean my friends and I-" George explained,
although it
didn't really help. "I think that it-"
"Is it real?" Mary asked.
"I don't know," George admitted. "I think so. At least it could be.
I'm
sure that we'll know more in the next week or so."
"I suppose that if it's real, it'll be quite a windfall for you,"
Mary
Scott focused her attention back on George. George got the
impression
that she was looking at his shoes. "What do you think you'll do with
your
new found success?"
"Success?" George hadn't thought about that yet. At least, not in
the way
that Mary was suggesting. He considered this.
"Well I've never seen Paris." he mumbled, and then instantly
regretted
it.
"An excellent idea," Mary said, and smiled, broadly.
George wasn't quite sure how to answer this, when suddenly, the
doorbell
rang. He excused himself, and then walked back downstairs to answer
the
door. He was surprised when he answered it to find Irene standing
there.
"Irene?" George asked sounding surprised. "I really thought that."
"I came over to talk to you," Irene explained. She looked hard at
the
television van parked in the driveway, and then gave George a very
stern
look.
"You called a TV station?" she insisted.
"Actually-" George mumbled. "They called me. I just sort of-"
"You called a TV station?" Irene interrupted again.
Behind him George heard the sound of a woman's high heels clicking
as
they came down the wooden steps of his house.
"George?" Mary called, from about half way up the stairs.
George quickly turned and looked at her and then looked back and
Irene.
"I thought you were going to talk to Stephen before you let the
press see
the picture?" Irene asked.
"I did..Er.Well, what harm can it do?" George asked. Irene rolled
her
eyes in response, and walked past George into the house.
The interview went surprisingly quickly, Mary Elizabeth Scott asked
him a
few questions on camera, which George answered politely while Irene
sat
behind the cameraman and scowled. Mary Elizabeth congratulated
George on
such an amazing find. George nodded humbly and said it was very
exciting.
Irene rolled her eyes and asked George if he thought this was going
to
take long.
After the interview Mary smiled and thanked George for his time. She
looked like she wanted to say something, but perhaps now wasn't the
time.

"I can't believe you called the TV station," Irene said.
"I didn't," George insisted.
"Still," Irene said. "Do you realize now that the whole world is
going to
know that you have a masterpiece sitting in your house? How will you
be
able to sleep at night?"
George frowned. "I didn't think of that."
"You're going to have to get a safe deposit box or a security system
or
something."
"You have a point," George agreed. "Perhaps I'll do that tomorrow. "
George invited Irene to stay and watch the spot on the eleven
o'clock
news. Irene said she couldn't stay, she only came by to see if they
would
still be on for dinner on Saturday. He said they would, and Irene
departed shortly thereafter. George went and ordered a pizza.
George's spot came on at exactly 11:27:30, which made it the last
thirty
seconds of the eleven o'clock news, right before the credits and the
pre-prepared spontaneous remarks about the weather. George had an
early
lecture that morning, and had already eaten way too much of the
onion and
pepper pizza. The spot itself was introduced by a silver haired
newscaster who alluded to it just before the previous commercial by
saying "---and after the break a local man finds a masterpiece- in
his
basement?!?"
The piece went more or less like this:

"A local man who just bought a house in the Amherst area was
cleaning out
the basement went he discovered this painting, which appears to have
been
painted by the great master-"
While they were saying this, they showed a bit of the film from
George's
bedroom. It was just a shot of the painting, nothing else. George
sustained a momentary coughing fit. He had just slurped his fancy
root
beer down the wrong windpipe and was unable to hear the commentary
for a
moment or two.
"It's believed to have been painted in 1878 or 79 when the young
master
was just in his early twenties. The painting was presumed lost for
at
least the past fifty years. According to reports it disappeared some
time
during World War Two, when it was believed captured by the Soviets.
Although it has yet to be verified, the painting has some people
already
hoping that they've finally found the answer to an old mystery."
Here they cut to George saying, "It's really very exciting. I'm
still not
sure how this whole thing could have happened."
The piece ended with the male broadcaster saying "Pretty exciting!"
In a
way that more or less convinced George that there was no way in hell
the
newscaster thought there was anything exciting about it. Although
Mary
Elizabeth Scott was not visible during the spot, George recognized
her
voice reading the copy. ("Did they still call it copy?" he
wondered.) It
was a little strange seeing himself on TV, although he felt that he
held
his own pretty well. (At least for the four seconds he was on the
air.)

IT was two days later that he met with Stephen and Irene at
D'Artangion's, which was the embarrassingly hip French Bistro on the
main
drag in Northampton, one of those places where you couldn't get a
table
during Graduation week without a letter from the Dean. Fortunately
for
George, Irene was on top of such things, and took care of the
situation
several days in advance. (Stephen had completely forgotten to ask
his
friend.)
George and Irene met at the restaurant, and waited outside for
Stephen,
who was late. (Something that he made a habit of, according to
Irene.)
Irene also informed George that Stephen had invited Phil along,
given
their mutual interest in the painting. George wondered out loud if
they
would be in for more of Stephen and Phil's arguing. Irene assured
him
that they weren't normally like that.
It was just warm enough for the restaurant to have the outdoor
tables
open, and when the waitress called their name George and Irene took
a
seat on a large wooden porch with big umbrellas over the tables. The
waitress was obnoxiously cheerful, and graciously offered to let
them
order some obscenely expensive meal that George wasn't interested
in. She
was blonde, and seemed about twenty, and George thought he might
have
seen her around campus at some point during the semester. They
stared at
the menu for a long time, eventually ordering drinks and a calamari
appetizer.
"Phil has news for you," Irene explained. "That's why he's coming."
"Phil?" George repeated sounding a little surprised. "I didn't know
that-"
"It's his news. So I won't tell," Irene explained. George could tell
that
Irene wasn't really comfortable keeping quiet. (He seemed to recall
Irene
once exclaiming as an undergraduate "I'm not one to gossip, unless
it's
about people.")
The waitress came back with Irene's Merlot and George's Coca-cola.
"He's figured out the mystery," Irene explained.
"Ahh." George said. "I thought you weren't going to tell me."
"I'm telling you."
"I see," he replied. "What mystery?"
"About the painting," Irene explained.
"Yes," George felt a little like they were playing a game he didn't
know
the rules to. "But what exactly?"
"You gave Stephen the clue when he called. It was Phil who picked it
up
though."
"Indeed," George nodded in agreement. The picture was getting
clearer.
"But what is it exactly?"
"I can't tell," Irene said, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a
white
cloth napkin after taking a sip of her wine. "Here he comes."
"I'm sorry we're late," a voice said, and George turned around to
see
Stephen standing behind him. "Phil's parking the car."
"It's no trouble," George stood up and shook Stephen's hand. "Thanks
for
coming."
Stephen took a seat in between George and Irene. George offered him
a
menu, which he accepted, but didn't open. He was very well dressed
again
(A different suit, although a similar color, this time he wasn't
wearing
a tie.)
"Have you been waiting long?" Stephen asked.
"No," Irene explained. "We ordered drinks and an appetizer."
"Excellent," Stephen said, taking a sip of the water on the table.
"Did
you tell him?" Stephen asked.
"I didn't tell him."
"You didn't tell him?" Stephen persisted.
"Why would I tell him?" Irene asked. "You asked me not to."
"Phil wanted to tell him personally," Stephen looked at George. "You
understand."
"I started to tell him," Irene admitted.
"Good," Stephen said. "Then Phil won't blame me."
"Tell me what?" George asked, starting to get exasperated.
"Arthur Douglas. The man who you mention owned your house. That was
the
clue." Stephen leaned in a little while he explained, as if he were
a
middle-aged woman gossiping at a wedding. "I didn't pick up on it at
first, but Phil-"
"Is coming right in," Irene finished for him. She and Stephen both
picked
up their menus and started staring at them again, as an act of
subterfuge.
Phil was dressed in the sort of sport coat and tie that professors
had
been fooling themselves for fifty years into thinking was
fashionable.
George stood up when he came in. Phil dropped the weather beaten
leather
bag he was carrying and shook George's hand. From the look on Phil's
face
you would have gotten the impression that George was some sort of a
long
lost relative.
The waitress came over and smiled at Stephen. Phil ordered a rosé.
Stephen handed his menu back to her and said. "Hi Jennifer, I'll
have a
Chardonnay."
"Oh," George said. Apparently he hadn't seen the waitress on campus.
"Does she go to Amherst?"
"No," Stephen explained. "We just come here a lot."
George thanked them both for coming. Phil responded with the sort
of
smile and pleasant nod usually reserved for two-year-olds wearing
tight
underpants.
"They didn't tell you did they?" Phil asked. "I knew if I didn't
hurry in
they would tell."
"We started to," Stephen admitted. "You were too quick for me."
Phil frowned. "You have no patience."
"Well, who says you should have all the fun?" Irene teased.
"Will somebody please tell me something!" George yelled.
"Keep your voice down," Irene said.
"I'm sorry, it been a very long week," George insisted, rubbing the
top
of his scalp thoughtfully. "It'd be nice to learn what everybody
else
already seems to know about my painting."
Phil put his brief case on the table and opened it up. Out of it he
ght a large folder, filled with Xerox copies of old magazine
clippings. He talked while he sorted through them.
"It was Arthur Douglas, the first man who owned your house, who was
the
clue. Stephen didn't pick up on it at first. But I thought it
sounded
familiar, so I looked up his name in the master index of the New
York
Post. Arthur Douglas was a prominent New York tax lawyer in the
nineteen
fifties. He was one of the very best, his law firm was very
successful,
he made over six figures a year. Primarily, he worked with
corporations.
But he did have a few individual clients. One of those-" Phil paused
here
for dramatic effect. "Was a man named Anitol Oreskovitch."
There was a long, overly dramatic silence, during which George
looked at
everyone else at the table. Everyone had their eyebrows raised in
that
sort of way that people do when a taboo subject is brought up in
mixed
company. This time even George knew the significance of the name.
"You mean-" George stammered and then stopped. Irene nodded at him
knowingly.
"Yes." Stephen confirmed. "The very same."
"Well." George said. "That would clear up a few things."
"Certainly his love of art is very well known," Irene mentioned.
"The
Guggenheim would be an art show at the county fair without him."
"Not to mention MOMA," Phil added. "I never understood why they
didn't
name a wing after him."
"He had a good eye I'm sure," George agreed, not wanting to stray
off the
subject. "But how does he connect with my painting?"
"Needless to say, it didn't take long for Phil and I to connect him
with
the facts we already knew," Stephen said, getting back to the
subject at
hand.
"Oreskovitch was in Tangiers, in 1946. His trip is well documented.
We
know from several sources that he stopped there for a couple of days
before heading into the Belgian Congo on one of his famous hunting
expeditions. Now the last place he visited before going to
Tangiers-"
"Was Paris," George snapped, seizing the moment. "I'll bet he came
from
Paris."
"That's right," Phil nodded. "Which connects your painting with the
original, since Paris was the last place the painting was seen."
"That's great!" George exclaimed, although he knew it didn't prove
conclusively that the work was an original. "So you think he,
Oreskovitch, met with the Asp, or whomever, saw the painting and
bought
it."
"Secretly transferring the painting to Tangiers. That way the
authorities
wouldn't notice the sale there, or the large transfer of money,"
Phil
added. "That way he could get it back into the States without anyone
trying to assess that the painting was stolen, or noticing the
obscenely
large transfer of money that must have been involved."
"That's great," George said. "It's really.but how exactly-"
"You're wondering why he would leave such a valuable work of art in
somebody else's house?" Stephen asked.
"The thought had crossed my mind," George admitted.
"We're getting to that," Phil continued. "Once we had Oreskovitch's
named
attached to the house, of course, there were legions of materials we
could go through. Magazine articles, newspaper clippings."
"The Vidal biography," Stephen finished for him.
"I never really liked the Vidal biography," Irene commented.
"I only ever listened to it on tape," Stephen confessed.
"After an exhaustive search," Phil continued, giving his colleagues
a
glaring look. "I discovered this."
Phil took a piece of paper out of his brief case and put the brief
case
on the table. He handed the piece of paper to George.
What George was looking at appeared to be an article from the
society
section of the New York Times. The paper was dated 1948.
It seemed to be review of a production of Vivaldi's Girl of the
Golden
West, which had been produced at the Met that year. The production
had
gotten only a mediocre review. It seemed to suffer from a lack of
direction and a poor lead tenor, as far as George could tell. There
was
the picture of the female lead, a woman named Pat Anderson, next to
the
article, dressed in a ridiculous cowboy outfit and posed in an
overly
dramatic gesture. Despite the cowboy hat, she appeared to be quite
beautiful. George had always liked Vivaldi quite a bit, but he
didn't
particularly see the relevance. He looked up at Stephen quizzically.
The waitress came over and gave Phil his Chardonnay and the others
their
drinks. She asked them if they were ready to order. Irene told her
they
would need a few minutes.
"Keep reading the article," Phil continued. "I highlighted the
important
part."
At the bottom of the page, George read:
Friday night's performance was a black tie affair to benefit the
Brooklyn
Veterans' Hospital, among those in attendance were actor Cary Grant,
Newark City mayor Richard Randolpho, District Attorney Alexander
Stephenson and his wife, and Entrepreneur Anitol Oreskovitch.
George shrugged. "So he was at the opera around the time that we
think
the painting might have come to New York. I don't really see-"
"The picture of the woman singing," Stephen said, obviously a little
frustrated at the pace this going at. "Don't you see?"
George looked at it again. "It says her name is-"
"Pat Anderson," Stephen finished for him. "She was the woman who
bought
your house from Arthur Douglas."
It was just then that George recalled the name of the second owner
of the
house, as listed in file he had gotten from the Registry of Deeds.
Her
name was Mrs. Tricia McMillian. Of course, the first half of
Tricia's
name would have been Pat, and her maiden name could be just about
anything.
"I see," George said. "So the woman in this picture-"
"Is the second person who owned your house, yes," Phil explained.
"And you think that this woman had something to do with
Oreskovitch,"
George concluded. "You think that she-"
"Her name didn't show up in the Vidal Biography, but yes, we do,"
Stephen
replied. "Once we had her maiden name, it was a relatively easy
matter to
look up the history of Patricia Anderson, a one-time opera singer,
who
eventually settled down and married the chairman of the Music
Department
at the University of Massachusetts. In 1948, when this production
was
done, she was at the top of her career. Almost a year after this was
taken, she gave birth to a daughter, Mary Anderson in a hospital in
Holyoke. No father was listed on the birth certificate.
"You think that Oreskovitch was the father," George said.
"It's a little late for a blood test, but I think it's a pretty good
bet.
It's certainly not out of character. What was it that Andy Warhol
said
about Oreskovitch?"
"Between him and Jack Kennedy they must've concurred half the
eastern
seaboard, or something like that," Irene answered.
"But if the daughter was born just a year after this, and
Oreskovitch met
her at this performance-"
"Than he must've been busy," Stephen finished for him. "It seems
that the
affair must have been very brief. In a little over a year, she went
from
singing in the met to singing in the church choir. That's where
things
get messy. Which is probably why she ended up in your house."
The waitress came over with a big plate of calamari and red sauce.
She
asked if they were ready to order. Only at that moment did it occur
to
all four of them that they hadn't actually hadn't ordered food yet,
apart
from the appetizer. They looked at their menus quickly. Irene
ordered the
scampi. Phil and Stephen both had the filet mignon. George ordered
the
salmon and instantly regretted it, but of course he was too timid to
say
anything.
"We think, of course that he bought her the house, as some sort of
extended palimony payment. He must have put it in Arthur Douglas's
name
to avoid any scandal."
George considered this, and realized something made sense. "The
house was
transferred over to Patricia Anderson, Tricia McMillian in 1960."
Stephen looked at him and nodded, he clearly didn't understand.
"1960?"
"1960!" Phil exclaimed putting the pieces together. "The daughter-
Mary,
she was born in 1949."
"She would have been 21 in 1960," Irene finished "Transferring the
house,
over into her name at that time, it must have been part of the
deal."
"I bet if you go through those documents again, I'll bet you find
out
that Mrs. McMillian didn't pay a nickel for that house." Stephen
said.
"I- I I don't know," George stammered. "I'll have to look into
that."
"You should do that," Phil suggested. "It would clear up a few
things."
"It would," Stephen said. "But what we still don't know is how she
ended
up with the painting."
The four of them considered this.
"He must have given her the painting," Irene said quickly. "To
impress
her after he meets her at the opera. She falls for him, and they
have an
affair. Then she gets pregnant, and the rest is history."
"Maybe," Stephen acknowledged. "But I don't think so. Oreskovitch
was
known for his extravagance, but not his stupidity. Giving away a
painting
like that to a woman he barely knew, no matter what he thought of
her,
doesn't sound like him."
"Do you think maybe he gave it to her after she was pregnant?" Irene
asked.
"I think," Stephen said. "That Patricia Andersen realized she was
pregnant, figured out what the market was for mediocre defiled Opera
singers, walked into Oreskovitch's office, and asked for a whole lot
of
money."
"Blackmail," George said simply.
"Bingo," Stephen replied.
"I feel just like I'm in an Agatha Christie!" George exclaimed.
"Hang on," Stephen said. "Were not quite done yet."
"Oh really?"
"You're going to have to work with us a little here," Phil explained
"Let's assume, for the moment, just for fun, that at some point
Oreskovitch had showed this young woman the painting that he had
just
bought, maybe during some tryst. Maybe say, he took her away to his
castle upstate, where the painting was hidden. Now Oreskovitch's
gets
this young woman pregnant, and let's also assume that she tried to
blackmail him. Now he's got his back up against the wall.
Oreksovtich
doesn't like to lose. So he makes her a deal: He offers her some
small
financial settlement to pay for the child, and a house in some small
town
where no one can find her. The house is put in his lawyer's name, to
be
transferred over to her when the child turned twenty-one. That way
he can
make sure that she keeps quiet about the whole thing."
"Exactly. Only maybe a house isn't enough to keep Patricia Happy,"
Stephen shot back. "Patricia may only be an opera singer, but she
knows
the value of a dollar. Oreskovitch is worth a mint. She asks him
for a
little nest egg all her own. That's when Oreskovitch gets really
clever."

"He offers her the painting?"
"Exactly," Stephen concluded. "It covers his tracks. No one knew he
owned
the painting, so no one would think anything once it's gone. She
must
have known who it was painted by, so it wouldn't have taken much
thinking
to figure out that it could be potentially worth a fortune. So she
takes
it, and moves out to Amherst where she might as well be on the other
side
of the world. She gives birth to a daughter, and then she takes the
painting to the nearest appraiser. Who tells her that it's been
stolen-"
"You mean---" George stammered. "Of course. She never knew."
"Why would she?" Phil asked, rhetorically "Oreskovitch wouldn't tell
her.
It's his way of getting back at her for blackmailing him. So now she
has
this painting she can't sell, and she can't get back at him, because
she
has a baby, and her house is in the name of Oreskovitch's lawyer. So
she
takes the painting, and sticks it the basement."
"The attic," George corrected.
"Where it sits for the next 50 years," Steven concluded. "And that
is the
end of the story."
"You mean?" George asked and then trailed off.
"That's a genuine masterpiece you found sitting in your attic,"
Stephen
said.
There was a long silence during which nobody said anything. The full
implication of exactly what George had found set in for the first
time.
He was going to be rich. Not just any kind of rich, either, he was
going
to be that brand of insanely rich that most people only dream of. He
was
going to be crazy howling-mad filthy dirty make your friends
insanely
jealous rich. Movie star rich. Rock star rich. He would never have
to
work ever again. He could travel the world. He could live in a
palace.
Heck, he could live in a pair of palaces. (Was that the plural, or
was it
palaci?) The world was going to be his oyster, and all he had to do
was
walk into Sotheby's and slap his painting down on the front desk.
"It's a good thing today is a Friday," Stephen added. "It will give
you a
couple of days to prepare."
"Why is that?" George asked.
Stephen looked at Phil, who looked at George, and then back at
Stephen,
who looked at Phil again. George felt a little like Phil should
shout out
"round up the usual suspects!"
"We needed help tracking down some of the information," Phil
explained.
"We needed some help."
"So?" George asked.
"So we talked to an old friend of Stephen's, and of mine," Phil
said. "A
reporter."
"A reporter?" George asked.
"The art editor of the New York Times," Phil admitted. "After that
he
picked up on the story done by the TV station. They'll be giving you
a
call on Monday."
George raised his eyebrows and sat back in his chair.
"Well I guess it's good that it's Friday," George mumbled.
"Because-"
"Because on Monday morning, the phone is going to ring," Stephen
finished
for him. "And after that, all hell will break loose."
The waitress took this inexplicably good moment to come over and
bring
them their food. They ate and talked until the restaurant owner
asked
them to leave.

ON Monday, just as Stephen predicted, the phone rang. The New York
Times
called first. George spoke to a secretary, and then to a British
sounding man who said they'd heard about the painting, and wanted to
come
by and take a few pictures. George said they could, and asked if
they
would like to come by sometime later in the week. The English man
thanked
George, and explained that they would prefer to send someone by
later in
the evening, if that was o.k. with him. George didn't understand why
until he hung up the phone.
The Boston Globe called next, with more or less the same request,
after
that the Hartford Courant, and then the Springfield Union-News.
George
was wondering what the name of the Providence Newspaper was when it
called too. (It turned out to be the Gazette.)
By four o'clock in the afternoon, George had had polite inquiries
from,
among others, four local news programs in the Boston area, CBS
Sunday
morning, NPR, Headline News, Atlantic Monthly and People. NPR wanted
to
do an interview with him. (The picture itself didn't really work on
the
radio.) PBS wanted him to be on TV with Sister Wendy. Architectural
Digest promised a centerfold. (The way the woman said "centerfold"
made
George feel a little uncomfortable.) He wasn't quite sure what
People
magazine wanted. They only asked him his age and whether or not he
was
single.
The first of them came at six o'clock. He was a man named Stewart,
a
scruffy looking fellow who claimed he was a freelance photographer
from
the New York Times. He wasn't the English man that George had spoken
to,
but that didn't really surprise George. He had knocked on the door
so
loudly George thought there might have been something wrong. Stewart
explained who he was, and that he been sent to come and see the
painting,
which he referred to simply by the name of the painter. He looked
tired,
and had a camera with him the size of a telescope. George didn't
know
what else to do, so he let him in.
"It's nice to meet you," Stewart said, scratching his face and then
offering out a hand. (George almost instantly regretted shaking it.)
"So
where is it?"
"It's right up the." George started, pointing at the stairs. "Er."
He
continued. "Don't you have a tripod, or something?"
"No," he replied. "Call me Stew. It's right up that way?"
Stew quickly found his way upstairs with very little help from
George.
Once there, he stepped straight into the bathroom, turned around,
and
stepped out again. George had followed him up, and walked over to
bedroom
door. He opened the door like a butler, and said "The masterpiece is
right this way." in a formal sounding English dialect. George
thought
this was quite funny, but it didn't seem to amuse Stew. He brushed
passed
George without as much as a glance, his eyes becoming instantly
transfigured with the painting on which was still on top of George's
dresser. He lifted his camera to his face. Slowly he stepped forward
and
back, adjusting the lens as he did so. Once he seemed to find a spot
he
liked, he took several shots. The camera had a flash on it that
would
have put out the sun.
"It's really very exciting," George said in a feeble attempt to make
conversation. "All of this."
"I'm sure," Stew said, nodding briefly and then going back to work.
"I never would have imagined," George said. "I just bought this
house."
"Wow," Stew replied. He sounded like George was trying to tell him
about
his income tax returns.
"It's really." George said, and then hesitated. It seemed as though
he
was carrying on more than his half of the conversation.
"Pardon me," George interrupted. "But don't you want to ask me some
questions?"
"Not really," Stew admitted. "I'm just here for the painting."
It went like that for most of the day. Reporter after reporter
arrived,
each one a little less polite then the last. Only the television
reporters asked him questions, apparently because the painting
itself
didn't make for great video. Eventually George got the distinct
impression that he was really a genuine inconvenience for them. One
reporter, a young man from a local paper who didn't seem very
experienced, actually asked him to leave the room. George briefly
considered hanging the painting in the window and leaving the house,
before deciding that would be foolish.
Finally, around six o'clock, George locked all of the doors and left
the
house. He knew there were more reporters on their way, some of which
were
doubtlessly traveling long distances, but he'd ceased to care.
Certainly
at this point the news had come out, any of the other establishments
could just pick up the report of the wire service or whatever.
(George
didn't know all that much about newspapers, but he was aware that
they
all printed each other's stories in one way or another.) He might as
well
go out and enjoy a little piece and quiet. He tried to call Irene
and ask
her to join him. She wasn't home. He tried to leave a message on her
machine, but ended up stammering and then hanging up.
He went out to his favorite restaurant, where he ordered the chicken
marsala and read Christopher Marlowe. Tomorrow, he consoled himself
would
be a better day.
In the morning, George headed over to a small diner where he often
liked
to eat breakfast. On his way he bought the New York Times. Sitting
down
at the counter to a cup of coffee and some buttermilk pancakes, it
didn't
take him long to find the article. It was on the first page in the
Arts
section:

Stolen Nazi Painting Found in Massachusetts
By Robert Stewart, Staff Reporter

The article was mostly about the paintings' former owner, Francois
Lemmer, who the Times portrayed as three parts James Bond and one
part
Leonard Bernstein. It referred to the painting as a gift to his
wife,
shortly before he was dragged away to Auschwitz. It said that the
Luxembourg government had been looking for the painting for fifty
years,
and had believed it to be in the hands of the Nazi's. It also
mentioned
that the painting must have been illegally shipped into the United
States.
It did mention George although not by name, and only briefly. It
said
that the current owner had found the painting in his basement.
(George
was thankful for that. It was the only evidence in the article that
he
wasn't some sort of Cat Burglar.)
"You readin' the sports section?" A gray bearded trucker asked
George
after he turned his attention to his toast.
"Take the whole thing," George said. "I have a feeling I'm going to
regret ever getting it."
After reading the article, George went to the university, where he
searched the periodicals for more articles. (He got an undergraduate
library assistant to help him.) He found two. They gave more or less
the
same information that the New York Times article did. They all
emphasized
that the painting was stolen. None mentioned George by name. It
turned
out that it didn't really seem to matter. By the mid-afternoon the
whole
campus seemed to know that George was the owner. As he walked
through
campus several people turned their heads and stared at him. His
afternoon
class was full, for the first time all year. (He tried very hard to
discuss Benjamin Johnson, but eventually gave in and told the
students
all about the painting.) He finally retreated to the safety of his
office, where he told himself he would grade papers.
He hadn't been in his office even fifteen minutes when his phone
rang:
"Hello?"
"Hi, George? The is John, John Crane," A snappy voice chirped.
"Yes, Hello?" George didn't recognize the name.
"Yes George, I'm sorry, you sound like you don't even remember me.
That's
my fault. My secretary left me a message saying you were looking for
the
final papers on your house."
The word 'papers' sparked George's memory. John Crane was his real
estate
lawyer.
"Yes!" George exclaimed triumphantly. "I was hoping that you could
send
me the final-"
"Of course!" John said. "It's crazy. We process so many of these
deals at
once since the closing dates are all at the end of the month. We
just get
swamped. I'll make sure you get those papers right away."
George thanked him for that, adding it would be very helpful. John
repeated that it was no problem, and it was really all his fault.
"Say George-" John added. "As long as I've got you on the phone. Let
me
ask you about something. My secretary goes to UMASS at nights, she
said
she heard something about you finding some kind of painting in your
basement-"
"Attic actually," George corrected. "But I don't see what that has
to do
with-"
"Just a thought actually," John interrupted. "I was wondering if you
would be needing any representation in this matter."
"Representation?" George asked. "I don't see why-"
"Well from what I read in the Boston Globe this morning, your
painting
was stolen," John said. "That has serious implications. You'll want
to
protect your interest in this painting, naturally."
George considered this. "Well I hadn't really considered the-"
"There's a great deal of money at stake," John reminded him. "I'm
sure
you'll want someone to represent your interests."
George thanked him, and said he would consider this. In the
meantime, if
he could send the papers on the house, he would only be too
grateful.
"At least he was kind of enough to be direct," George thought, and
before
he had time to think of anything else, the phone rang again.
"Hello?" George asked. (He hated talking on the phone, it made him
feel
very nervous.)
"Yes, Hello?" An irritated male voice said. "I'd like to speak with
George Liddel."
"This is George Liddel- er, me," George said.
"Mister Liddel," The irritated male voice snapped. "This is Peter
Ford."
Oh dear, Peter Ford. This could only be a sign that things we're
going to
get ugly.
"AHHHH yes," George said. "I thought you'd call.-"
George had never met or spoken to Peter Ford, since the real estate
agent
had handled all of the details regarding the sale of the house. On
the
whole, he couldn't imagine a person he wanted to talk to less than
the
former owner of his house, and therefore the painting. Doubtelessly
he
would want to discuss how he had inadvertently thrown in a priceless
work
of art when he had sold the house. This was not the sort of thing
that
people take lightly
"Well what else would you expect?" The irritated Peter Ford said.
"You've
stolen a priceless work of art from my family!"
"Stolen?" George thought that was uncalled for. "Well all I really-"
"Don't tell me that ridiculous piece of nonsense about you finding
my
Aunt's painting in the basement!" Peter shouted. "My aunt would have
wanted to protect her family, and the painting would have done
that."
"Yes," George mumbled rather awkwardly. "I suppose that-"
"She was very ill," Peter explained, matter-of-factly. "I don't
think
that there's any way she could have been aware of the location of
all her
belongings. She simply neglected to mention that the painting was in
the
basement."
"The attic actually," George said. "I'm sure that-"
"Needless to say, you'll be hearing from my attorney," The bile in
Peter's voice was distinctly audible. "I trust that if you have any
decency, you'll clear up the matter quickly."
And after that the line went dead. George sighed, and put the phone
down.
Doubtlessly the Luxembourg consulate would be next.
George turned on his aging desktop computer. The dusty machine
creaked
and groaned with the spark of electricity. The University of
Massachusetts had sold its soul to a prominent computer company some
four
years ago in exchange for a few desktops and a message on their web
site
to the students about how everything in life is the better when you
have
a rainbow colored computer. Of course, at this point the computers
were
all out of date, but no matter.
After a lengthy amount of time, George managed to log onto the
Internet
without calling the kids who worked in the computer lab. (This was a
minor miracle in and of itself. The young man who ran the computer
lab
had once offered to buy George a typewriter and an abacus, since he
could
get just as much use out of it and that way he would stop calling
him.)
George found his way to a search engine and typed in the words
"Lemmer"
and "Luxembourg."
The computer considered this for a moment then returned several
thousand
selections containing the two words. Most of them seemed to be
written in
German, as far George could tell. An impressive number of them were
absolutely worthless. He flipped through a few of them with little
luck.
"This is probably a lost cause," he thought. "I'm usually lucky if I
don't blow the thing up by now."
Before he turned the computer off, he thought of something. He went
back
to the search engine and typed "Lemmer, Luxembourg, USA."
This time the computer came back with only three sites. One belonged
to a
used car dealership, one was a listing of people who ran a 5k cross
country race somewhere in New Jersey and the third was an
entertainment
article in some magazine on an opera house in someplace called Half
Moon
Bay.
"Well, Well," George muttered out loud. "This is quite a surprise."
Just then the telephone rang. George picked it up.
"Hello?"
"Hello?" A German sounding voice said. "Hello is Mister George
Liddel
there?"
"Yes," George mumbled. "Yes, this is George."
"Yes sir," the German sounding voice said. "My name is Heinrich
Gutsmitter. I work for the Luxembourg consulate."

"-SO then he said 'You see Mister Leedell ve vill have to get to ze
bottom of zis, mark my words," George wailed.
It was unseasonably warm once again for this time of year, and
George and
Irene were drinking imported cold beer in the living of George's
house.
Irene had stopped by to commiserate shortly after she had seen
several
local talk show personalities openly debating whether or not George
was
some sort of a jewel thief. (She had forgiven him for talking to the
press, since he was paying the price now.) The painting itself had
remained in the bedroom, sitting on a picture hanger just above the
dresser. George's secret was out now, but his address hadn't been
published, so he decided that it was safe there as anywhere else.
(He had
talked that afternoon with a local company about installing a
security
system.)
"Well, you should've figured that the Luxembourgians would call,"
Irene
answered. "They probably have been looking for the painting for
years."
"They were comparatively polite," George commented. "Peter Ford
practically threw a brick through my window."
So have the police called yet?"
"The police, the FBI, the state police, U.S. Customs, Immigration,
The
Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms, and a man who 'could not
name
what organization he represented,'" He moaned.
"Anybody else?" Irene asked.
"Sotheby's," George admitted.
"Really?" Irene sounded surprised.
"This afternoon," George acknowledged "They asked if the painting
would
be up for sale shortly. The man sounded a little like he was asking
about an apartment I had for rent."
"Did they say anything about how much the painting might sell for?"
"I asked for a low figure. The man I spoke to said 'In the
eight's.'"
"The eight's?" Irene asked. "Does that mean what I think it means?"
"I don't know," George shrugged. "He was this stuffy man with a
French
dialect, and when I asked him what that meant he only said 'Oh
really
Mister Liddel.'"
Irene took a swig of beer. "What are you going to do?" She asked.
George thought about this awhile and said nothing.
"I don't know," George admitted. "It seems as though I ought to give
the
painting to somebody."
"Who told you that?" Irene asked.
"Nearly everybody," George said, somewhat pathetically. "I'd like to
say
that it's been fun to have while it lasted, except that it hasn't. I
guess that it will be auctioned off at Sotheby's, probably to some
fortune 500 company, who will then hang it in their lobby to impress
rich
clients. Isn't that what they do with those sort of things these
days?"
"The worst part is that this isn't about the painting at all." Irene
said. "If all these people were interested in the painting itself,
that
would be one thing. This is about what these people always want.
It's
about money."
"Yes," George agreed. Not one person who had come to see him since
the
day of the little party had even mentioned liking the painting.
"There's
always somebody out there who wants to get his hands on 'the
eight's.'"
"This is all up to you, you know," Irene said, finishing her beer.
"Unless you do something about this, the painting will end up going
to
the person who whines the most, who spends the most money on legal
fees,
and who is the most willing to make your life miserable. You need to
take
control. Unless you do something about it, you're going to lose the
painting. So what are you going to do?"
George considered this.
"I'm going to get another beer," he said, in a moment of clarity.
George walked into the kitchen, at the back of the house. He made a
mental note while he was there that the upper cabinet above the sink
was
coming away from the wall and would have to be fixed.
He stuck his glass in the sink, pulled the fridge open and looked
for
another beer. (George preferred to drink from a glass.) Having found
what
he was looking for, he turned his attention back to the sink, where
he
proceeded to rinse out the glass.
"Damn Garage," George thought as he looked out the back window at
the
glorified tool shed that decorated his backyard. "I should have it
knocked down and hauled away, along with all the crap that they
left."
And it was just then that he got the best idea that he ever had.

IT was one of those things that he'd had signed on the day that he
closed
the house. He had signed so many papers that day. He'd tried to keep
track of it all, and of course you couldn't. He couldn't even keep
track
of how many times he'd written his own name. But that could wait.
Right
now he had preparations to make.
He'd invited all of the interested parties to a meeting at his
house:
His lawyer, John Crane; Peter Ford, who'd he bought the house from;
the
Luxembourgians, who also thought that the painting belonged to them;
and
of course Irene, Stephen and Phil. The meeting was at ten, and
everyone
had promised to be prompt. He had told everyone that he believed the
matter of ownership could be cleared up quickly. None of them
believed
him of course, but they welcomed the opportunity. (The man from the
Luxembourg consulate had a tone in his voice so greedy that it
almost
dripped through the phone.)
It was about twenty minutes to ten, and he spent the morning
preparing a
cream cheese, lox and French bread appetizer. It looked as though it
was
going to be a beautiful day.
Just as he was sorting through his final papers for the last time,
the
doorbell rang. Thankfully, it was Stephen at the door.
"Hi!" George said cheerfully as he swung the door open. "Have you
got
it?"
"I downloaded everything I could get my hands on last night,"
Stephen
answered, gesturing to a nylon laptop bag. "It should be enough. I
can't
believe we missed it before."
"We weren't looking for that sort of thing," George said
sympathetically. "There was no way we could have known."
George went and cleared off a space on the dining room table so
Stephen
could set up his laptop. (Most of George's closing papers were
there. He
spent several hours going through them last night.) Stephen went to
work
right away. George offered him some coffee and an appetizer, which
he
accepted gratefully.
In a few short minutes the doorbell rang again. It was Peter Ford
and
his lawyer, a middle-aged, heavyset man known who introduced himself
as
Flemming. George had actually never seen Peter Ford in person and
was
surprised to discover that his angry, embittered voice seemed to
have
worked itself around to the outside of his face. He was short, dark
skinned and hairy. His eyebrows seemed to grow together in that way
that
suggested that his grandfather had spent most of his time painting
buffalo on the side of a cave wall. George thanked both men for
coming.
They seemed uncomfortable and said very little, neither seemed
interested
in George's food, although the lawyer accepted his offer of a cup of
coffee.
They sat in the living room of George's house in an uncomfortable
silence until the doorbell rang again. It was John Crane, who
arrived at
almost the same time as the Heinrich Gutsmitter, the representative
of
the Luxembourg consulate. George thanked them both for coming, and
asked
if Heinrich if he had had a long trip. Heinrich, who looked a little
like
a worn-out traveling salesmen, said through a thick German accent
that he
had flown into Hartford the night before.
Everyone did their best to be pleasant, making a few nice comments
about
the weather, which really was lovely regardless of who ended up with
the
painting. George found it interesting that everyone seemed to be
wearing
his or her Sunday best. He knew that at any minute these men would
start
tearing at each other like rabid wolves.
Phil showed up next, and Irene came last. She apologized for being
late,
George told her not to worry. Introductions were made all around.
After
everyone had taken a cup of coffee and an appetizer, George set out
to
business. He had prepared notes on 3 by 5 cards, so he wouldn't get
lost.
"Now," George began. "I asked each of you hear today in the hopes
that
we could settle the question of who owns this painting. My friends
and I
have done quite a bit of research into the subject, and I think we
can
clear this matter up."
"Mister Liddell?" Heinrich Gutsmitter asked. He seemed to George
like a
nervous man, the sort of person who would be more comfortable hiding
under his bed with a large bat and a picture of his mother. "I'm
sure we
can all agree that the subject is very complicated-"
"I'm sure we can." George halted him by holding up his hand. "I
believe
that we can clear up most of your questions in a few minutes. I
assume at
this point we all know that the this painting was owned at one
point, by
Francois Lemmer, who was the conductor of the Luxembourg City
Symphony,
and his wife, Dominique Moselle during the late 1930's. Mister
Lemmer was
Luxembourgian- Mister Gutsmitter, which is why you're here."
"That is correct," Gutsmitter said, reaching for the leather
briefcase
he had brought with him. "I have documents here-"
"We'll get to your documents in a moment," George interrupted. "Now
I
believe we can also agree that Mister Lemmer, who had given the
painting
to his wife, was a spy for the allied forces, and was taken prisoner
shortly after the Nazi's seized Luxembourg. He died in the
concentration
camps. I'm sure you have some sort of documentation of that as well
Mister Gutsmitter."
"Naturally," Gutsmitter replied. "We have reason to believe-"
"I believe we can clear up a good deal of the trouble involved with
the
painting if we take a moment to focus on how Lemmer ended up being
captured by the nazi's." George explained.
"I don't follow you," Gutsmitter looked confused. George smiled at
his
friends.
"Somehow the Nazi's found out some how that Lemmer was a spy."
George
continued without listening to him. "But how did they find out?"
Heinrich paused for a moment, without saying anything. "I don't
really
know-"
"The Nazi's didn't simply round up all the major conductors and
throw
them into concentration camps, did they? I think we can only assume
that
he had been black listed or something, which means they must have
found
out that he was a spy and arrested him."
"On this point, you are probably correct," Gutsmitter acknowledged.
"But
I don't see the relevance-"
"Well I do," George retorted smartly. "I believe my friend Stephen
here
can shed some light on that subject."
Stephen took his laptop computer, which was sitting on the chair
beside
him and swung it around. He picked up the computer and handed it to
Mister Gutsmitter. "You might want to take a look at that." He said
simply.
Heinrich studied the screen for a long time. He seemed very
confused.
"There must be some mistake."
"Pass it around," Stephen suggested.
Gutsmitter passed the computer to his left and it was handed around
the
room. The picture on the screen was that of a woman singing into an
old
fashioned microphone. Her left hand jutted out in an overly
emphatic
gesture. Behind her was a giant silk drape with a swastika on it
the
size of a parachute. Although the photo didn't have a caption on it,
there couldn't be any doubt who it was.
"That photo was taken in Vicci. Shortly after the German occupation
of
France," George explained. "Of course, that was after her husband
died.
Stephen also has evidence that she visited the German ambassador
twice
during the week before her husband was captured."
"Three times," Stephen corrected.
Heinrich stammered. "I see your point. But I-"
"She sold him out," George's voice had an unusually authoritative
tone.
"She was an agent of the Nazi's. That's how the Third Reich found
out he
was working for the allied forces."
"Just because she was a Nazi does not mean that the rightful
ownership
of the painting belongs to-"
"Nazis don't steal paintings from other nazis," George pointed out.
"And if the Nazis didn't take it from her, then she must have sold
it to
someone. Why, she needed to sell it, I don't know. Maybe she thought
that
she would need the money once her husband died, or maybe she thought
it
was just too dangerous to have in the house knowing what was going
to
happen to her husband. Whatever the reason she wanted to get rid of
it of
it fast, which meant she would have needed to cover her tracks so
that
her husband wouldn't know. So she took the painting and sold it to
the
Asp, who in turn, gave her a copy of the painting and a whole lot of
money"
"Moselle eventually died in California," Stephen added. "She hadn't
performed at the time of her death in almost twenty years. Even
though
her husband's estate was destroyed near the end of the war, she died
an
extremely rich woman, her fortune was left to the city of Half Moon
Bay
to start an opera house, which they named after her. We have the
documentation here. The only way she could have died that rich is
from
the sale of a major work of art."
"Lemmer had a very sizeable collection," Gutsmitter stammered. "I
believe we have proof that Miss Moselle sold a number of items in
New
York during the 1950's, the sum of which was not disclosed.
"That's true," Stephen added. "But nothing that Lemmer owned was
nearly
as valuable as the painting. It's the only item that could explain
the
wealth Moselle seemed to possess after the war."
"And the worst part," George said. "Is that you knew all of this."
Gutsmitter shook and said nothing. George went in for the kill.
"Show the page. Stephen."
Again, Stephen turned his laptop around so that Gutsmitter could
take a
closer look.
We retrieved most of this information from the library at the web
site
of the Université de Luxembourg," Stephen admitted. "It took about
twenty
minutes."
"Well," Gutsmitter said. "You have some very strong evidence here.
But I
think that this is really a matter for the courts to decide."
"Certainly," George said. "I'm sure that the courts would be more
than
happy to hear material about a prominent Luxembourg residents
working as
Nazi agents. In fact, we might be able to discover other parts of
Luxembourg society who cooperated with the Third Reich."
"You mean other informants?" Ph