The Complete Short Stories: Volume 2

I gestured helplessly. ‘It’s an amazing coincidence.’

Georg nodded. ‘Another is that this painting, like the Leonardo, was stolen shortly after being extensively cleaned. When it was recovered in Florence two years later it was slightly damaged, and no further attempts were made to restore the painting.’ Georg paused. ‘Do you see my point, Charles?’

‘More or less. I take it you suspect that if the Veronese were now cleaned a rather different version of Ahasuerus would be found. Veronese’s original depiction.’

‘Exactly. After all, the present treatment makes no sense. If you’re still sceptical, look at these others.’

Standing up, we began to go through the remainder of the photographs. In each of the others, the Poussin, Holbein, Goya and Rubens, the same figure was to be found, the same dark saturnine face regarding the cross with an expression of compassionate understanding. In view of the very different styles of the artists, the degree of similarity was remarkable. In each, as well, the pose was meaningless, the characterization completely at odds with the legendary role of Ahasuerus.

By now the intensity of Georg’s conviction was communicating itself to me physically. He drummed the desk with the palm of one hand. ‘In each case, Charles, all six paintings were stolen shortly after they had been cleaned – even the Holbein was looted from the Herman Goering collection by some renegade SS after being repaired by concentration camp inmates. As you yourself said, it’s almost as if the thief was unwilling for the world to see the true image of Ahasuerus’s character exposed and deliberately painted in these apologies.’

‘But Georg, you’re making a large assumption there. Can you prove that in each case, apart from the Leonardo, there is an original version below the present one?’

‘Not yet. Naturally galleries are reluctant to give anyone the opportunity to show that their works are not entirely genuine. I know all this is still hypothesis, but what other explanation can you find?’

Shaking my head, I went over to the window, letting the noise and movement of Bond Street cut through Georg’s heady speculations. ‘Are you seriously suggesting, Georg, that the black-robed figure of Ahasuerus is promenading somewhere on those pavements below us now, and that all through the centuries he’s been stealing and retouching paintings that represent him spurning Jesus? The idea’s ludicrous!’

‘No more ludicrous than the theft of the painting. Everyone agrees it could not have been stolen by anyone bounded by the laws of the physical universe.’

For a moment we stared at each other across the desk. ‘All right,’ I temporized, not wishing to offend him. The intensity of his idee fixe had alarmed me. ‘But isn’t our best plan simply to sit back and wait for the Leonardo to turn up again?’

‘Not necessarily. Most of the stolen paintings remained lost for ten or twenty years. Perhaps the effort of stepping outside the bounds of space and time exhausts him, or perhaps the sight of the original paintings terrifies him so –’ He broke off as I began to come forward towards him. ‘Look, Charles, it is fantastic, but there’s a slim chance it may be true. This is where I need your help. It’s obvious this man must be a great patron of the arts, drawn by an irresistible compulsion, by unassuageable feelings of guilt, towards those artists painting crucifixions. We must begin to watch the sale rooms and galleries. That face, those black eyes and that haunted profile – sooner or later we’ll see him, searching for another Crucifixion or Pieta. Cast your mind back, do you recognize that face?’

I looked down at the carpet, the image of the dark-eyed wanderer before me. Go quicker, he had taunted Jesus as he passed bearing the cross towards Golgotha, and Jesus had replied: I go, but thou shalt wait until I return. I was about to say ‘no’, but something restrained me, some reflex pause of recognition stirred through my mind. That handsome Levantine profile, in a different costume, of course, a smart dark-striped lounge suit, gold-topped cane and spats, bidding through an agent …

‘You have seen him?’ Georg came over to me. ‘Charles, I think I have too.’

I gestured him away. ‘I’m not sure, Georg, but … I almost wonder.’ Curiously it was the retouched portrait of Ahasuerus, rather than Leonardo’s original, which seemed more real, closer to the face I felt sure I had actually seen. Suddenly I pivoted on my heel. ‘Confound it, Georg, do you realize that if this incredible idea of yours is true this man must have spoken to Leonardo? To Michelangelo, and Titian and Rembrandt?’

Georg nodded. ‘And someone else too,’ he added pensively.

For the next month, after Georg’s return to Paris, I spent less time in my office and more in the sale rooms, watching for that familiar profile which something convinced me I had seen before. But for this undeniable conviction I would have dismissed Georg’s hypothesis as obsessive fantasy. I made a few tactful enquiries of my assistants, and to my annoyance two of them also vaguely remembered such a person. After this I found myself unable to drive George de Stael’s fancies from my mind. No further news was heard of the missing Leonardo – the complete absence of any clues mystified the police and the art world alike.

Consequently, it was with an immense feeling of relief, as much as of excitement, that I received five weeks later the following telegram:

CHARLES. COME IMMEDIATELY. I HAVE SEEN HIM.

GEORG DE STAEL.

This time, as my taxi carried me from Orly Airport to the Madeleine, it was no idle amusement that made me watch the Tuileries Gardens for any sight of a tall man in a black slouch hat sneaking through the trees with a rolled-up canvas under his arm. Was Georg de Stael finally and irretrievably out of his mind, or had he in fact seen the phantom Ahasuerus?

When he greeted me at the doorway of Normande et Cie his handshake was as firm as ever, his face composed and relaxed. In his office he sat back and regarded me quizzically over the tips of his fingers, evidently so sure of himself that he could let his news bide its time.

‘He’s here, Charles,’ he said at last. ‘In Paris, staying at the Ritz. He’s been attending the sales here of 19th and 20th century masters. With luck you’ll see him this afternoon.’

For once my incredulity returned, but before I could stutter my objections Georg silenced me.

‘He’s just as we expected, Charles. Tall and powerfully built, with a kind of statuesque grace, the sort of man who moves easily among the rich and nobility. Leonardo and Holbein caught him exactly, that strange haunted intensity about his eyes, the wind of deserts and great ravines.’

‘When did you first see him?’

‘Yesterday afternoon. We had almost completed the 19th century sales when a small Van Gogh – an inferior copy by the painter of The Good Samaritan – came up. One of those painted during his last madness, full of turbulent spirals, the figures like tormented beasts. For some reason the Samaritan’s face reminded me of Ahasuerus. Just then I looked up across the crowded auction room.’ Georg sat forward. ‘To my amazement there he was, sitting not three feet away in the front row of seats, staring me straight in the face. I could hardly take my eyes off him. As soon as the bidding started he came in hard, going up in two thousands of francs.’

‘He took the painting?’

‘No. Luckily I still had my wits about me. Obviously I had to be sure he was the right man. Previously his appearances have been solely as Ahasuerus, but few painters today are doing crucifixions in the bel canto style, and he may have tried to redress the balance of guilt by appearing in other roles, the Samaritan for example. He was left alone at 15,000 – actually the reserve was only ten – so I leaned over and had the painting withdrawn. I was sure he would come back today if he was Ahasuerus, and I needed twenty-four hours to get hold of you and the police. Two of Carnot’s men will be here this afternoon. I told them some vague story and they’ll be unobtrusive. Anyway, naturally there was the devil’s own row when this little Van Gogh was withdrawn. Everyone here thought I’d gone mad. Our dark-faced friend leapt up and demanded the reason, so I had to say that I suspected the authenticity of the painting and was protecting the reputation of the gallery, but if satisfied would put it up the next day.’

‘Clever of you,’ I commented.

Georg inclined his head. ‘I thought so too. It was a neat trap. Immediately he launched into a passionate defence of the painting – normally a man with his obvious experience of sale rooms would have damned it out of hand – bringing up all sorts of details about Vincent’s third-rate pigments, the back of the canvas and so on. The back of the canvas, note, what the sitter would most remember about a painting. I said I was more or less convinced, and he promised to be back today. He left his address in case any difficulty came up.’ Georg took a silver-embossed card from his pocket and read out: ‘“Count Enrique Danilewicz, Villa d’Est, Cadaques, Costa Brava.”’ Across the card was enscribed: ‘Ritz Hotel, Paris.’

‘Cadaques,’ I repeated. ‘Dali is nearby there, at Port Lligat. Another coincidence.’

‘Perhaps more than a coincidence. Guess what the Catalan master is at present executing for the new Cathedral of St Joseph at San Diego? One of his greatest commissions to date. Exactly! A crucifixion. Our friend Ahasuerus is once more doing his rounds.’

Georg pulled a leather-bound pad from his centre drawer. ‘Now listen to this. I’ve been doing some research on the identity of the models for Ahasuerus – usually some petty princeling or merchant-king. The Leonardo is untraceable. He kept open house, beggars and goats wandered through his studio at will, anyone could have got in and posed. But the others were more select. The Ahasuerus in the Holbein was posed by a Sir Henry Daniels, a leading banker and friend of Henry VIII. In the Veronese by a member of the Council of Ten, none other than the Doge-to-be, Enri Danieli – we’ve both stayed in the hotel of that name in Venice. In the Rubens by Baron Henrik Nielson, Danish Ambassador to Amsterdam, and in the Goya by a certain Enrico Da Nella, financier and great patron of the Prado. While in the Poussin by the famous dilettante, Henri, Duc de Nile.’

Georg closed the note-book with a flourish. I said: ‘It’s certainly remarkable.’

‘You don’t exaggerate. Danilewicz, Daniels, Danieli, Da Nella, de Nile and Nielson. Alias Ahasuerus. You know, Charles, I’m a little frightened, but I think we have the missing Leonardo within our grasp.’

Nothing was more disappointing, therefore, than the failure of our quarry to appear that afternoon.

The transfer of the Van Gogh from the previous day’s sales had fortunately given it a high lot number, after some three dozen 20th century paintings. As the bids for the Kandinskys and Legers came in, I sat on the podium behind Georg, surveying the elegant assembly below. In such an international gathering, of American connoisseurs, English press lords, French and Italian aristocracy, coloured by a generous sprinkling of ladies of the demi-monde, the presence of even the remarkable figure Georg had described would not have been over-conspicuous. However, as we moved steadily down the catalogue, and the flashing of the photographers’ bulbs became more and more wearisome, I began to wonder whether he would appear at all. His seat in the front row remained reserved for him, and I waited impatiently for this fugitive through time and space to materialize and make his magnificent entry promptly as the Van Gogh was announced.

As it transpired, both the seat and the painting remained untaken. Put off by Georg’s doubts as to its authenticity, the painting failed to reach its reserve, and as the last sales closed we were left alone on the podium, our bait untaken.

‘He must have smelled a rat,’ Georg whispered, after the attendants had confirmed that Count Danilewicz was not present in any of the other sale-rooms. A moment later a telephone call to the Ritz established that he had vacated his suite and left Paris for the south.

‘No doubt he’s expert at sidestepping such traps. What now?’ I asked.

‘Cadaques.’

‘Georg! Are you insane?’

‘Not at all. There’s only a chance, but we must take it! Inspector Carnot will find a plane. I’ll invent some fantasy to please him. Come on, Charles, I’m convinced we’ll find the Leonardo in his villa.’

We arrived at Barcelona, Carnot in tow, with Superintendent Jurgens of Interpol to smooth our way through customs, and three hours later set off in a posse of police cars for Cadaques. The fast ride along that fantastic coast line, with its monstrous rocks like giant sleeping reptiles and the glazed light over the embalmed sea, reminiscent of all Dali’s timeless beaches, was a fitting prelude to the final chapter. The air bled diamonds around us, sparkling off the immense spires of rock, the huge lunar ramparts suddenly giving way to placid bays of luminous water.

The Villa d’Est stood on a promontory a thousand feet above the town, its high walls and shuttered moorish windows glistening in the sunlight like white quartz. The great black doors, like the vaults of a cathedral, were sealed, and a continuous ringing of the bell brought no reply. At this a prolonged wrangle ensued between Jurgens and the local police, who were torn between their reluctance to offend an important local dignitary – Count Danilewicz had evidently founded a dozen scholarships for promising local artists – and their eagerness to partake in the discovery of the missing Leonardo.

Impatient of all this, Georg and I borrowed a car and chauffeur and set off for Port Lligat, promising the Inspector that we would return in time for the commercial airliner which was due to land at Barcelona from Paris some two hours later, presumably carrying Count Danilewicz. ‘No doubt, however,’ Georg remarked softly as we moved off, ‘he travels by other transport.’

What excuse we would make to penetrate the private menage of Spain’s most distinguished painter I had not decided, though the possibility of simultaneous one-man shows at Northeby’s and Galleries Normande might have appeased him. As we drove down the final approach to the familiar tiered white villa by the water’s edge, a large limousine was coming towards us, bearing away a recent guest.

Our two cars passed at a point where the effective width of the road was narrowed by a nexus of pot-holes, and for a moment the heavy saloons wallowed side by side in the dust like two groaning mastodons.

Suddenly, Georg clenched my elbow and pointed through the window.