could simply ignore the Pritchards. Why upset Heloise with their quirks? “You know, my sweet, I am often bored by people, some people. Bored enough to explode, sorry.” Before Heloise could ask another question, Tom said, “Excuse me,” and went to the lavatory off the front hall, where he washed his face in cold water, his hands with soap and water, and his nails with a brush. With M. Roger Lepetit, he would soon be in another atmosphere entirely. Tom and Heloise never knew which of them would come first for the half-hour with M. Roger, as he chose suddenly and with a polite smile, saying, “Alors, m’sieur” or, “Madame, s’il vous plait?”
M. Lepetit arrived a few minutes later, and after the usual pleasantries about the good weather, the garden in such fine condition, he gestured to Heloise with his rosy little smile, lifted a rather pudgy hand and said, “You, madame? Would you like to begin? Shall we?”
Tom kept in the background, still on his feet. He knew that Heloise did not mind his presence when she played, a fact that Tom appreciated. He would have detested the role of Harsh Critic. He lit a cigarette, stood behind the long sofa, and gazed at the Derwatt over the fireplace. Not a Derwatt, Tom reminded himself, but a Bernard Tufts forgery called Man in Chair. It was reddish-brown with some yellow streaks, and like all Derwatts had multiple outlines, often with darker strokes, which some people said gave them headaches; from a distance the images seemed lifelike, even slightly moving. The man in the chair had a brownish, apelike face, with an expression that could be described as thoughtful, but was by no means defined by clear-cut features. It was the restless (even in a chair), doubting, troubled mood of it which pleased Tom; that and the fact that it was a phony. It had place of honor in his house.
The other Derwatt in the living room was The Red Chairs, another medium-large canvas, of two small girls about ten years old, sitting on straight chairs in tense attitudes, with wide, frightened eyes. Again the reddish-yellow outlines of chairs and figures were tripled and quadrupled, and after a few seconds (Tom always thought, imagining a first view) the observer realized that the background could be flames, that the chairs might be on fire. What was that picture worth now? A six-figure sum in pounds, a high six-figure. Maybe more. It depended on who was auctioning it. Tom’s insurer was always upping his two paintings. Tom had no intention of selling them.
If the vulgar David Pritchard managed to blow all the forgeries, he could never touch The Red Chairs, of course, whose provenance was old and from London. Pritchard couldn’t stick his clumsy nose in and cause devastation, Tom thought. Pritchard had never heard of Bernard Tufts. The lovely measures of Franz Schubert gave Tom strength and heart, even though Heloise’s playing was not of concert standard: the intention, the respect for Schubert, was there, just as in Derwatt’s—no, Bernard Tufts’s—Man in Chair the respect for Derwatt had been there when Bernard painted it in Derwatt’s style.
Tom relaxed his shoulders, flexed his fingers and looked at his nails. All neat and proper. Bernard Tufts had never wanted to share in the profits, in the rising income of the false Derwatts, Tom recalled. Bernard had always accepted just enough to keep himself going in his studio in London.
If a type like Pritchard exposed the forgeries—how?—Bernard Tufts would also be exposed, Tom supposed, dead though he was. Jeff Constant and Ed Banbury would have to answer the question of who had been forging, and of course Cynthia Gradnor knew. The interesting question was, would she have enough respect for her former love Bernard Tufts not to betray him by name? Tom felt a curious and proud desire to do just that, protect the idealistic and childlike Bernard, who had finally died by his own hand (or action, jumping off a cliff in Salzburg) for his
M. Lepetit arrived a few minutes later, and after the usual pleasantries about the good weather, the garden in such fine condition, he gestured to Heloise with his rosy little smile, lifted a rather pudgy hand and said, “You, madame? Would you like to begin? Shall we?”
Tom kept in the background, still on his feet. He knew that Heloise did not mind his presence when she played, a fact that Tom appreciated. He would have detested the role of Harsh Critic. He lit a cigarette, stood behind the long sofa, and gazed at the Derwatt over the fireplace. Not a Derwatt, Tom reminded himself, but a Bernard Tufts forgery called Man in Chair. It was reddish-brown with some yellow streaks, and like all Derwatts had multiple outlines, often with darker strokes, which some people said gave them headaches; from a distance the images seemed lifelike, even slightly moving. The man in the chair had a brownish, apelike face, with an expression that could be described as thoughtful, but was by no means defined by clear-cut features. It was the restless (even in a chair), doubting, troubled mood of it which pleased Tom; that and the fact that it was a phony. It had place of honor in his house.
The other Derwatt in the living room was The Red Chairs, another medium-large canvas, of two small girls about ten years old, sitting on straight chairs in tense attitudes, with wide, frightened eyes. Again the reddish-yellow outlines of chairs and figures were tripled and quadrupled, and after a few seconds (Tom always thought, imagining a first view) the observer realized that the background could be flames, that the chairs might be on fire. What was that picture worth now? A six-figure sum in pounds, a high six-figure. Maybe more. It depended on who was auctioning it. Tom’s insurer was always upping his two paintings. Tom had no intention of selling them.
If the vulgar David Pritchard managed to blow all the forgeries, he could never touch The Red Chairs, of course, whose provenance was old and from London. Pritchard couldn’t stick his clumsy nose in and cause devastation, Tom thought. Pritchard had never heard of Bernard Tufts. The lovely measures of Franz Schubert gave Tom strength and heart, even though Heloise’s playing was not of concert standard: the intention, the respect for Schubert, was there, just as in Derwatt’s—no, Bernard Tufts’s—Man in Chair the respect for Derwatt had been there when Bernard painted it in Derwatt’s style.
Tom relaxed his shoulders, flexed his fingers and looked at his nails. All neat and proper. Bernard Tufts had never wanted to share in the profits, in the rising income of the false Derwatts, Tom recalled. Bernard had always accepted just enough to keep himself going in his studio in London.
If a type like Pritchard exposed the forgeries—how?—Bernard Tufts would also be exposed, Tom supposed, dead though he was. Jeff Constant and Ed Banbury would have to answer the question of who had been forging, and of course Cynthia Gradnor knew. The interesting question was, would she have enough respect for her former love Bernard Tufts not to betray him by name? Tom felt a curious and proud desire to do just that, protect the idealistic and childlike Bernard, who had finally died by his own hand (or action, jumping off a cliff in Salzburg) for his
Similar Books
