court to one man.
This man was the exact opposite of the chief of police, though. Because the chief of police, of course, tall as a tree, wiry build, snow-white hair—you might’ve thought, freshly imported from Argentina. And here in the the Haselsteiner Gallery, a nondescript, forty-year-old man at most, who was so small that you might’ve thought, so this is why starving artists are all hunchbacks, because they’re constantly having to bend down over him.
But I don’t wish to be unfair now—there weren’t only hunchbacks here—no, I should add: Brenner had never before seen so many beautiful and elegant people together in one place as he saw here in the Haselsteiner Gallery. And believe it or not, the most beautiful and elegant of them all first struck Brenner by the way he held his wineglass in front of his nose:
“How do you find Horvath?” Kaspar Krennek asked and pressed the wineglass into Brenner’s hand.
“I’m not looking for him.”
Somehow this answer reminded Kaspar Krennek of his father, the self-opinionated, post-War Hamlet, August Krennek. Needless to say, he didn’t tell Brenner this. Because that was perhaps a topic for the therapist next Tuesday, not for anart opening. And now he just smiled and said, “I’ve already closed on it.”
“You’ve got Horvath?”
“Two, in fact. The pencil drawing over there. And an etching in the other room. Because today I was able to stay in the bidding. In a month, though, the large sculptures that cost a fortune will be sold.”
“But you’ve got to watch out. Because a Horvath can disappear—just like that,” Brenner said and tasted the wine. But compared to the wine at the chief of police’s, this was pure hooch.
“It’s not exactly detrimental to the works that Horvath’s disappeared,” Kaspar Krennek laughed. “Before, I could’ve gotten my two prints for a tenth of the price.”
“That ought to make the collectors who’ve been buying them all along happy.”
“One collector above all,” Kaspar Krennek said. “The rubber manufacturer, Marko, has bought a couple million’s worth of Horvath’s works over the last few years. And in a month, he’ll sell them.”
“For ten times as much?”
“If they don’t go up even more.”
Brenner noticed that Kaspar Krennek kept looking over at the small nondescript man. But the man must have noticed it, too, because now he was excusing himself from his young onlookers and coming over to Krennek.
“May I introduce,” Kaspar Krennek said quite formally, because his good upbringing was getting the better of him again, “Nikolaus Marko, Austria’s most significant art collector today. My colleague, Herr Brenner.”
So my job as a private detective seems so lousy to him that he introduces me as a colleague, to be on the polite side
, Brenner thought. But then he moved on to other thoughts. Because Marko was saying to Kaspar Krennek, “It’s tragic how it’s always the case that a dead artist is worth more than a living one.”
“I’ve got to pat myself on the back,” Kaspar Krennek smiled. “Just today, I, too, bought my first two Horvath prints. Ten times the price is but a fair penalty.”
“A good purchase nevertheless,” Marko congratulated him. “There’s a lot of imagination in Horvath’s works. And you’re now in the fortunate position of being able to contribute something yourself. Your colleagues on the court are still making it difficult for us to get an official death certificate before the big exhibition next month.”
“Maybe he’s not dead at all,” Brenner said, meddling.
Art collector Marko looked at him, surprised, and said, “I pray you’re right. But I’d wager you’re wrong.”
“Praying and wagering,” Kaspar Krennek said, imitating Marko’s smile. The collector’s speech had been so slurred that the two words sounded practically the same.
“Praying and wagering.”
With each and every word, the Detective Inspector imagined the
This man was the exact opposite of the chief of police, though. Because the chief of police, of course, tall as a tree, wiry build, snow-white hair—you might’ve thought, freshly imported from Argentina. And here in the the Haselsteiner Gallery, a nondescript, forty-year-old man at most, who was so small that you might’ve thought, so this is why starving artists are all hunchbacks, because they’re constantly having to bend down over him.
But I don’t wish to be unfair now—there weren’t only hunchbacks here—no, I should add: Brenner had never before seen so many beautiful and elegant people together in one place as he saw here in the Haselsteiner Gallery. And believe it or not, the most beautiful and elegant of them all first struck Brenner by the way he held his wineglass in front of his nose:
“How do you find Horvath?” Kaspar Krennek asked and pressed the wineglass into Brenner’s hand.
“I’m not looking for him.”
Somehow this answer reminded Kaspar Krennek of his father, the self-opinionated, post-War Hamlet, August Krennek. Needless to say, he didn’t tell Brenner this. Because that was perhaps a topic for the therapist next Tuesday, not for anart opening. And now he just smiled and said, “I’ve already closed on it.”
“You’ve got Horvath?”
“Two, in fact. The pencil drawing over there. And an etching in the other room. Because today I was able to stay in the bidding. In a month, though, the large sculptures that cost a fortune will be sold.”
“But you’ve got to watch out. Because a Horvath can disappear—just like that,” Brenner said and tasted the wine. But compared to the wine at the chief of police’s, this was pure hooch.
“It’s not exactly detrimental to the works that Horvath’s disappeared,” Kaspar Krennek laughed. “Before, I could’ve gotten my two prints for a tenth of the price.”
“That ought to make the collectors who’ve been buying them all along happy.”
“One collector above all,” Kaspar Krennek said. “The rubber manufacturer, Marko, has bought a couple million’s worth of Horvath’s works over the last few years. And in a month, he’ll sell them.”
“For ten times as much?”
“If they don’t go up even more.”
Brenner noticed that Kaspar Krennek kept looking over at the small nondescript man. But the man must have noticed it, too, because now he was excusing himself from his young onlookers and coming over to Krennek.
“May I introduce,” Kaspar Krennek said quite formally, because his good upbringing was getting the better of him again, “Nikolaus Marko, Austria’s most significant art collector today. My colleague, Herr Brenner.”
So my job as a private detective seems so lousy to him that he introduces me as a colleague, to be on the polite side
, Brenner thought. But then he moved on to other thoughts. Because Marko was saying to Kaspar Krennek, “It’s tragic how it’s always the case that a dead artist is worth more than a living one.”
“I’ve got to pat myself on the back,” Kaspar Krennek smiled. “Just today, I, too, bought my first two Horvath prints. Ten times the price is but a fair penalty.”
“A good purchase nevertheless,” Marko congratulated him. “There’s a lot of imagination in Horvath’s works. And you’re now in the fortunate position of being able to contribute something yourself. Your colleagues on the court are still making it difficult for us to get an official death certificate before the big exhibition next month.”
“Maybe he’s not dead at all,” Brenner said, meddling.
Art collector Marko looked at him, surprised, and said, “I pray you’re right. But I’d wager you’re wrong.”
“Praying and wagering,” Kaspar Krennek said, imitating Marko’s smile. The collector’s speech had been so slurred that the two words sounded practically the same.
“Praying and wagering.”
With each and every word, the Detective Inspector imagined the
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