"Thank you."
"Larsen only had the place for eleven years and made wine for only nine. There's some older stuff that the old Italian made- the one he bought the place from. He knew what he was doing."
"Let's try a few bottles; I'll trust your judgment."
Saul Winner made a beeline for the Wylie oil. Standing there, his bag still in his hand, he laughed aloud. "The fucking charlatan," he said. "He'd never have tried this on in San Francisco; he'd have been exposed in a minute. I guess he thought Larsen was a hick, and since he was out of town, too-"
"Would you testify in court to that effect?" Sandy asked.
"In a minute; I'd love to see the bastard squirm while I discuss the points of technique that any remotely knowledgeable person would spot as deficient."
While Winner and his young companion, Nicky, were changing for dinner, Sandy called Larsen.
"Hello, Lars," he said. "How are you?"
"Very well, Sandy. Are you settling in?"
"We're very comfortable," Sandy said. "I had a question for you. You bought some pictures from a man named Peter Martindale, in San Francisco, didn't you?"
"Yes, a Wylie oil and a small landscape; I forget the other painter."
"Did you ever have them authenticated?"
"No, but Martindale gave me a certificate of authenticity."
"Oh, good; where might I find it?"
"I think it's in one of the drawers of the dining room sideboard," Larsen said.
"Did anyone ever mention to you that the Wylie might not be authentic?"
"No," Larsen said emphatically. "Do you have some reason to believe it's not?"
"Actually, I do. We have a houseguest who's an eminent painter, and he says Martindale rooked you."
"Well, I'll be damned," Larsen said. "I don't know anything about painting; I just trusted the fellow."
"What, may I ask, did you pay for it?" Sandy asked.
"Forty thousand; Martindale told me a few weeks ago that it's worth seventy-five now. Sandy, if you're convinced it's a fake, I'll be glad to reimburse you for its value, as stated in the inventory I gave you."
"Thank you, Lars, but I'd prefer it if Martindale reimbursed me. Will you join me in a lawsuit?"
"Damn right I will, and I'll share the costs, too. This really makes me angry. I'd like to knock that man's teeth down his throat."
"Please don't have any contact with Martindale," Sandy said. "Let me handle it from this end."
"Whatever you say, Sandy; tell the lawyers to send half the bills to me."
"Oh, I think we'll let Mr. Martindale foot the legal bills, Lars. I'll talk to you soon."
"I'm a closet representationalist," Saul Winner said over his third glass of cabernet. "For God's sake, don't ever quote me on that; they'd throw me out of half the museums and galleries in the country."
"Why?" Sandy asked. "I mean, lots of other modernists did representational work, especially in their early years."
"I've made sure that nobody can find something like that of mine," Winner said. "I'm on record as abhorring that sort of work, you know. Maybe in my golden years I'll shock the market by doing a landscape or two." He drank some more wine. "Are you really going to sue Peter, Sandy?"
"I am, and Larsen, to whom he sold the painting, is going to join me in the suit. Tell me, Saul, do you know somebody at the newspapers to whom we could leak the story?"
"Oh, boy, do I! I can promise you half the front page of the Sunday arts section!"
"Oh, good," Sandy said.
They were getting ready for bed when Cara spoke up. "Sandy, I don't understand; why do you want to get involved in a public brawl with Peter?"
"Because I'm sick of his threats," Sandy said. "He's said he would do all these things to me-harm my son, ruin my business, harm you. His threats carry weight, because we're not supposed to know each other-he could do these things without being suspected. When I drag him into the papers, he'll have a legitimate grudge against me, and that will neutralize at least half of his ability to hurt us. If something should happen to me or to you, he'd be the first suspect."
"It seems risky to me," she said, getting into bed. "Peter can be very vindictive.
"So can I," Sandy said.
CHAPTER 45
As soon as New York was open for business, Sandy called Sam Warren at the Mayfair Trust.
"Sam, I need another lawyer in San Francisco. Turns out that an art dealer sold Lars Larsen a picture that turns out to be a fake. It's the one in the inventory that's valued at seventy-five thousand dollars."
"Who's the dealer?" Warren asked.
"A man named Peter Martindale."
"Jesus Christ!" Warren exploded. "He sold me most of the stuff in our offices!"
"Well, my advice is to get somebody in and have everything you bought from Martindale authenticated." A bonus, Sandy thought, if one or more of Sam's pictures should turn out to be a fake. Then there'd be suits on both coasts.
"I'll certainly do that," Warren said.
"I want a very well-known lawyer, somebody of high repute, but somebody who'll nail Martindale to the wall. It wouldn't hurt if he enjoys a bit of publicity."
"Then you want Harry Keller; 'Killer Keller' they call him in the press. He's your man. Got a pencil?"
Sandy wrote down the name, address, and phone number. "Thank you so much, Sam, and will you let me know if any of your pictures are bogus?"
"I'll get right on that," Warren said.
Sandy hung up and turned to Cara. "Ever heard of this lawyer?" he asked, handing her the slip of paper.
"Killer Keller? You bet I have; so has everybody else west of the Mississippi. Oh, and he's in the same building with my lawyer; that makes things convenient."
"Let's start making some appointments," Sandy said.
They pulled into the private parking lot of Winthrop and Keys, and Sandy parked the car. "You mind if I come along with you?" Sandy asked. "My appointment isn't for another three-quarters of an hour."
"Sure; they have a comfortable waiting room."
They took the elevator upstairs, and when Cara was announced, she said to Sandy, "Why don't you come to my meeting? You might have some ideas about this."
"If you like."
They were shown down a hallway, past a number of empty offices, then greeted by a prosperous-looking man at his office door.
"Sandy, this is Mark Winthrop," Cara said. "Mark, this is Sandy Kinsolving; I've asked Sandy to come to this meeting; he might have some ideas about this trust."
"Glad to meet you Sandy," Winthrop said. "Cara, will you two have a seat and excuse me for a minute? My secretary and most of the office are still at lunch, so I'll have to find the file on this matter."
"Take your time," Cara said. When the lawyer had gone, Cara spoke in a low voice. "I've just remembered something. You said that Peter claimed to have left a letter incriminating you in his lawyer's safe?"
"That's what he said."
"Well, his lawyer is Keyes, and his office is just across the hall."
Sandy looked at her sharply. "Cara, we're not safecrackers."
"We don't have to be," she said. "I went to a meeting in Keyes's office with Peter once, and I saw him open his safe."
"Surely you can't remember the combination."
"I don't have to. You know those little panels that pull out of desks that stenographers used to use to rest their pads on?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Well, Paul Keyes pulled out that panel and read the combination to the safe from a little piece of paper he had taped there."
"Still, how are you going to-" He looked up as Mark Winthrop returned.
"Got it," Winthrop said, blowing dust off the file. "It's been a while since anyone had a look at it."
Sandy stood up. "Mark, excuse me, but I've just remembered that I have to make an important call to New York. Is there somewhere I could have some privacy?"
"Sure," Winthrop said. "Pick an empty office down the hall; everybody's at lunch."