“Brian thought it was probably one person who painted all the fakes.”
“I would agree with that.”
“How does that work from a business viewpoint?”
“What do you mean?”
“The painter obviously wasn’t selling directly to my clients,” she said.
“Of course not. He or she would have worked through a gallery or an agent.”
“And produced the works to order?”
“Probably not specifically, I would think. I mean, I can’t imagine the agent saying, ‘Give me a Monet Water Lilies.’ He might say, ‘Give me a Monet, two Derains, and a Matisse,’ and then let the artist sort it out.”
“For a fee?”
“Absolutely.”
“A large fee?”
“No, I can’t imagine it would be for a huge sum of money. Most of these people are anxious for work, any kind of work, normally to subsidize their own art. At least, that’s the way it was for men like de Hory and Myatt.”
“What kind of people were they?”
“Talented. Amazingly talented, most of them, but for some reason their own art just never took hold, never gripped the public’s imagination. So to make a living and to be able to afford to keep painting their own work, they would knock off a Chagall and have someone flog it for them.”
“Knock off?”
“Wrong choice of words, actually, a bit of a disservice to them. How about they would create a work in the style of Chagall?”
“But you think in this case the fakes were actually commissioned?”
“Yes, as I said, in this case that makes sense.”
“Are the galleries and agents that unscrupulous?”
“My God, that hardly begins to describe them.”
“I wouldn’t have thought — ”
“Ms. Lee, beneath the suave veneer of most art agents is a twisted, demented soul willing to sell his crippled mother into whoredom if the price is right.”
“I was going to ask if you had a list of galleries and agents who might do this kind of thing.”
“Open the New York phone book, find the heading ‘Art Galleries,’ and use every name on it as your initial list. Then get a Paris phone book, a London phone book — ”
“I get it.”
“Sorry. I wish I could be more helpful in that regard.”
“No, that’s okay. I’m not sure what I was expecting.”
“So what’s next?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not much of anything,” Ava said. “Those paintings you’re examining, when will you be done?”
“Not sure. I have a heavy workload and they aren’t at the top of my list right now.”
“That’s honest.”
“I try.”
“Me too.”
“Look, you can call me anytime if you have questions, but frankly I think this is a bit of a wild goose chase.”
“So it seems. Well, thanks anyway.”
She hung up and looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was going on six o’clock. I should check in with Uncle, she thought.
“ Wei. ”
“Hi, Uncle, it’s Ava.”
“Ava, about that accounting firm — I have a name and phone number for you,” Uncle said. “The woman’s name is Grace Chan, she works for Landmark, and she did the books for Great Wall Antiques for ten years,” he said, then recited the number.
“I’ll call her now.”
“Someone will have told her your name.”
“Thank you, Uncle.” Ava hung up and then dialled the number Uncle had given her.
Grace Chan answered the phone with a brisker “ Wei ” than Uncle’s. “Ms. Chan, my name is Ava Lee.”
“My boss said you’d be calling.”
“Thanks for taking my call. Ms. Chan, I’m told you did the books for Great Wall Antiques for at least ten years.”
“I did, until Mr. Kwong died.”
“I’m looking for some information that might help me resolve a problem. It doesn’t involve Landmark in any way, and I don’t think it actually involves Mr. Kwong either,” Ava said. “Some years ago, Kwong broadened his business to include paintings, specifically paintings for the Wong family in Wuhan.”
“He did.”
“Could you go through the records you have and pull out everything associated with those transactions?”
“There aren’t many of them.”
“Then that shouldn’t be difficult.”
“The files are in our Hong Kong office. I live in Tai Wai Village and work mainly from home.”
“Tai Wai in the New Territories?”
“Yes, past Sha Tin, on the way to the Chinese border.”
“Can you get to the office tomorrow?”
There was a long pause.
“I have been authorized by my clients to pay consulting fees,” Ava said. “Would two thousand dollars make it easier for you?”
“The office doesn’t open until nine, and it will take me a while to find the files and go through them,” she said quickly.
“So what time?”
“Eleven.”
“See you then.”
(10)
Ava got to the Landmark office an hour early, hoping Grace Chan had already located the files she needed. The receptionist asked her to take a seat while she called Ms. Chan. A minute later a diminutive Chinese woman in a plain white dress buttoned to the collar and falling below her knees walked into the area. Her grey hair was cut in a pageboy. Ava thought the hairstyle a curious choice for a woman who looked as if she was in her fifties.
“Ava?”
“Yes. I’m sorry if I’m a little early. I was rather anxious to see what you have.”
“Not to worry, your timing is actually quite good. Come with me.”
Ava followed Chan to the boardroom, where three files were laid out side by side on the table. “Those are his annual financial statements and tax returns,” Chan said, pointing to the stack. “I separated the paintings transactions into these three files to make it easier for you.”
“Three files. Three transactions?”
“No, five. Two each in two years and one in another year.”
“There were twenty transactions.”
“I have records for five, that’s all.”
“Let’s look at them,” Ava said, knowing there was no point in arguing.
She sat next to Chan, who opened the first file. “Kwong paid $1.5 million for this painting from a gallery in Paris. Actually, he didn’t technically pay. He negotiated a price, invoiced the Wongs, took their payment, deducted a commission of five percent, and then forwarded the balance of the money to the seller. The seller then sent the painting to Kwong. He used the same procedure for all five of the paintings I have records for.”
“That was trusting of the Wongs,” Ava said.
“Kwong wasn’t a fool,” Chan said. “Why would he risk making an enemy of one of the most powerful men in China?”
Ava leafed through the paperwork. Chan had grouped it in chronological order, making it easy to follow. The procedure she had described for the first painting had been repeated four more times. Each had a different seller. “So he was acting as a broker, a middle man. He never had actual possession of any of these paintings.”
“That’s the case.”
Ava worked through the files again, noting the dates, the artists, the paintings. Then she opened her notebook and compared them against her list. Chan’s files documented three of the five paintings Torrence judged to be genuine; the other two were on his questionable list. She guessed those two were going to pass muster.
“I have a problem,” Ava said to Chan. “Our records show that the Wongs bought twenty paintings from Great Wall, not five.”
“This is all I have.”
“Could you leave me alone with these other files for a little while?” Ava asked, pointing to the stack.
“Certainly. I’m borrowing an office two doors down. Come and get me when you’re done.”
Grace Chan was a good accountant. Ava found it easy to go through a year of business at Great Wall. The income statements and balance sheets were clear and concise, the backup was referenced. It wasn’t much of a business, not in ceramics anyway. The first year she examined had sales of less than HK$2 million — about US$300,000 — and after a myriad of expenses the company was US$20,000 in the red. It was only with the commission on the Wong sale that the company had made any profit.