“So, Ms. Lee, you represent a Hong Kong firm?”
“I do.”
“We haven’t done much business in Hong Kong. Japan has been kinder to us as a market.”
He has a lovely voice, she thought. And he paces his words quite carefully. “I don’t mean to be impolite, but I was actually expecting to see Mr. Glen Hughes,” Ava said.
“My brother is no longer associated with this part of the business,” he said calmly.
“I see.”
“I assure you, whatever gallery business you were planning to discuss with him, you can discuss with me.”
“I’m not so sure that’s true.”
He looked quizzical. “Ms. Lee, you are sounding mysterious.”
“I’m sorry, this is awkward.”
“Awkward? That’s rather a strange word. It’s paintings you’re here to discuss, I presume.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Then there’s no reason to feel awkward. That is my business, after all.”
He said it matter-of-factly, and Ava responded in kind. “I was going to talk to your brother about the Fauvist art he’s been commissioning over the past ten years or so, the art he sold through the Great Wall Antiques and Fine Art Gallery in Hong Kong.”
“The most recent piece of Fauvist art was painted in about 1910, Ms. Lee.”
“I am aware of that. This gallery commissioned the works. They were fakes, of course, designed to mislead my client.”
“This gallery did no such thing,” Hughes said, his voice calm but his eyes hardening as he looked across the desk at her.
“I have a signed statement from one of the artists who was paid to paint them, and I have copies of correspondence between your brother and the painter discussing the project. The correspondence from your end is on gallery stationery.”
She sat back, waiting for a reaction. Instead he said, in the same even tone, “What foul weather has brought you and word of my brother to my door?”
“Your standard London rain.”
He smiled. “Would it bother you if I asked to see the correspondence?”
“No, I brought it with me,” she said, opening her bag. She passed him a set of copies.
“Can you give me a moment alone with these?”
She hesitated.
“I’m not going to do a runner out the back door,” he said.
Ava stepped into the hallway, trying to focus on the art that was hung haphazardly on every wall. But she couldn’t get her mind off the fact that it was Edwin Hughes she was speaking to and not Glen.
“You can come back in now,” Edwin said after a few minutes.
When she sat down, he put his feet up on the desk and pushed back, his hands clasped behind his neck. She noticed the shoes — gorgeous brown leather wingtips. “First of all, Ms. Lee, if this correspondence is in any way genuine, and if the charges you’re making have any substance to them at all, then you need to be talking to my brother and not me.”
“The correspondence is on gallery stationery.”
“So you’ve said. And what does that mean? Someone stole or copied our stationery?”
“Your brother’s signature is on those letters.”
“So you claim,” he said. “And if it is, so what? He was commissioning work on his behalf, not the gallery’s.”
“He was representing the gallery, the business,” she said.
“Don’t dare to presume that you understand the nature of our business,” Hughes said, his tone rising just slightly. “My brother and I each had our own arrangements. Not everything we did was in tandem.”
“He was representing the gallery,” she insisted.
“I won’t acknowledge that because it is completely untrue.”
“The letters — ”
“The letters are utter rubbish,” he said. “They don’t make any mention of fakes or forgeries. The last one, in fact, makes it very clear that he was commissioning copies for a client who knew what he was buying.” He paused. “Now here I am defending my brother, when that really isn’t my intent.”
“Then what is your intent?”
“To tell you that neither I nor this gallery had anything to do with whatever this is.”
“My client may think otherwise.”
“And what? Sue? Based on those letters? Go ahead.”
“A lot of money was spent on those forgeries.”
“And where is that money? I assure you, it isn’t in our bank account.”
“No, it’s in a numbered account in Liechtenstein.”
He paused, and Ava saw the first flicker of something other than confidence in his eyes.
“I know of no such account.”
“Who would?”
“Talk to my brother.”
“I’d love to. Where can I find him?”
“In New York.”
“You have a gallery in New York?”
“No, he has an office in New York. A few years ago we restructured the business and he opted to go to North America.”
Ava thought of the Google entries that were all more than two years old. “Two years ago?”
“Yes, about then.”
“There was no mention of his leaving the business in the research I did.”
“We saw no reason to make a fuss about it. We did it quietly.”
“And I didn’t see any reference to him in any new business.”
“He’s set himself up as a private art consultant, and he’s arrogant enough to believe that he doesn’t need to advertise his wares. He thinks those who need him will find him.”
“And how would I find him?”
“Ms. Lee, you surely don’t need my help to do that.”
“I imagine not.”
“But I have to tell you that when you do find him, you’ll get a very similar reaction to mine, though perhaps less polite. My brother has never been afraid to use lawyers, and if you even suggest any impropriety on his part he’ll have them down your neck.”
“What about unwanted publicity?”
“He couldn’t care less.”
“And you?”
He put his foot on the letters on the desk and slid them back to her with the heel of his shoe. “Good luck with my brother,” he said.
(19)
Ava was led to the Church Street entrance, where Lisa returned her umbrella. She felt as if she were being deposited on the street like trash.
The rain had let up, easing into a whippy drizzle. She walked back to the hotel, returned the umbrella to the concierge, and went directly to her room. The maid had been there already. The bathroom was sparkling, the bed was made, and a package of bonbons was resting on her pillow. There was still almost half a bottle of wine from the night before. Ava poured herself a glass and sat by the window.
She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so incompetent. At the very least, she should have been prepared for the possibility of meeting Edwin Hughes instead of, or even with, Glen Hughes. Ava took pride in being organized for meetings, prepared for any eventuality. How could I have made such a mess of this one? she thought. I didn’t do enough research. She should have confirmed which Hughes she was going to meet. She should have known the brothers had split. She should have known enough about their characters to know how to squeeze them. Instead she went in ill-prepared, with no discernible strategy other than waving around letters she already knew were open to too many interpretations.
Ava then thought about Edwin Hughes. He had been so calm, so sure of himself, that she found herself believing almost everything he had said, including the fact that her threat to sue him or his brother or the gallery didn’t concern him. She hadn’t intimidated him; she hadn’t even mildly rattled him. The only time he seemed interested in what she was saying was when she mentioned the bank account, and then he had basically thrown her out of his office. She thought of him shoving her letters across the desk to her with his foot.
The real question was whether or not Edwin had anything to do with the Fauvist scam. On balance, she thought that he hadn’t. There had been only one signature on the letters sent to Sorensen, and that belonged to Glen Hughes.
The bottom line was that she didn’t have any leverage, even in theory, if the Hughes brothers were prepared to withstand lawsuits and bad publicity. And that was assuming that May Ling and Changxing would agree to sue. She felt, despite May’s claim, that Wong never would. His face was worth more than $70 million.