“That would, of course, mean a far lower premium,” interjected Jackson. “That’s assuming our security boys consider the painting is adequately protected.”
“Just stay where you are, Mr. Jackson, and you can decide for yourself if it’s adequately protected.”
Fenston walked to the door, entered a six-digit code on the keypad next to the light switch, and left the room. The moment the door closed behind him, a metal grille appeared from out of the ceiling and eight seconds later was clamped to the floor, covering the Van Gogh. At the same time, an alarm emitted an ear-piercing sound that would have caused even Quasimodo to seek another vocation.
Jackson quickly pressed the palms of his hands over his ears and turned around to see that a second grille had already barred his exit from the only door in the room. He walked across to the window and looked down at the midgets hurrying along the sidewalk below. A few seconds later, the alarm stopped and the metal grilles slid up into the ceiling. Fenston marched back into the room, looking pleased with himself.
“Impressive,” said Jackson, the sound of the alarm still reverberating in his ears. “But there are still a couple of questions I will need answered,” he added. “How many people know the code?”
“Only two of us,” said Fenston, “my chief of staff and myself, and I change the sequence of numbers once a week.”
“And that window,” said Jackson, “is there any way of opening it?”
“No, it’s double-glazed bulletproof glass, and even if you could break it, you’d still be thirty-two stories above the ground.”
“And the alarm . . .”
“Connected directly to Abbott Security,” said Fenston. “They have an office in the building and guarantee to be on this floor within two minutes.”
“I’m impressed,” said Jackson. “What we in the business call triple-A, which usually means the premium can be kept down to one percent or, in real terms, around two hundred thousand dollars a year.” He smiled. “I only wish the Norwegians had your foresight, Mr. Fenston, and then perhaps we wouldn’t have had to pay out so much on The Scream.”
“But can you also guarantee discretion in these matters?” Fenston asked.
“Absolutely,” Jackson assured him. “We insure half the world’s treasures, and you wouldn’t find out who our clients are, were you to break into our headquarters in the City of London. Even their names are coded.”
“That’s reassuring,” said Fenston. “Then all that needs to be done is for you to complete the paperwork.”
“I can do that,” said Jackson, “just as soon as Mr. Savage confirms a value of twenty million for the painting.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” said Fenston, turning his attention to Chris Savage, who was staring intently at the picture. “After all, he’s already assured us that the Wentworth Van Gogh is worth nearer one hundred million.”
“The Wentworth Van Gogh most certainly is,” said Savage, “but not this particular piece.” He paused before turning round to face Fenston. “The only part of this work of art that’s original is the frame.”
“What do you mean?” said Fenston, staring up at his favorite painting as if he’d been informed that his only child was illegitimate.
“I mean just that,” said Savage. “The frame is original, but the painting is a fake.”
“A fake?” repeated Fenston, hardly able to get the words out. “But it came from Wentworth Hall.”
“The frame may well have come from Wentworth Hall,” said Savage, “but I can assure you that the canvas did not.”
“How can you be so sure,” demanded Fenston, “when you haven’t even carried out any tests?”
“I don’t need to carry out any tests,” said Savage emphatically.
“Why not?” barked Fenston.
“Because the wrong ear is bandaged,” came back the immediate reply.
“No it’s not,” insisted Fenston, as he stared up at the painting. “Every schoolchild knows that Van Gogh cut off his left ear.”
“But not every schoolchild knows that he painted the self-portrait while looking in a mirror, which is why the right ear is bandaged.”
Fenston slumped down into the chair behind his desk, with his back to the painting. Savage strolled forward and began to study the picture even more closely. “What puzzles me,” he added, “is that although the painting is undoubtedly a fake, someone has put it into the original frame.” Fenston’s face burned with anger. “And I must confess,” continued Savage, “that whoever painted this particular version is a fine artist.” He paused. “However, I could only place a value of ten thousand on the work, and perhaps—”he hesitated “—a further ten thousand on the frame, which w
ould make the suggested premium of two hundred thousand seem somewhat excessive.” Fenston still didn’t respond. “I am sorry to be the bearer of such bad news,” concluded Savage, as he walked away from the picture and came to a halt in front of Fenston. “I can only hope that you haven’t parted with a large sum, and, if you have, you know who is responsible for this elaborate deception.”
“Get me Leapman,” Fenston screamed at the top of his voice, causing Tina to come running into the room.