Alex nodded. He would have liked to ask who Monty Kessler was, but had already learned when, and when not, to question Mr. Rosenthal.
* * *
When Alex came down to breakfast the following morning, he found Rosenthal halfway up the stairs, placing little red or yellow stickers on each picture on the wall.
“You’ll be glad to hear, Alex, that there are still seventy-one originals left in the collection, including some of the finest examples of Abstract Expressionism I’ve ever come across. However, I’m in no doubt that fifty-three are copies,” he said as the telephone rang.
“Long distance from Paris for Mr. Rosenthal,” said Caxton.
Rosenthal walked quickly down the stairs and took the phone. “Good afternoon, Pierre.” He said very little for the next few minutes, but never stopped scribbling on a pad by the phone. “I am most grateful,” he said finally. “I owe you one.” He laughed. “All right, two. And I’ll let you know the moment our shipment has left New York,” he added before putting down the phone. “I have the name of the French courier,” he announced. “A Monsieur Dominic Duval, who over the past five years has delivered a large number of different-sized crates to Mrs. Lowell-Halliday’s residence in Saint-Paul-de-Vence.”
“But if Pierre phones this Monsieur Duval,” said Alex, “won’t he contact Evelyn immediately?”
“Not if he wants to go on working for Pierre, he won’t. In any case, Pierre has already told him he has an even bigger consignment lined up for him, as long as he can keep his mouth shut.”
* * *
“There’s a
large, unmarked white van coming up the drive,” said Anna, as she looked out of the front window.
“That will be Monty,” said Rosenthal. “Caxton, would you be kind enough to open the front door for Mr. Kessler? And be prepared for an invasion of professional art thieves.”
“Of course, sir.”
Shortly afterward, a small fat balding man marched into the hallway, followed by his six associates, all dressed in black tracksuits with no logos, none of whom would have looked out of place in a boxing ring. Each carried a bag full of the equipment required by any self-respecting burglar.
“Good morning, Monty,” said Rosenthal. “I appreciate your coming at such short notice.”
“No trouble, Mr. Rosenthal. But I have to remind you that as it’s Saturday, we’re all on double time. Where do you want me to start?” he asked as he stood, hands on hips, in the middle of the hallway, and looked around at the paintings with the fondness of a doting father.
“I only want you to pack up the ones with yellow stickers on their frames. And once you’ve done that, I’ll tell you where they have to be delivered.”
Alex watched with admiration as the seven men fanned out and went about their task with efficiency and skill. While one of them removed a picture from the wall, another covered it in bubble wrap, and a third placed it in a crate ready to be stacked in the van. Mr. Rosenthal had faxed through the exact measurements the previous evening, and another team had worked through the night to have the crates ready in time. All of them on double time.
“They look as if they’ve done this before,” said Alex.
“Yes, Monty specializes in divorce and death. Wives who need to remove valuables after their husbands have left for work and before they return in the evening.”
Alex laughed. “And death?”
“Children who want to move paintings and furniture that they agreed with their parents wouldn’t be mentioned in the will. It’s a thriving business, and Monty is almost always on double time.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I need you to go to the bank and make sure everything is ready by the time Monty and his team turn up, which should be around four o’clock this afternoon. There’ll need to be someone waiting at the back door to accompany Monty to a secure vault that’s large enough to house seventy-one paintings. Once that’s done, please come straight back to the house.”
“And will the van also be returning to Beacon Hill?”
“Oh yes. After all, they will only have done half the job.”
“Then I’d better get going.” There were several questions Alex would have liked to ask Mr. Rosenthal, but he accepted that “need to know” must have been his family motto. As Alex left the house, the first picture was being loaded onto the van.
“And what would you like me to do, Mr. Rosenthal?” asked Anna.
“Double-check the inventory, and make sure they only pack those paintings with yellow stickers. Our real job won’t begin until they get back from the bank, when the remaining fifty-three pictures will be loaded onto the van and taken to New York.”
“But they’re only copies,” said Anna.