The Forgotten Painting by Gabriel Farago (best books for 8th graders txt) 📖

a shock, but we have to deal with the facts, and the facts tell us that we have an original and a fake, and we have to show beyond doubt which is which.’

‘And how are we going to do that?’ asked Dr Rosen.

‘I have an idea, but we must act quickly.’

‘Tell us, Jack’, said Celia, leaning forward.

‘First, you call your editor now and ask him to reply to Fuchs’ email.’

‘How?’

‘Like any reasonable paper would. Express interest in the matter but tell Fuchs that without additional substantiation the paper cannot take the matter further. You are throwing him a challenge, and I can promise you, he’ll go for it. The editor should then make him an offer.’

‘What kind of offer?’ interrupted Celia.

‘To send a journalist—you—to interview him at his home tomorrow.’

Celia looked at Jack, surprised. ‘Are you serious?’ she asked.

‘Absolutely.’

‘Just like that? He’s in Switzerland, for Christ’s sake.’

‘So? Leave the logistics to me. If he agrees to this, which I believe he will, we are halfway there.’

‘You seem pretty sure about all this’, said Krakowski.

‘I am. The most important thing at the moment is to keep this out of the public domain. Isis just paid thirty-five million for the painting, you just sold it, and the Rosen Foundation has received the proceeds. The last thing we need is some scandal hanging over this, with competing claims about authenticity flying back and forth and, God forbid, ending up in court. Also, I believe Isis must be told about all this now. I will go and talk to her after dinner.’

Krakowski kept staring at Jack, a worried look on his face as the magnitude of the dilemma began to sink in.

‘Don’t look so glum’, said Jack, turning to face Krakowski. ‘For what it’s worth, I have no doubt we have the original painting. We just have to convince Fuchs that this is so.’

‘And how exactly are we going to do that?’ asked Celia, shaking her head.

‘Ah. Here comes our main course now’, said Jack. ‘You know how it works: tucker first, strategy later.’

Arrogance and Pride

Jack met Celia in front of her hotel early the next morning. ‘Your editor sent the email?’ he asked.

‘Exactly as you suggested.’

‘And?’

‘You were right. Fuchs agreed to the interview at once, just as you predicted.’

‘The old bugger can’t help himself. This is all a great adventure for him, can’t you see? A lonely old man at the end of his life feeling important, most likely for the last time. We are giving him exactly what he craves: attention. He can’t resist it.’

‘Well played, Jack; I’m impressed. Fuchs expects me sometime today. I have his phone number. Pray tell me, how am I going to get there in time?’

‘That’s the easy bit’, said Jack, brushing Celia’s concerns aside.

‘You’ve managed to book a flight?’ she asked hopefully.

‘No need. We don’t need tickets.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘You will in a moment. Let’s go.’

‘Where are we going?’

Jack was enjoying himself. ‘To the airport of course,’ he said, ‘where else?’

The taxi dropped them at the terminal reserved for private planes. ‘Here we are’, said Jack, and paid the cabbie.

‘You chartered a plane?’ asked Celia, her eyes wide with astonishment.

‘No need; we have our own.’

‘You lost me ...’

‘Ah, here she comes.’

‘Who?’

‘Lola; our pilot.’

Jack had spent the entire night with Isis discussing the situation, and together, they hammered out a plan of attack. Isis placed Pegasus—her private jet—at Jack’s disposal, which took care of the logistical considerations involved. Lola was delighted. She hadn’t flown the plane for quite some time and was keen to get her hands on the controls and take to the air. Pegasus was always on standby, day or night, and could be prepared for take-off within a couple of hours.

‘Have you been in one of these before?’ asked Jack, following Celia into the cockpit.

‘No; this is amazing.’

‘Then you are in for a treat. You sit behind Lola.’

Lola was in her element. Flying was her passion because to her, it meant freedom. Strapped into the seat behind her, Celia watched her prepare the jet for take-off. Fascinated by Lola’s ability to manipulate the aircraft’s sophisticated controls, she listened to the instructions coming from the traffic control tower as the jet taxied slowly along the runway. With excitement and a little fear churning in her stomach, Celia felt like a co-pilot sitting in a fighter jet, ready to take off and roar into battle. A few moments after the A380 in front of them had disappeared into the morning mist, traffic control gave Pegasus permission to take off.

‘Here we go’, said Lola, her hand on the throttle.

Celia had never before experienced such power in an aircraft. Pressed into the seat by the breathtaking acceleration of the jet, Celia felt a great sense of exhilaration gripping every fibre of her tense body. It was a wonderful feeling of freedom. ‘Wow!’ Celia cried out, gripping the arms of her seat as the plane left the ground and rapidly began to climb.

As soon as the plane reached cruising altitude and levelled out, Lola turned to the co-pilot sitting next to her. ‘Okay Joe, she’s all yours’, she said, unclipping her seatbelt and getting out of her seat.

‘Come, Celia,’ said Lola, ‘let’s go to the back. It’s a little more comfortable there. The weather forecast is good, and we should get some great views of the Alps before we land in Bern. I have arranged for a hire car to take us to Gstaad. Should only take us a bit over an hour.’

‘Just like the good old days’, said Jack, leaning back in his comfortable seat. ‘Lola and I have been around the world in this little beauty, haven’t we Lola?’

‘Sure have. And we had quite an adventure taking off in Mogadishu. Only just made it—’

‘That was after the sinking of the Calypso, the Blackburn flagship, wasn’t it?’ interrupted Celia excitedly. ‘It’s all in your book—The Hidden Genes of Professor K.’

‘It is’, said Jack.

‘And you gave that fateful news conference at Heathrow after you arrived from Somalia. I was there!’

‘Small world, isn’t it Lola’, said Jack, and kissed Lola on the cheek. ‘Now, let’s get down to business. This is a short flight’, continued Jack. ‘Listen carefully; this is our plan of attack.’

 

Fuchs watched the black hire car pull into the driveway below his window. It was just after noon. He adjusted his binoculars and watched the driver open the rear door of the limousine; a young woman got out of the back seat and looked up.

Ah, Miss Crawford. Right on time, thought Fuchs, well pleased with the effect his email had had in such a short time. For the first time in years, he felt a sense of excitement and control he thought he would never experience again. Once more, he was pulling the strings, and Fuchs was a cunning puppeteer who could make people dance to his will to get what he wanted.

Fuchs turned his wheelchair around to face the door and watched the young woman walk slowly towards him. ‘Miss Crawford’, said Fuchs, extending his hand. ‘You are much younger than I imagined.’ Celia walked over to the old man and shook his hand. It felt like old parchment; dry and flaky. ‘Good of you to come, and so quickly. Very impressive.’

‘Thank you, Herr Fuchs,’ replied Celia, giving the old man her best smile, ‘for the opportunity to meet you.’

Despite the wheelchair, at ninety-five, Fuchs was still an impressive man. Impeccably dressed in a white shirt, blue blazer and grey slacks, he obviously took great care with his appearance. A shock of white hair, neatly parted in the middle, and gold-rimmed glasses gave him a studious look, like a retired university professor. But most striking of all were his eyes: clear and ice-blue, they radiated intelligence and danger.

‘Shall we sit by the painting?’ suggested Fuchs. ‘It’s just over there.’

Celia followed Fuchs across the room. Fuchs didn’t believe in polite chitchat and decided instead to come straight to the point.

‘What do you think?’ he asked, and pointed to the painting.

Celia was stunned. The striking painting looked exactly like the one she had seen at the auction. The only difference appeared to be the frame, which was far more elaborate. Displayed on a small table in front of the painting was a piece of yellowish paper; obviously the receipt.

‘Extraordinary’, said Celia, genuinely surprised.

‘Your article that first alerted me to all this the other day was excellent, Miss Crawford. I like your style. Good journalism; quite rare these days.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Since then, my secretary has obtained a full transcript of what Mr Krakowski and Mr Rogan had to say at the auction. You can assume that I am familiar with all that.’

‘What do you think of the painting’s provenance?’ asked Celia, coming straight to the point. She sensed that Fuchs would like that. He did.

‘Impressive, and convincing, if it weren’t for this.’ Fuchs picked up the piece of paper on the table in front of him and handed it to Celia. ‘I bought the original painting in 1943 from Berenger Krakowski; here’s the proof.’

‘With respect, what makes you so sure it is the original?’ asked Celia quietly.

‘I understand, of course, where you are coming from. Firstly, I know art, Miss Crawford. In my considered opinion, this is a genuine Monet. However, there is more. The circumstances of the purchase.’

‘Please explain.’

‘The painting was offered for sale in the Warsaw Ghetto in 1942. Those were desperate times, Miss Crawford. For a man like Krakowski living in the ghetto with his family, selling a fake to the authorities would have been a death sentence; unthinkable.’

‘You seem very sure about all this.’

‘I am.’

Arrogance, thought Celia. She realised that the next part was the tricky bit and she had to proceed with caution. ‘I don’t quite know how to put this, Herr Fuchs, but for my paper to take this further, we need more.’

‘What do you mean?’ snapped Fuchs.

‘The painting sold at the auction was examined by a team of leading experts, and unanimously pronounced to be a genuine Monet. You also claim to have the genuine article …’ Celia paused, collecting her thoughts. ‘Obviously, both cannot be right, can they?’

‘Are you suggesting this is a forgery?’ demanded Fuchs, squirming in his wheelchair.

‘Certainly not, but you must understand it isn’t for me to say.’

‘No, of course not. Forgive me. So, where to from here?’

‘My paper has a proposal.’

‘Oh?’

‘It is willing to engage Professor Moreau—who is, as you are no doubt aware, the leading authority on Monet’s work—to come here and examine the painting.’

‘And he has agreed to this? Moreau has agreed to come here?’

‘Yes. My paper has already been in touch with him and he is prepared to take on the assignment, should you agree. As you know, he examined the painting sold at the auction, and is therefore very interested in having a look at this one. “A unique situation”, I think he called it. He lives in Paris, but we could have him brought here tomorrow should that be convenient.’

‘How extraordinary’, said Fuchs, running his fingers nervously through his hair. ‘Moreau coming here to examine my painting.’

Pride, thought Celia. Got ya!

‘I have nothing to fear, Miss Crawford. I am happy to agree to the arrangement, but with one proviso.’

‘Yes?’

‘That you write an article about the findings, and give it the prominence it deserves in your paper.’

‘Agreed’, said Celia. ‘After all, that’s what this is all about.’

‘Splendid. Now, let’s have some tea, shall we?’

 

The Examination

For