Frame-Up Read online

  My ultimate destination was my own hotel, the Chesterfield. A block short, I could not resist a left turn into a warm, dry pub. We found a table in the back where the noise level let us talk but not be overheard. I settled the professor into a seat while I went to the bar. I prescribed a brandy for the professor and five fingers of the Famous Grouse for me.

  I gave us time to medicate before beginning a conversation. Three fingers into the Grouse, a spurious thought crossed my mind. Wouldn’t this be the darndest time to actually ask him to reconsider the B he gave me in History of Art 102?

  I resisted.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The pub was beginning to pulse with the after-office-hours clientele. New arrivals gave dripping evidence of the heavy rainfall. The professor and I huddled in our remote corner, nestling the Grouse and brandy in our increasingly warm little mitts.

  I was reasonably confident that the panic had passed, unless, of course, the professor’s two Slavic visitors chose this out of all of the pubs in London.

  They were clearly pros, which led me to believe that they undoubtedly waited around to hear the resounding percussion of their handiwork. I had called for the ambulance to give them one last visual indication that the shotguns had found their target, i.e., the professor. With that satisfaction, hopefully they had moved on to other duties.

  I finally had what I wanted — a one-on-one with Professor Denisovitch, he being in a mood to open the store.

  “Professor, you might have missed the introduction. My name’s Michael Knight. Why I’m here is a long story. You don’t need to hear it right now. Let’s cut to the chase. First point. Your life is in danger, do we agree?”

  He looked up from the brandy and nodded.

  “Young man, how did you know—?”

  “Michael, professor. Michael Knight. Ordinarily I wouldn’t care, but I think we’re going to be in close contact for a while.”

  “Yes, Mr. Knight. How did you know—?”

  “That’s part of the long story. I don’t want to be rude, but we have a lot to cover in what could be a short time. My second point. I believe your life is in danger because you probably authenticated a painting by Vermeer. You did it for another former student, John McKedrick. You probably didn’t know that John was working for one of the big shots in the New England Mafia. What I’m saying is you’re dealing with some dangerous people. I think you’re convinced, correct?”

  He just nodded his head slowly.

  “How did I bring this on myself?”

  “A more important question is how you’re going to get out of it. If I’m going to be able to help you, I need information. I need to know every detail you can think of regarding this Vermeer deal.”

  The professor finished the brandy before beginning an account that I could hardly believe. Apparently John approached him and commissioned him to paint a copy of the Vermeer canvas that had been stolen from a Boston museum. When it was finished, John demanded that he authenticate his painting as the genuine Vermeer. He even brought threats to bear on the lives of the professor’s family if he refused.

  “Professor, did John actually threaten you himself?”

  He thought for a bit, and I was glad to have him take the time to put the pieces together accurately. I took another slug of the Grouse and braced for the answer.

  “No. Not personally. He came to me with the original commission to paint the copy, but it was a Russian man who made the threats. He was part of the same group with Mr. McKedrick. That’s why I was confused. He was from Minsk, from Belarus. Sergei Markov. I won’t forget that name. He made the threat.”

  “Now I’m confused. John McKedrick was working for a Mafia gangster in Boston by the name of Tony Aiello. Did you ever hear that name?”

  “No. I never heard whom Mr. McKedrick represented. He and Markov seemed to be working together.”

  “All right. To whom did you give this authentication?”

  “There was a meeting.”

  “Where?”

  The professor’s energy was draining fast. I figured that I better squeeze it bit by bit to get everything in one sitting. There may not be another.

  “In Amsterdam.”

  “Who was there?”

  “Mr. McKedrick. This man from Belarus, Markov. And two men with whom they seemed to be negotiating.”

  I signaled the barmaid for another brandy for the professor to keep down the nervous fidgets that seemed to be starting again.

  “This is important, professor. Do you remember their names?”

  He gave it his full concentration. I thanked God that he didn’t come up empty.

  “Van Drusen. That was one. He was a financier of some kind. ‘Jan’ they called him. We met in his office. The other was, I’m not sure, Van Arsdale I think. They were partners.”

  “Do you remember where their office was?”

  “No. It was my first time in Amsterdam. It was beside a large canal.”

  “And you gave them your opinion that the painting was a genuine Vermeer?”

  He went silent on me.

  “Professor?”

  “Yes. I did. I’m ashamed.”

  “Under the circumstances, you really had no choice. Were these financiers buying the painting?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why don’t you think so?”

  “After I signed the authentication certificate, they took the painting to a bank in the same block. They placed the painting in a vault. Mr. McKedrick and Van Drusen each took a separate coded number. They had me come along to certify that the painting was not switched before it was put into the vault.”

  “Did you have any idea what they were doing?”

  “I think so. I’ve seen it done before. I believe the painting was security for a loan.”

  “Loan to whom?”

  “I suppose to whomever John McKedrick was working for. I’m very tired.”

  The second brandy had him more relaxed than I’d hoped, but at that point I probably had all he was able to give me. I got the two of us bundled up, more for disguise than for weather protection in case the two Russians were still lurking about.

  I hustled him through the rain to the Chesterfield Hotel and up to my room. While he took a hot bath, I made some calls. My first was to Helga Swenson to let her know that the professor was alive. I decided to tell her about the incident at the Grisham Hotel. I didn’t want to alarm her, but I wanted her to take seriously my plea that she tell absolutely no one where the professor was, or even that he was still alive.

  My second call was to Mr. Devlin. I decided to tell him everything, particularly in view of the fact that I had the Atlantic Ocean as a buffer between us. What could he do, fire me?

  “Michael, damn it, you’re fired. If that’s the only way to get you to stop putting your neck on the block, you are no longer engaged as an attorney.”

  “You can’t fire me, Mr. Devlin. We’re partners. Besides, you’re not my client. If you’ll be kind enough to remember, I represent the Prince of Evil, the Godfather of all malevolent Godfathers, thanks to your boyhood reunion. Besides, who else will put up with your intimidation?”

  “Intimidation? When the hell have you ever followed one bit of my good advice to keep you in one piece?”

  “I’m definitely starting now.”

  “Good. I’ll expect you on the next plane to Boston.”

  I decided to finesse that one. Instead, I told him what I’d learned from the professor. I had one final point.

  “Mr. Devlin, can you find out from Santangelo if he knows anything about this deal with the Vermeer? My guess is he doesn’t.”

  “That’s my guess too. It looks like Aiello was going big league behind his back.”

  “It’s going to look that way to Mr. Santangelo too. Without tipping too much, can you try to squeeze a few more days of truce out of him? I think I’m getting close.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. And you stay out of danger.”

&n
bsp; “No problem. I’m just dealing with stuffy art dealers from here on.”

  “All right. Remember, the next plane to Boston.”

  “I’ll be on it. Just one small detour.”

  “Michael, where the hell are you going now?”

  “Boston, Mr. Devlin. And straight to the office. As soon as I get back from Amsterdam.”

  That seemed a propitious moment to hang up.

  My next call was to Tony Aiello. There was one card I needed to get on the table. He answered graciously as always.

  “Yeah. What?”

  “This is Michael Knight. Is that you, Tony? May I call you Tony?”

  “Oh yeah. Call me Tony. Like we’re old buddies. How’s about I call you son of a bitch, you little bastard. What’d you do to Benny?”

  I had to cover the phone piece to prevent choking on a laugh. It had to be for Fat Tony that the phrase, “piece of work,” was invented.

  “Benny? I haven’t seen Benny since yesterday. Besides, he’s the least of your problems.”

  “The hell he is. That little shyster’s spendin’ my money runnin’ all over Paris. He says you sent him there.”

  “Paris? I’ve never been to Paris in my life. Well, the good news is he’s probably eating very well. I hear there are wonderful restaurants in Paris.”

  “Well that just tickles the ass off me. That bum’s gonna pay back every dime if I have to skin him alive.”

  “You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do. Meanwhile, there’s something I need to know. This painting I’m after. Why do you need it?”

  “You got cement in your head? I told you once. It’s none of your business.”

  “Yes, I heard that. See, here’s the thing. I’ll be dealing with some very intelligent, very dicey people. When they ask questions, if I look like some gofer, you won’t get your painting, and I won’t get to live. Let me make it easy. This much I can figure. John set up some kind of deal where you acquire the stolen Vermeer. I assume at a good price. You borrow money, a lot of money, using the painting as security. Professor Denisovitch authenticates the painting, which satisfies the lenders. The painting is kept in a vault with two codes. You have one. Actually I have it from John. The lenders have the other code. Am I on track so far?”

  There was silence for a few seconds before Tony came back in a whisper.

  “Are you sure this line ain’t tapped?”

  “No. But what the hell’s the difference? Where I am, I can’t just drop into your office, and I need some information.”

  “That’s another thing. Where are you?”

  “I’m out of town. Here’s what I need to know. Why do you need to get your hands on the painting?”

  “To sell it, you schmuck. What the hell do you think, I’m gonna start a museum?”

  That was what I needed to know. He obviously couldn’t repay the debt. He had to use the security to square it with his lenders. That told me a couple of things. One was that John McKedrick apparently never let Fat Tony know that the painting was a fraud.

  Holy mackerel, John. How many games were you playing?

  My second guess was that if Tony couldn’t come up with what must have been a horse-choking wad of cash to pay off the lenders, he was in seriously deep and dangerous waters — a fact that could give me more leverage than I thought over Tony.

  “How much do you need to raise?”

  “More than you’ll ever see, wise-ass.”

  “Come on, I need to know what we’re playing for. If it’s as much as I think, you’re not dealing with some low-level Mafia loan sharks. This is big time. Probably international. Give me a number.”

  I heard him mumble something that sounded like “sixty.”

  “Sixty what?”

  “Mm-nn.”

  “What? Speak up.”

  “Million, asshole.”

  That number staggered even me.

  “Okay. That’s what I needed to know. I’ll be in touch. And Tony—”

  “Yes. Mikey.”

  “I’ll do what I can. I know it’s important. But there’s something even more important.”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “That you and I be nice to each other.”

  I gave him time to get out six words before cutting off the line. The five words were, “You little son of a bitch.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  My plane touched down early the next morning at Schiphol Airport, outside of Amsterdam. I had left the professor in my room at the Chesterfield in London to eat, sleep, and generally hang out inside the hotel for the day or two I might be gone. A chance meeting on the street with the boys from Belarus could be his final social encounter.

  The travelers’ advisory service at the airport put me into the most expensive hotel in Amsterdam, the Amstel Intercontinental Hotel, a truly five-star operation, luxuriously covering a city block beside the Amstel River. I wanted to present an up-scale address to the financiers I was about to deal with.

  It was also easier to get an immediate room during the high tourist season at a hotel that drained the bank account than it would be at an economy hotel, and I didn’t particularly mind that it was Dominic Santangelo’s bank account that was being drained.

  My first move was to scan the phonebook for a Jan Van Drusen. There were a few. Then I checked for a Van Arsdale who had the same business address as a Van Drusen, since the professor thought they were partners.

  Bingo. There was a match. I called the number. I gave my name, and asked the female voice that switched in an instant from Dutch to English for Mr. Jan Van Drusen. She asked, “To what was it in reference?”

  I noted that this linguistic foreigner was sharp enough to place the preposition before the noun instead of at the end of the sentence, and realized that if this was the level of intelligence of the receptionist, I’d better be hitting on all cylinders.

  “Would you tell Mr. Van Drusen that I’m only in town for the day. I represent the American gentleman who owns a certain painting by Vermeer. I’m staying at the Amstel Intercontinental. It would be in both of our interests to meet as soon as possible.”

  She politely put me on hold and was back in thirty seconds.

  “Mr. Van Drusen would be happy to meet with you at your convenience, Mr. Knight.”

  “Good. I can come to his office directly.”

  “Mr. Van Drusen would be pleased to send a car for you.”

  “Thank you. That won’t be necessary. I’ll be there shortly.”

  The car idea was probably a courtesy, but a little paranoid voice was repeating my mother’s warning against getting into a car with strangers.

  The address of Van Drusen’s office was on Herengracht, between Leidsestraat and a street that I couldn’t pronounce if I had three tongues. As the professor suggested, it was on a canal, which is as much help as saying “look for the fish somewhere in the water.” There are over a hundred canals. Everything in Amsterdam is on a canal.

  I got a map of the city from the concierge and followed his advice on the best route to walk there. I asked how long it would take. He said with a big, good-hearted grin, “About twenty minutes if you make it at all.”

  I grinned back and took to the street, wondering if he just had strange speech patterns. In thirty seconds I realized that he knew whereof he spoke. I waded into the automobile traffic with the certain conviction that they couldn’t show this boy from Boston anything he hadn’t survived on his home turf. What I soon learned was that the car traffic is just a distraction. It’s the bicycles in barbaric hordes that will leave treads right up your back.

  Against all odds, I found the address, an impressive white marble three-story office building facing the canal. The inside offices carried through the theme of tasteful opulence. Mr. Van Drusen’s suite of offices was on the second floor, all facing a view of the canal and its interesting variety of aquatic traffic.

  The receptionist created the same impression as the building, as did everything about the office. You se
nsed before even meeting Van Drusen or Van Arsdale that you might lose your shirt in a business deal if you were not on top of your game.

  Mr. Van Drusen met me at the door to his office with a smile and a warm handshake. He was tall and well proportioned with one of those faces that seems to smile even when it’s at rest. His hair length suggested that his attention would be on the business at hand rather than on himself. His suit and silk shirt were equally understated, although I could tell from the tailoring that the ensemble represented enough to pay off my Corvette.

  He introduced Mr. Van Arsdale, whose proportions around the center were more indicative of the allure of Dutch cooking. He looked a bit like the Michelin Man.

  I liked the fact that both proceeded to drape their suit coats around the backs of chairs. They were ready to play.

  “Play,” however, as I’d heard about the Dutch, began with strong coffee and chocolate pastry. The conversation was light, witty, and unfortunately, time-consuming — a commodity I couldn’t afford to spend lightly. Much to my regret, I had to break the mood.

  “Gentlemen, I’m going to be direct. John McKedrick set up an arrangement with you that involved the loan of a considerable sum of money.”

  They each nodded with a smile, but the glint in their eyes said that they were fully tuned in. With the exception of myself, there were no rookies in that room. I hit it again for emphasis.

  “A considerable sum of money.”

  Again they nodded.

  “We all understand that the security behind the debt owed to you gentlemen is a work of the great master that is clearly beyond price.”

  I thought an appeal to their sense of pride in the Dutch master, Vermeer, might be a nice touch before wading into deep waters. If it had an effect, they hid it completely.

  “What might or might not have been disclosed by John McKedrick is that he represented the interests of an American by the name of Anthony Aiello.”

  This time the nods meant that they were aware that the loan was, in fact, made not to the suave, sophisticated John McKedrick, but to the overstuffed hood with whom I was now on a first name basis.