‘Oh, and it can make the sound of a siren, if you want,’ said Andrew, looking as pleased as Punch.
‘Heaven forbid,’said Kingston.
Bibendum, in the proto-art-deco Michelin building on the Fulham Road, had its usual high-energy lunchtime buzz. Tables of wine-sipping, well-dressed business types competed with the chirp and chatter from isolated drifts of tourists, cranking up a decibel level that was red needling. Settled in at their table, each with a glass of wine, Andrew and Kingston had just finished studying the menu.
‘So, what’s this place you’re going to this afternoon?’ Andrew asked, sliding the two menus to the edge of the table.
‘The Art Loss Register. It’s been in operation for about fourteen years. They have offices in several cities around the world now.’
‘And they track down stolen art?’
‘That’s a big part of what they do. Their other function is to locate and return to the rightful owners works of art that were lost or looted during and after the Second World War. I looked them up on the Internet. They have a database of over 150,000 items, all stolen or missing.’
‘That’s a lot of loot!’
‘I know. It’s been called the most systematic government-supported art robbery in history. The strange thing about it is that many of the stolen items were well documented. Not only was there no attempt to conceal their activities, the Nazis actually kept track of their entire haul on—if you can believe it—index cards that meticulously described each work.’
‘That doesn’t sound too bright,’ said Andrew, trying to catch the waiter’s eye.
Kingston shrugged. ‘I suppose it didn’t occur to them that they might lose the war and have to give them back one day.’
The waiter finally arrived and took their orders.
‘Where were we?’ asked Kingston, after the waiter had left.
‘Keeping records.’
‘Right. I read that a typical card of one of the major SS art-plundering outfits would list the name of the piece, its dimensions, the artist’s name, scholarly notes on the significance of the work and sometimes—believe it or not—where and from whom it was stolen. They had lists of paintings from all over Europe and knew exactly where they were, and which ones they wanted.’
‘That’s unbelievable. I take it a lot of the art belonged to victims of the Holocaust?’
‘Absolutely. From private collections and from pre-war victims of Hitler’s Third Reich.’
‘Are we talking about masterpieces?’
‘Most definitely. Da Vinci, Botticelli, Titian, you name it. A lot of the French Impressionists, too. All museum quality stuff.’ Kingston paused for a moment. ‘As a matter of fact, sad to say, many of the finest and most reputable art collections around the world are filled with stolen artwork. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’ Andrew smiled. ‘So what’s going on, Lawrence? Have you turned up a missing masterpiece?’
‘No, not exactly. But I may be on to something down in Somerset and before I start shaking the trees I want to see if the Art Loss people can dig up some information for me on a French art dealer who was a partner of this Major Ryder chap I told you about, the one who left Jamie Gibson his estate.’
Andrew raised his eyebrows. ‘Quite mysterious!’
‘In a way it is, Andrew. During the war and afterwards a lot of artwork was smuggled out of Europe through neutral countries like Spain and Portugal and cities like Buenos Aires and Havana. I have a strong hunch that Ryder was involved in selling looted art but I need more information. I’ll let you know how it turns out.’
Andrew was smiling again. ‘How come you always manage to get yourself involved in these weird situations, Lawrence?’
Before Kingston could reply, the waiter arrived with their dishes.
The meal lasted another hour, finished off with pear sorbet and lattes.
Outside Bibendum, facing a curtain of grey drizzle blurred with crimson from the passing rumble of buses, they parted company and Kingston got a cab to the Art Loss Register offices, off Blackfriars Road.
As they shook hands, the crown of Jennifer Ingels’ shoulder-length blonde hair came barely level with Kingston’s chin. She was model-slender with a soap-commercial English complexion and a disarming smile; the blush in her cheeks definitely not from a brush. Expecting an older lady in a suit or a blouse and skirt, Kingston was at first taken aback at the trendy jacket over black turtleneck shirt and trousers. Somehow it belied her position of Public Affairs Director.
When Kingston had phoned, he had been careful how he phrased the reason for his visit. To come right out and say that several stolen French Impressionists might be hidden somewhere on an estate in Somerset could send off all kinds of alarms and if the press ever got wind of such a story all hell could break loose at Wickersham. It would undoubtedly mark an ignominious end to his employment and his relationship with Jamie would be damaged beyond repair. On the phone he had resorted to a couple of white lies and a salting of charm to gain this interview.