Furious, Fuchs threw the paper on the floor and rang the bell on his wheelchair.

  His housekeeper appeared almost immediately.

  ‘Dictation; now!’ fumed Fuchs, staring at one of his favourite paintings hanging on the wall in front of him. Little Sparrow in the Garden is over there! It’s mine! Some idiot just paid thirty-five million for a fake! he thought, enjoying a long-forgotten feeling of a wave of excitement rushing through his fragile body.

  The email from Gstaad

  Rogan was having lunch with Krakowski and Dr Rosen at his hotel when he received a phone call from an agitated Celia. When she told him they had to meet – urgently – Rogan invited her to join them. A flustered Celia arrived half an hour later and handed Rogan a piece of paper, which turned out to be an email addressed to her editor. Jack read the email and paled, and then handed it to Krakowski who read it out loud:

  Dear Sir

  I must inform you that someone has just paid thirty-five million pounds for a fake. Why? Because the original painting, namely Claude Monet’s Little Sparrow in the Garden, hangs right in front of me on the wall in my house here in Switzerland. (See photo).

  I purchased the painting from Berenger Krakowski in 1942 in Warsaw. He wanted to sell the painting, and I bought it. It was a legal, arms-length transaction. He wanted to be paid in gold, which I did. I still have the original bill of sale. (See photo). I think it is important to set the record straight. Your readers are entitled to know the truth, and so is the unfortunate buyer for that matter.

  Emil Fuchs.

  Gstaad.

  The outrageous allegations in the Fuchs email came as a great shock; the potential implications were serious and far-reaching. If Fuchs was right, Krakowski had just sold a forgery at auction, and Isis had paid a small fortune for a worthless painting. It transpired that Rogan knew a lot about Fuchs and his reputation, because their paths had crossed before during the famous Swiss banking controversy triggered by one of Rogan’s books.

  To avoid a sensational scandal that could seriously hurt all involved, Jack came up with an imaginative plan. And so began the final stage of the forgotten painting’s remarkable journey.

  Warsaw Ghetto: August 1942

  The mass deportations from Warsaw were in full swing and had only one aim: to send thousands of Jews from the ghetto to Treblinka for extermination. In a desperate attempt to save his family, Berenger Krakowski decided to give the only thing of value he had left – the Monet – to the Germans, who were searching the camp for hidden paintings, especially by impressionists.

  However, when one of Krakowski’s friends – David Herzl, a talented painter and master forger who knew how much the painting meant to Krakowski – heard about this, he offered to copy the painting for him so that his friend had at least something left after the original had gone. Krakowski agreed, and Herzl copied the painting.

  The copy turned out to be so perfect that Herzl decided to do something daring: he replaced the original painting in the Monet frame with his forgery, but didn’t tell his friend.

  Using a Jewish ghetto policeman as a go-between, a meeting was arranged with the SS and a wealthy Swiss banker – Emil Fuchs, a well-connected, eccentric art collector – who wanted to ‘purchase’ paintings in the ghetto.

  When Fuchs saw the painting in Krakowski’s flat, he was delighted and paid the pittance Krakowski was asking for it, in gold. A stickler for correctness, Fuchs insisted on getting a receipt.

  The examination

  Rogan’s plan to avoid a scandal that could embarrass and humiliate his friends, was as simple as it was daring. He suggested that Celia interview Fuchs to hear his side of the story. When Celia’s editor contacted Fuchs to arrange a meeting, Fuchs, a proud and arrogant man, agreed, and Celia travelled to Switzerland to interview him.

  Sitting in front of the painting in the stunning chalet, Celia listened to Fuchs give his account of how the painting had been acquired by him. She then made a bold suggestion to resolve the conundrum: As there could obviously be only one original, the safest way to find out which of the two paintings was the forgery, she argued, was to have Fuchs’s painting examined by a reputable expert. And when it came to Monet, there was only one man who counted: Professor Moreau, the undisputed world authority on Monet.

  When Celia mentioned Moreau’s name, a confident Fuchs instantly agreed, and arrangements were made by the New York Times for Moreau to come to Switzerland to view the painting.

  Professor Moreau arrived at the chalet the next day and began his examination. Rogan and Celia were both present and watched as Moreau methodically went over the painting with a magnifying glass to determine its authenticity.

  A smiling Fuchs was confidently waiting for the verdict, when Moreau cried out: ‘Here it is! Just as I thought. Hidden in the lily pond; how ingenious!’

  ‘What exactly?’ asked Fuchs, and wheeled his chair over to the painting.

  ‘Here, have a look,’ said Moreau. He handed Fuchs his magnifying glass and pointed to a certain spot in the lily pond.

  Fuchs raised the magnifying glass, bent forward and, for what seemed an eternity kept staring at the painting. Looking quite pale and shaken, he let the magnifying glass fall into his lap and turned around to face Moreau. ‘Is, is this a p-prank?’ he stammered.

  ‘Far from it,’ replied Moreau. ‘It’s a signature.’

  ‘Are you telling me that what looks like a Star of David and a small heart under this rock here is a signature?’

  ‘It is,’ Moreau replied, elated. ‘And not just any signature, but the signature of David Herzl.’

  ‘Who is David Herzl?’ demanded Fuchs, becoming angry.

  ‘David Herzl was one of Europe’s most accomplished forgers during the war. He always signed his work in ingenious ways, with a Star of David, obviously for David, and a small heart for Herzl, which as we know means heart in German. He lived in the Warsaw Ghetto and was killed during the uprising in 1943. If it’s any consolation, Herr Fuchs, this is without doubt one of the best forgeries of a Monet I’ve come across. In its own way, it’s a masterpiece.’

  Six months later

  Jack was visiting Tristan and Countess Katerina Kuragin at her chateau in France when he received a phone call from Isis.

  ‘I just had a mystery parcel hand-delivered by special courier,’ said Isis. ‘Had to sign for it myself, in person.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A surprise. You should really come over and see this for yourself.’

  ‘That important?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I’ll catch the Eurostar in the morning,’ said Jack, his curiosity aroused. ‘I need a break anyway. I’ve been working on my Fuchs interview notes for a couple of weeks now, trying to incorporate them into my book. It’s tedious, but potentially quite explosive stuff, especially now that he’s dead.’

  Emil Fuchs had passed away in his sleep two weeks earlier after contracting pneumonia. ‘My editor is on my back and my publicist is calling twice a day. I hate pressure!’

  ‘Poor boy. That’s what happens when you’re famous. Don’t let them rattle you.’

  ‘Easier said than done. Any hints?’

  ‘Little Sparrow in the Garden.’

  ‘Now you’ve really got me intrigued,’ said Jack.

  ‘I’ll send a car to pick you up from the station. See you tomorrow.’

  Boris was waiting for Jack with Isis’s black Bentley at St Pancras Station the next morning, and drove him straight to the Time Machine Studios. Isis’s personal assistant Lola greeted Jack downstairs and took him up to the penthouse.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ asked Jack, enjoying the familiar ride in the glass lift. Lola shook her head. ‘Come on, you can tell me.’

  ‘No way! She’ll skin me alive if I let anything slip.’

  ‘Oh. That serious, is it?’

  ‘You’ll see in a minute.’

  Isis looked like someone who had just stepped off the catwalk. Her impeccable make-up, perfect hairdo and the latest creation by one of her favourite fashion designers told Jack that Isis was definitely back to her true self again. She hurried towards the lift, her high heels clop-clopping on the marble, threw her arms around Jack and kissed him on both cheeks, French style. ‘You’re in for a big surprise,’ she said, pointing to the easel standing in the middle of the room.

  ‘Little Sparrow in the Garden, still in pride of place, I see,’ said Jack.

  ‘It is, but what do you think is next to it?’ asked Isis, pointing to another easel covered with a black velvet cloth.

  ‘No idea. Something new you’ve bought?’

  ‘No. I didn’t have to buy it. It was a gift.’

  ‘How interesting.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you think, Lola; shall we put this poor wretch out of his misery and show him?’ asked Isis.

  ‘Might as well.’

  Isis walked over to the easel and began to slowly lift the black cloth like a magician revealing the impossible. The only thing missing was a drum roll. As the cloth inched closer to the bottom of the frame, Isis quickly pulled it off with a flourish and stood back.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ said Jack, completely taken by surprise. He walked up to the frame and looked at the familiar painting. ‘How … did … you …?’

  ‘Fuchs left it to me.’

  ‘Incredible!’

  ‘I received a formal letter from his executors. Oh, and this is for you,’ said Isis. She handed Jack a sealed envelope with ‘Jack Rogan’ written across the front in spidery handwriting.

  Jack opened the envelope, unfolded the piece of paper inside, and began to read:

  Dear Jack

  I enjoyed sparring with you during our recent interviews more than I like to admit. Facing the truth for someone like me is never easy, but you have always been fair and objective in your dealings with me, and for that I am grateful.

  You have given me your word not to publish the story of the forged painting while I was alive, and you have honoured that pledge. By the time you receive this, you will have been released from that promise.

  I have left my art collection to various galleries around the world. True works of art can never belong to just one person. We are but temporary custodians of other men’s genius, which must be shared with the world.

  As for my forged Little Sparrow in the Garden, I have thought long and hard about what to do with it. I believe the right solution here is to reunite the two paintings, as both share a unique history and therefore belong together. That is why I have left my painting to Isis. I know she has great plans and will use her painting to raise money for charitable causes. If my Little Sparrow in the Garden can in some small way contribute to this, perhaps as a curiosity, then I am content.

  It has been a pleasure to get to know you, Jack. You have brought a little excitement and sunshine into an old man’s life.

  Emil Fuchs

  ‘Come on, Jack, are you going to tell us what it says?’ asked Isis impatiently.

  ‘Sorry. Of course,’ replied Jack, and then read the note out loud, his voice solemn, as if he were reading a Will, which in a way of course it was. When he tried to slip the note back into the envelope, he noticed that there was something else inside. He pulled out another piece of paper, looked at it and smiled.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Isis.

  ‘I’ll show you,’ replied Jack, and held up the piece of paper. It was the receipt for the painting, reluctantly signed by Berenger Krakowski with a heavy heart in the Warsaw Ghetto on that fateful day in 1942.

  Jack walked over to the painting and tucked the receipt behind the frame. ‘This belongs with it,’ he said and stepped back.

  ‘You’re right, it does,’ said Isis. ‘A turbulent piece of history has just been closed. Thanks to you, Jack.’

  ‘Not entirely,’ said Jack, enjoying himself.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Isis.

  ‘There’s more ...’

  ‘There is?’ said Lola.

  Jack pointed to Monet’s original Little Sparrow in the Garden. ‘This wasn’t the only thing found in Empress Marie-Louise’s sarcophagus ...’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Isis, looking puzzled.

  ‘There was another painting ... under the Monet.’

  ‘What? Are you serious?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘What kind of painting?’ asked Lola.

  Jack walked over to the elevator door where he had left what looked like a large garment travel bag. He placed the bag on the couch facing the easel, unzipped it, and pulled out a wooden frame. ‘This one,’ he said, and held up a small painting.

  ‘How extraordinary,’ said Isis, and walked over to Jack to have a closer look. She took the little painting from Jack and leaned it against the back of one of the chairs. ‘Pity it’s so badly damaged.’

  ‘That’s one of the reasons I didn’t want to make a fuss about it at the time. It didn’t seem important and would only have detracted from the Monet,’ said Jack. ‘Nevertheless, it’s all quite intriguing.’

  ‘Do you know who painted it?’ asked Lola.

  ‘Unfortunately, no. There may have been a signature here at the bottom, but that’s where it’s badly damaged. Water.’

  ‘A good restorer could do a lot with this,’ said Isis.

  ‘Sure. But let me tell you what I’ve discovered so far. It’s quite a story.’

  ‘You and your stories,’ said Lola, shaking her head. ‘Not only are you an adventure junkie, you are a story magnet as well, revelling in excitement.’

  ‘So, that’s how you see me?’

  ‘I’m not the only one.’

  ‘I would agree with that,’ said Isis, laughing. ‘Tell us about the painting.’

  ‘All right. It’s a bit of a detective—’

  ‘Why am I not surprised?’ interrupted Lola, rolling her eyes.

  ‘So, first, let’s have a close look at the painting. It’s all about two people: the man in the bed here, and the man standing next to it, looking up at him.’ Jack turned to Isis. ‘You know a lot about art. Could you give us an approximate date?’

  ‘Well, the style, composition, the dress of the man standing by the bed, the colours, all suggest sixteenth-century; Italian I’d say. The man lying in the bed is wearing a cap – very distinctive. Clergy perhaps, or aristocracy. Yes, definitely late sixteenth-century I’d say.’

  ‘What about the window?’ asked Jack.

  Isis walked over to the painting for a closer look. ‘Ah, the view through the window. Interesting.’

  ‘What do you think it is?’

  ‘Pity about the damage but ...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It looks a bit like St Mark’s Square in Venice.’ Isis pointed to the painting. ‘Here, this could be the Campanile,’ she said.

  ‘Very good,’ said Jack. ‘I think you’re right. It definitely looks like Venice. And when you take the angles into account and the perspective of the view through the window, it would appear that we are looking across St Mark’s Square from—’

  ‘The Doge’s Palace,’ interrupted Isis, becoming animated.

  ‘Correct. That’s what I think too. What else?’

  ‘The man standing by the bed has his back turned to us. He is holding a book in his left hand and is pointing to the book with his right. He’s facing the man in the bed who is looking up at him; rather anxiously, I’d say.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘The man with the book is holding something in his right hand,’ interjected Lola. ‘Pointing with it.’

  ‘Correct. The devil’s always in the detail. He is definitely holding something ...’ said Jack.

  ‘Looks like a pencil; a knife maybe?’ ventured Lola.

  ‘Actually, it’s a surgical instrument; a scalpel used at the time.’

  ‘How do you know?’ demanded Isis.

  ‘Alexandra told me.’

  ‘She’s already seen this? When?’

  ‘A couple of months ago when she came to France to visit her mother. She stayed at the chateau for a few days. I was working on Fuchs’s interview. I showed her the painting then. She saw certain things in the painting that wouldn’t have occurred to me.’

  ‘What kind of things?’ asked Isis.

  ‘To her it looks like a doctor visiting his patient. I suppose the scalpel is a significant clue. She also thinks that the “physician” as she called him, is pointing to a medical text to support his diagnosis while the patient is looking – rather frightened – at him. You must admit, the man in the bed looks quite ill, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘There’s more. Have a look at the mirror over the fireplace.’

  ‘Very clever,’ said Isis, bending over the painting. The face of the doctor is reflected in the mirror.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘The book he’s holding is also reflected in the mirror. You can see the front cover.’

  ‘Any writing?’

  ‘Not really; it’s badly damaged.’

  ‘True, but there are a couple of letters. Can you see?’ asked Jack.

  ‘I suppose so ... u and an n? Right here.’

  ‘Yes; that’s it.’

  ‘A good restorer could help us here,’ said Isis.

  ‘Good idea. But there’s more.’ Jack paused, and took a deep breath.

  ‘Well, are you going to tell us?’ said Isis.

  ‘I have found references to the painting in Brother Francis’s diary. In fact, it was Alexandra who gave me the first important clue when she mentioned the doctor-patient bit. It’s quite a puzzle, but definitely worth investigating.’

  ‘You think so?’ asked Lola.

  ‘Definitely,’ replied Jack, grinning.

  ‘You know a lot more than you are telling us,’ observed Isis. ‘Admit it.’

 

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