The Dorich House Mystery (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 3) Read online

  “This is my favourite,” said Grant. ‘The Sacrifice of Isaac’. It’s a copy of the Rembrandt original done in 1635. It’s interesting because Rembrandt was the first artist to employ suspense in his paintings. You can see how the knife is just out of his grasp. This second one is a copy of a painting by Salvator Rosa in about 1652. It’s called ‘The Prodigal Son’. I guess he painted it to demonstrate how even the slackest blighter can come off well in the end. No doubt we can all relate to that. The last one is my favourite, a copy of the original painted by Anthony van Dyck around 1638, a ‘Portrait of Sir Thomas Chaloner’. Chaloner was one of the judges who sentenced Charles I to be executed; obviously not that popular with Royalists. Ivan is also revaluing some paintings that are part of the Dorich House collection that Richard Hare made in the 1930’s.One never knows, but some could be worth a lot more, especially if Ivan finds out something about them that was not known when they were purchased back in the 30’s.”

  Ralph could tell that Boris had been taken aback at the sight of Grant’s photos and he could see that the conversation was likely to go on for some time. Katie was starting to look a bit sleepy after her rich meal and he fancied a bit of a rest from all of the input on art history himself and hoped they could slide away and leave the art experts to their conversation about the relative value of original versus fake artwork. At a suitable point he and Katie made their excuses and having thanked their host for the lunch and Grant’s two friends for their company, they escaped into the afternoon London milieu.

  They were confronted with red double-decker busses, taxis, and people shopping or making a dash to catch their trains to the suburbs before the commuter rush began. He could never understand why people just came to a complete standstill in a crowded thoroughfare and engaged in conversation oblivious to others who might want to get by. Then there were the seemingly peripatetic groups of tourists who seemed to take up the whole sidewalk. He could feel himself getting, as Katie often pointed out, a bit twitchy.

  “We need to do something to lighten things up. All that talk about history and authentication and provenance has left me a bit drained,” Ralph remarked as they stood in front of the Savoy waiting for a lit taxi-light to come their way.

  “Me too, Ralph. Why don’t we change direction altogether? Maybe see one of the new plays or something.”

  “We might just have time for a matinee. Look, there’s one of those last minute ticket stands,” Ralph said, pointing to a booth hawking cut-rate tickets for that afternoons performances in the West End.

  They were soon settled in balcony seats at the Adelphi Theater enjoying the fabulous tunes that made the musical Chicago a favourite for Londoners and tourists alike. As they came out into the evening gloom Katie was humming a catchy tune from the show called ‘All that Jazz’. He smiled at her.

  “More hidden talents?”

  “My parents raised a gifted daughter,” Katie quipped.

  I’m glad you suggested a play. And a musical was just the thing to clear the cobwebs.”

  “Perfect. I couldn’t help thinking that you were just like that Mr. Cellophane in the play, although I’m not sure you are quite as transparent to everyone.”

  “Hey,” Ralph exclaimed. “I’m a man of mystery. Just ask anyone.”

  They both laughed as they shared the highlights from the show and tried to ignore the rain that was now beginning to signal a cold night for the poor souls living rough on the streets of London. As they dodged the passersby Ralph used his famous three fingered whistle that Londoner’s over the ages had perfected to hail a cab. As they drove through the traffic Katie sang her favourite lyrics from the show. They fitted Katie to a tee.

  Come on babe

  Why don’t we paint the town

  And all that jazz

  I’m gonna rouge my knees and roll my stockings down

  And all that jazz

  Start the car

  I know a whoppee spot

  Where the gin is cold

  But the piano’s hot

  It’s just a noisy hall

  Where there’s a nightly brawl

  And all that jazz

  Ralph noticed that as she sang a tear rolled down her cheek. He couldn’t tell if it was out of joy or a sense of release from all the stress and tragedies that she had experienced over the past few years. For once he was wise enough not to say a word. He just stared out of the steamed up windows at the passing lights and was glad that whatever Katie was feeling she had had a good time.

  They soon arrived at Katie’s mews house in Chelsea. Having made sure that she was safely inside he asked the cabbie to take him to Surbiton. It wasn’t like Ralph to be so extravagant, but what the heck, no doubt their lunch had set Grant back five times that amount not to mention the three quarters of a million John Weston had just forked out for a copy of a painting. Besides, he felt like being a bit reckless.

  ***

  Early the next morning Boris Sarovsky was on the phone speaking to a client in Moscow who had close links to the Chechen mafia. He had noticed that one of the paintings that Grant had shown him had come up in a conversation he had had about the authenticity of the original hanging in the Hermitage. It was only rumor, but it was enough to alert Boris to a possible way of making a fortune if by chance Grant had accidentally purchased an original rather than a copy. His client was very interested and told him to keep a close eye on Grant Richardson and Ivan Rabinsky.

  At the same time, John Weston was also contemplating what steps he could take to get his hands on Grant Richardson’s paintings. His instincts and years of collecting told him that they could be originals. He too had heard rumours about the authenticity of some of the paintings in the Walpole collection at the Hermitage. Also with the Walpole collection being shipped to Norfolk in England for that exhibition at Houghton Hall there was always the possibility that some crooked shipper might be in the market for some deals. It would not be the first time that paintings had been lost in transit. If he could get hold of Grant’s paintings, even if they were copies, it would be easier to swap them with the originals while they were in transit and so avoid a hue and cry that would follow if they were discovered to have been stolen. And how best to meet up with Ivan Rabinsky? They had met at International chess tournaments in the past so they already had a passing acquaintance. Getting the tip-off from Rabinsky would put him ahead of any other bidders at future auctions. He was starting to feel that this was going to be a good year for business. The Arabs might have had their spring, but with luck it was now his turn.

  ----------------------------------

  Chapter 4

  Ralph celebrated the start of the New Year in style. He had visited friends in Edinburgh, the only city he felt knew how to enter into the full spirit of the season. It was now the second week in January and he was beginning to plan his foray into the art world. Every four years a lecturer can anticipate being granted a sabbatical; a break from the daily grind of lectures and tutorials and a chance to publish, travel and refresh. But as is often the case with freedom from a routine, it caught Ralph unprepared as the cozy routine of college life no longer provided a nice neat structure to his life. As he sat in his comfortable apartment scanning his emails, a cup of coffee within easy reach, the phone rang. He waited a few seconds before it registered that he was not in college and Janice would not be picking up the phone. He recognized the confident almost strident voice of Sarah Winton.

  “It’s Sarah. Sarah Winton. I Hope I haven’t disturbed you, Ralph. I know it’s an awful bore when people from college call when you’re on sabbatical, but something’s worrying me and I thought you might be able to help.”

  “Hello Sarah. No bother at all. I am just having a coffee and relaxing here at home before I tackle my list of things to do. How can I be of help?”

  “Well it sounds silly, but I’m worried about Ivan Rabinsky, you remember, he’s the one doing that revaluation work for Dorich House?”

  “I know. That fr
iend of yours. The chap who used to be with Christie’s.”

  “Right. Well I had a call from him early one evening a few days ago. We were just about to sit down to supper. He said he’d completed the analysis work and wanted to tell me about something that was worrying him but didn’t want to go into detail on the phone. Just as well because Thomas gets annoyed if I am on the telephone about work in the evenings, especially before he’s had his evening meal.”

  Ralph could hardly imagine anyone daring to show disapproval in front of Sarah, but he knew that people might behave quite differently at work to when they are at home. Perhaps Sarah was a meek and sensitive homemaker when in her domestic surroundings. But the picture quickly faded as she went on.

  “Ivan sounded very agitated. It could be all part of his morbid fascination with his health. He’s always going on about his heart condition or something else that is likely to kill him. Well here’s what bothers me. He said that the valuations had turned up some surprises and a lot of money could be involved. I asked him if he had contacted Cynthia or that Grant Richardson chap from Cambridge, and he said no, which I found odd. He then went on about having posted me a memory stick some days earlier which contained details of his analysis and findings. I knew he used computers a lot and kept all of his records on his desktop computer. When I told him I hadn’t received it yet he got extremely upset. I told him that I hadn’t been into college for a few days and that it was probably sitting there waiting for me. Well when I went in to college it wasn’t there.” Ralph could detect a note of exasperation in her voice

  “Well it’s probably the Xmas post having held things up. Did you ask him to email it as an attachment so you could get it right away?”

  “I’m not a fool Ralph. I called him straight away and sent him an email but I’ve not had a reply, and now he doesn’t seem to be answering his phone. I was thinking of just going round to his apartment but unfortunately I’ve got to fly off to a conference in Rome tonight and will be away for a week.”

  Now Ralph got the message. Sarah was off on a trip and she figured she could get him to cover for her since she probably thought he had nothing better to do. Nothing changes in academia, he thought. But he had considered making a visit to Ivan’s workshop to see what art experts did for their money anyhow, so why not get credit for doing a good deed?

  “I’d be delighted to chase this one up for you, Sarah. Although bear in mind that I won’t be much help if he asks me anything technical about his findings.”

  “Oh, that would be great. Thanks, Ralph. I owe you. If it’s anything to do with a major change in what he thinks the paintings are worth then just get him to send the information to Cynthia and she can sort it out. It’s probably just Ivan getting crotchety in his old age. He’s good at his job but he may be getting a bit past his sell by date so to speak, she said with a raucous laugh.

  Ralph recognized all the signs. Sarah had passed the buck and was now probably reaching for her passport, bikini and sun-lotion as she spoke.

  “Oh, you’ll need his phone number. It’s 07732 something or other. Look I’ll text it to you later as I’m in a rush now. Thanks terribly. Drop me an email if you need any more information. Bye sweetie and thanks. Ciao.” And she was gone.

  He reached for his coffee mug and sat back to try to make sense of what he had just volunteered to do. What puzzled him was why she had recommended Ivan if she thought he was so close to retirement, and by the sound of it not all that reliable? He wondered if she either owed him a favour or even felt sorry for him. But somehow that picture didn’t fit his view of Professor Sarah Winton in full flight. Whatever the reason, he was now stuck with having to follow it up; but on the positive side he might learn a thing or two about how paintings were valued.

  Sarah, as promised, sent him Ivan’s mobile number and after several tries he managed to make contact and arranged to see him at his apartment in Belgravia the next afternoon at 4pm. Ralph said nothing about his call from Sarah and the memory stick because he felt it best if he left the technical discussions to the experts. Ivan had been a bit abrupt at first and didn’t seem to want to see him, and it was only when Ralph mentioned that he had met Boris Sarovsky and John Weston and that he knew Grant Richardson that he seemed to be more interested in a meeting; but by the tone of his voice he could sense that Ivan Rabinsky was a troubled man.

  There were two drawbacks to being in London and driving to Belgravia on a January afternoon. By four o’clock it was dark and the traffic was atrocious. Belgravia was still an upmarket area of London and the Georgian style apartment blocks and white fronted houses were home to people who drove Land Rovers, Lamborghinis, Maserati’s and other ostentatious vehicles. Ralph managed to find a parking slot and used his credit card to reserve 2 hours. He felt that should be enough without being in danger of wearing out his welcome with Sarah’s friend or getting a parking fine. As he turned up the collar of his Burberry and looked around in the gloom for Radlett Mansions he felt some pride that his vintage Jaguar looked like a stately elder relative amongst the young upstarts that were parked alongside.

  Entering the building, which smelt strongly of floor polish and for some reason, gardenias, he saw from the gleaming brass plate that number 11 – I.J. Rabinsky was on the third floor. As always Ralph opted for the stairs. It satisfied his vanity that he was contributing to his fitness and allowed him an excuse to avoid the antiquated lift. Otis may have discovered a unique way of moving people between levels of a building, but Ralph mistrusted almost everything mechanical except his automobile.

  When he reached the doorway he was greeted by a uniformed police constable.

  “Sorry, sir. There’s been an incident here and no one is allowed in.”

  Ralph could see through the open door that there were a number of policemen walking around and the sudden flash of a camera made him blink.

  “I’ve come to see Ivan Rabinsky. I had an appointment for 4 o’clock.”

  As he said it Ralph realised that he sounded like a schoolboy reporting at an appointment to see his headmaster and being told that the Master was not there. His response was part nervous reaction and partly his natural reaction when faced with people in authority. What he really wanted to say was ‘just get out of my way and let me get on and with my appointment with Ivan’. Just then a tall angular figure stepped past the constable.

  “I’m Inspector Williams, Metropolitan Police. I overheard you say you had an appointment to see Mr. Rabinsky. Why not step inside sir, and we can talk. It’s a bit more private than standing in the hallway.”

  Ralph noticed that a small group had gathered at the end of the corridor and were probably discussing what and who had had the temerity to disturb them on a winter’s afternoon.

  Ralph mused that this was probably the first time some of them had actually spoken to each other. It seemed to take a disaster or near calamity to get the English to speak to their neighbours. He followed the Inspector into the spacious and tastefully decorated apartment. As he entered Rabinsky’s apartment he felt that he had stepped into a scene from a Chekhov Play. The walls were covered in dark paintings of religious scenes and icons and only needed the smell of incense and someone chanting a liturgy to complete the picture.

  Having ascertained who Ralph was and why he had arranged to meet with the owner of the apartment, the Inspector told him what had happened. It appeared that a neighbor had noticed that the front door had not been closed properly. When she got no answer after she had knocked several times and called out, she went into the flat and found Ivan slumped over his desk. She called 999, and shortly after they arrived the police and the ambulance crew confirmed that he was dead, apparently from a heart attack. There were no signs of an intruder although they had carried out the usual routine incident checks. Ralph explained about the work Ivan was doing for the University and that he understood that there was a workshop where he kept the paintings.

  “Can you tell us where that is, sir? It could be that if t
here was an intruder he may have known about it and got in here to find the keys or something. Nothing here seems to have been touched and some of the paintings look pretty valuable.”

  Ralph gave the Inspector Cynthia Harper’s phone number as he expected that being a stickler for procedure she would have the name of the company that was taking care of moving the paintings as well as the pick-up address of the workshop. All he recalled was that the shipper was that friend of Sarah’s, Paul Scott. The Inspector told one of the constables to check with the University and thanked Ralph for his help. As Ralph turned to leave he noticed a poster on Ivan’s desk advertising an international chess tournament in London on the previous day. The Inspector saw his glance and smiled at Ralph.

  “I see you noticed the poster too, sir. Rabinsky sounds like a Russian name, or it could be Polish, I suppose. All those Eastern Europeans seem to like chess, but I’m afraid that’s one tournament that this poor fellow didn’t make. Sad I suppose, but at least it seems as though he didn’t suffer. We may want to speak to you again, sir, although it all looks pretty straight forward. Drive safely and thanks again for your help.”

  As Ralph walked down the hallway he was stopped by one of Ivan’s neighbours. He could see that she was upset and obviously wanted to tell someone about the events that she had just witnessed.

  “I called the police, you know. It was only yesterday that I heard shouts or at least raised voices coming from Mr. Rabinsky’s apartment. I told the police it was about 5 in the afternoon. I was just going to have my tea. They sounded foreign. It was probably Russian. I used to hear Mr. Rabinsky on the phone to his relatives in Russia. He came from St. Petersburg, you know. A long time ago now. But he spoke to them regular as clockwork.”

  It struck Ralph that St Petersburg was popping up every time the subject of painting or works of art arose. Probably just a coincidence, he mused. The somewhat fragile looking lady clutched her thin sweater even tighter around her bony shoulders. Even with his thick coat Ralph was starting to feel the London damp creeping into his bones. He shuddered involuntarily as she continued with her story.