“If,” she’d swiftly responded, “you should happen upon any unsigned works in the style of Caravaggio—for instance, drawings or preliminary studies of the Salome painting, or other scenes in a similar vein—I should be most grateful for the opportunity to have them appraised, and to offer them to certain clients of mine.” Dubois, no fool, had instantly decoded the phrase “unsigned works in the style of,” and six months later, he wrote with the happy news that he’d “discovered” three unsigned studies “in the style of Caravaggio”: one of Salome’s face, one of the Baptist’s head on a trencher, and the third of the old woman (Salome’s mother, perhaps?) lurking in the background. Kensington had paid a thousand pounds apiece for them; a year later, he read that a rare group of three Caravaggio studies had been found and sold to a private collector, for the rumored sum of a million pounds!
Not long after producing the “Caravaggios,” he’d dined with Kensington in Paris at the King George V Hotel—a lovely, delicate piece of fish in white truffle oil, he recalled fondly—and she’d asked him to keep an eye out for other, similar finds. “My top clients are especially keen on Rembrandt, Titian, Michelangelo, and Botticelli,” she’d gushed. In that moment—the taste of the truffle oil vivid in his memory—Dubois had glimpsed a remarkable opening.
He’d just been hired by Avignon’s Petit Palais Museum to clean and restore their prized Botticelli, and it had occurred to him that the opportunity of a lifetime glittered before him, if he had the courage to seize it. “What do you think you could pay for a preliminary study of Botticelli’s Madonna and Child?” he inquired in an offhand tone. “First quality, of course; verifiable fifteenth-century materials.”
Her eyes took on a hungry gleam. “That would be quite a find,” she said, struggling to keep the excitement out of her voice. “I imagine I’d be able to pay somewhere in the range of, say, fifty thousand pounds?”
Dubois had nodded noncommittally. Then—after a moment’s pause—he delivered the coup de grace: “And what if I told you that the museum that thinks it owns the finished painting has been deceived? That the painting hanging in Avignon is a modern fake ... and that the actual, authentic painting might—possibly—be available, for the right price, to a very discreet buyer?”
She’d stared at him, openmouthed, all pretense of nonchalance gone. “You can’t be serious.” Then, leaning forward, laying a hand on his hand: “Can you? Are you? Is it really possible?”
He’d played it cool. “Notice, I said ‘what if?’ But I gather you find the idea intriguing. Do you have any clients with ambitions—and budgets—as lofty as that?”
She regained her poise swiftly. “I believe I do,” she purred. “How soon do you need to know?”
“One month,” he’d answered.
Two weeks later his phone rang. “I have a client who is extremely interested in ... the painting you mentioned to me in Paris,” she said. “Needless to say, he’d want assurances that the work is authentic.”
“Of course,” Dubois had responded, his voice smooth as fresh varnish. “And, I assume, he’d want proof that the other—the one on display—is not authentic.”
“Yes. That, too.”
“Neither of those conditions poses a problem,” he went on. “If.”
“If what?”
“If the price is right. Bear in mind, only four paintings by Botticelli are in private hands. Four. For a true connoisseur, this would be the acquisition of a lifetime.”
“I understand.” She paused. “Did you have a figure in mind? A number I could relay to my client for consideration?”
“I like round numbers,” Dubois had answered. “Do you recall the figure you mentioned for a preliminary study? Fifty thousand, I believe?”
“Yes, that’s correct.” Her voice was hungry.
“Multiply that by a hundred.” He heard a soft gasp at the other end of the line. “It is,” he reminded her, “one of Botticelli’s finest early works. Simple. Sweet. Vibrant. I understand, of course, if it’s more than your client can afford ...”
“I didn’t say that,” she countered, perhaps more eagerly than she might have wished. “Let me run this past him, and I’ll ring you back.”
Two hours later, she’d called back. “If you can conclusively demonstrate the authenticity of what you’re offering, we’re in.”
Dubois was smiling as he hung up.
Now, months later, he smiles again as he finishes applying the white-lead primer, cleans his brush, and lays out the pigments with which he will paint the “authentic” Botticelli for Felicia Kensington and her wealthy, greedy, and gullible client. Caveat emptor, he thinks: Let the buyer beware.
Chapter 5
Descartes