Man of Taste Chapter 14 and 15
Chapter 14
The next morning, armed with the addresses of the lawyer and the art restorer, they headed to Brantome.
Marie-Claude continued her stories as they traveled towards their destination.
“You’ll like this town. It’s as though it was built on an island. There are actually five bridges onto the main business section. At the wooded base of the crescent shaped cliff at one end of the city is a large Abbey. It has a long history dating back to a time when men lived in caves. You’ll see them, I’m sure.”
Later, she added, “We’ll be in the Green Perigord and this town makes one feel that time has stopped. The Dronne River surrounds the town, which is referred to as the ‘Venice of Perigord’. The Abbey dates back to Charlemagne in about the 9th century. The bell is considered the oldest in France and sits on the rocky ledge behind the remnants of the original monastery. That first monastery includes the ‘last judgment’ cave. The troglodyte caves are just beyond. There’s a fish farm nearby. The Dronne teems with trout. But that’s for another day.”
Bruce smiled. How he would like to spend a day fishing for trout in the rushing Dronne instead of fishing for a centuries-old drawing that could be anywhere in the world. But he had to start somewhere.
“Later, if we have time, I’d like you to see Bourdeille. It’s just up the road. It will tell you more about the Abbey. But first, I suggest we head to The Moulin de l’Abbaye. It’s a charming hotel with a wonderful dining room. We can leave the car there, see Dr. Biot, and then return for lunch. I took the liberty of calling Dr. Biot before we left. He’ll see you at eleven. Then, after lunch, we can spend a short half hour with Maitre Picard. He’s an old family friend and he is anxious to meet you.”
“Does he know why we’re coming?’
“No. I never need a reason to see him. I’ve known him all my life.”
“Ah, bon,” Bruce remarked, beginning to feel at ease with the French language.
Marie-Claude awarded him with a smile and drove on.
The Moulin was a smallish building built next to a waterfall. It had a welcoming air about it and Marie-Claude was greeted with the deference due a lady of special status.
“Mr. Kellner and I will take lunch at 1 PM.”
The maître nodded and made a note on his reservations list.
“We shall leave my car here for the time we are away. We have a meeting.”
“Oui, Mademoiselle.” The reservation was secured. Marie-Claude led Bruce to the door. Across were caves cut out of the mountain. Next door was the huge Abbey. They walked past it and turned down a busy street.
Chapter 15
Dr. Raymond Biot’s place of business was right in front of them.
Once inside, they heard humming. Bruce looked up to see a corpulent older man in a white coat busily cleaning a painting with a soft cloth.
The man looked over his glasses and smiled broadly.
“Ah, Mademoiselle. You have arrived and on time.” His English was very good. Bruce extended his hand. “I am Bruce Kellner, from New York.”
Dr Biot rubbed his oily hand on his coat. “Ah, M Kellner, the international art investigator. You will excuse my overworked hand,” he said. “I am so happy to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Bruce smiled. “I have followed your career with some interest,” he added. “I have read some of your papers on restoration.”
“Ah, you flatter an old man.”
“Not at all. I read your papers with great interest.”
“Well,” said M. Biot, “I must tell you that I know your work very well. I first heard of you years ago when you found the missing Cezanne. Later I read of your discovery of a Rembrandt forgery at the Metropolitan and just last week I heard of the exceptional work you did in recovering the original portrait of Gertrude Stein by M Picasso.”
“News travels fast,” Bruce replied.
“Yes,” added Biot. “I was at a reception with Picasso at La Californie. He told me about it himself. It is interesting that we should meet now, here in my studio. Surely you are not here to buy a painting. La Contesse did not tell me you would be with her. She only said a friend wanted to meet me. To what do I owe this honor?”
Bruce edged closer to the older man. “This is rather delicate and I’m not certain how you can help me.” They sat facing each other.
Marie-Claude interjected. “Monsieur Biot, I brought Mr. Kellner here today to tell you that the da Vinci that hung in our Chateau is missing. It seems to have disappeared.”
Biot’s eyes widened. Through a frown he said, “But so few people knew it even existed. Over the years it was just another picture on a wall. It is hardly a remarkable drawing but important since it was said to have been done by the master himself, centuries ago.”
He turned to Marie-Claude. “It was only when I was summoned to Hautefort to discuss cleaning some paintings that your brother showed it to me. I am certain that there are paintings at Hautefort that are worth more than the little da Vinci drawing. For example, the Caravaggio or the Foujitas. I have a weakness for Foujita. He was quite the rage when I was a young man. Do you know of his work?”
“I certainly do. I’ve seen a number of his works in many galleries and museums. He was a Paris based Japanese impressionist; very popular in the twenties. But that is not the point. The value of a painting is often decided by the person who wants it. In this case, someone wanted the da Vinci.”
“Touché,” Biot said in agreement. “I have always found it interesting how one man craves a certain artist while another does not. On the other hand, some people want what’s rare and the drawing you have lost, Mademoiselle, was rather unique, if not overly artistic. It was part of an idea by one of the world’s most forward-thinking men. Imagine going through life with an obsession for man to be able to fly.”
“Yes. He was ahead of his time”.
“So, how can I help you?’
Bruce sat forward and looked directly into the older man’s eyes. “I would like you to ask around in your circle here in France. Perhaps you can suggest that you know that the picture is missing and are interested in it. Someone may know someone who knows something. You might be asked to assess it for someone or…”
Biot interrupted. “Or offer to buy it. Value doesn’t always stem from beauty. I personally never dreamed of owning a da Vinci. But I don’t think there is much chance that I can be of help. I would think that the drawing has been taken from the country, possibly back to Italy. Some people would argue that Italian art should stay in Italy, especially something done by the great da Vinci. No, I don’t think I can help you, but you never know. By the way, how many people know it was stolen?”
Marie-Claude spoke up. “My brother, the inspector of police in Montignac, Mr. Drollet, Marcel, my family’s trusted friend and aid to my brother, Mr Kellner and now you.”
The old man pursed his lips. “Yes, and now me. Well, I can promise nothing but I shall spread the word that it is missing and see what happens.”
“Is that the wisest route?” Bruce asked.
“In this business, greed is a primary force. Once it gets out that such a drawing is out there, someone might start looking for it. The more people who do, the sooner we’ll find out where it is. I’ll mention it, let us say, in a few places.”
Before showing them out, he added, “You know, of course, that the Art Loss Register lists about one hundred thousand objects missing and unrecovered. Many are works of little interest, but a da Vinci drawing…”
“Exactly,” Bruce agreed. “It is an unusual object to be searching for. But we’ll try.”
C. Arnie Greenberg
