‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Interesting isn’t it? It’s obviously some sort of personal mark. A secret signature, if you like.’
‘If it’s secret, why is it in such a prominent place? Surely that would increase the chances of the deception being discovered?’
‘True,’ she agreed. ‘Perhaps whoever did this intended that it be discovered.’
‘But why would a forger want to be discovered? Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose?’
‘It would if the motive was financial gain. But in some cases I’ve heard about, the forger was less concerned with money than with fooling the experts. After the critics and curators have waxed lyrical about the unmistakable hand of the master being visible in every brushstroke, the forger pops up and reveals that the picture in question was painted not by Van Gogh in Arles in 1889, but by Joe Bloggs in Aunt Gertrude’s garden shed last December.’
How did the declaration found in Marcus Taylor’s pocket go? You so-called experts…You speculators and collectors who do not even know what you are buying… You are all allowing yourselves to be deceived and defrauded. There was another line, too. Something about taking action to draw public attention. Since the note was found on his body, the assumption had automatically been that the action he meant was his suicide. But if he hadn’t, in fact, killed himself, what could he have been referring to?
‘Gracie, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘Can I borrow back that sticker book for a minute?’
Gracie, having found the stickers already stuck down, was feeling gypped enough. She warily surrendered the album. ‘I suppose so,’ she said. ‘Just for a minute, but.’
The stamps dated from the previous year. Beneath each, inscribed in minuscule block capitals was a name. Some I recognised as belonging to artists. William Dobell was below a stamp commemorating the Seoul Olympics. Runners breasting a tape, 65 cents. Margaret Preston got paired with a possum. The British-Australian joint issue with the high culture theme bore the inscription ‘Drysdale’.
The CUSS catalogue that Bernice Kaufman gave me was still in my pocket. I unfolded it and checked the names against those under the stamps. There was a stamp corresponding to every artist in the collection. Thirty-eight names, thirty-eight stamps. The album was Taylor’s register of production, his output ledger.
Claire, naturally, was regarding my behaviour with a degree of incomprehension. ‘What’s all this?’ she said.
‘Just a minute.’ Using The Dictionary of Australian Artists, I checked two of the names. Noel Counihan and Jon Molvig. I wouldn’t have known their work if it was up me with an armful of impasto, but their names rang a bell. According to the reference book, they were both dead. I tried a name I didn’t recognise. It wasn’t listed. Nor were three others that were unfamiliar. By the look of it, the CUSS art collection contained only works by dead or undiscovered artists.
If this meant what it looked like it meant, the whole lot were what Salina Fleet would probably call referential images at the cutting edge of post-modern discourse. Fakes.
‘For Chrissake, tell me what’s going on!’ Claire was getting impatient, irritated by my lack of communication. ‘This is a joke, right? You’re playing an elaborate trick on me, aren’t you?’
‘I wish I was,’ I said. ‘Mind if I use your phone?’
‘Only if you tell me what’s going on.’
Gracie was all ears, galvanised by her mother’s response to my evasiveness. When I thrust the stamp album towards her, she went all shy and refused to take it back. I put it on her little desk instead.
‘I will,’ I told Claire. I put my hands lightly on her upper arms, a conciliatory gesture. She shrugged them away. ‘I promise. Just as soon as I find out myself. In the meantime, do you think you can put that picture back together the way it was?’
‘Aren’t you going to tell your friends?’
‘Tell them what? “You know your Drysdale? Well guess what? It’s not really a Drysdale at all. And here are the bits and pieces to prove it.” I’ve taken it without their knowledge or permission, don’t forget. Right now, the only option is to stick to the original plan and get it back where it belongs before they notice it’s gone. That way, I’ll have enough breathing room to figure out how to break it to them, or have them discover the truth themselves.’
She was, I could see, far from persuaded. But she was also curious enough to put her better judgment temporarily on hold. ‘Phone’s on the counter,’ she said.
I went out into the shop and dialled the Police Minister’s office and asked for Ken Sproule. ‘Is that criminal intelligence?’ I said. ‘What’s this I hear on the news about Taylor’s death being down to suspicious circumstances?’
The methodical whoomph of a pneumatic stapler came from the workroom.
‘I’m as much in the dark as you are,’ claimed Sproule. ‘Now that it’s become a police operational matter, it’s strictly arm’s length from us here in the minister’s office.’
‘Come off it. You must have some idea. What’s this about the girlfriend shooting through?’
Sproule’s ears pricked up audibly. ‘How’d you hear about that?’
‘So you do know something, then?’
Ken got fatherly. ‘A word to the wise, Murray. Don’t go dipping your bib in here. The cops are notoriously sensitive to any suggestion of political interference in the operational side of things. Do yourself a favour and keep well clear.’
‘Since when does asking a question constitute political interference? Don’t be a prick. Tell me what’s going on.’
‘What’s going on is a routine police inquiry into a sudden death,’ said Sproule in tones that brooked no contradiction. ‘Tell you what,’ he softened slightly. ‘If I hear anything relevant I’ll let you know. Can’t say fairer than that, okay?’ Okay as in end of issue. Okay as in never.
‘Well I certainly wouldn’t want to do anything that might jeopardise an ongoing investigation, Ken.’
Sproule, for some reason, thought I was being facetious. ‘Don’t get your wig in an uproar, Murray…’
But I was already hanging up. The stapler had finished its whoomphing and Claire had appeared in the archway, attentive. ‘I never did ask about your job,’ she said. ‘What exactly is it you do?’
It was time I came clean, told her the truth. ‘It’s hard to explain,’ I said. ‘I assist the minister.’
The parodic Drysdale was in its new frame, indistinguishable from its pre-accident condition. ‘Brilliant,’ I said, wrapping it in the beach towel. It was 1.35. Every minute’s delay increased the chance of the picture’s absence being discovered. And now there was potentially a great deal more at stake than a bit of embarrassment over some accidental damage. ‘How much do I owe you?’
This went down like an Elvis impersonator at La Scala. ‘You owe me an explanation, for a start.’
‘You’ll get one, I promise.’ I started for the door. ‘Soon as I can.’
Soft soap didn’t cut any ice around here. Claire blocked my way, hands on hips. ‘How soon will that be?’
‘I want to see you again. Soon and a lot. But I can’t do it today. I’ve got to get back to work, then I have to take Red to the airport. I won’t see him again for a couple of months and I want to spend a little time with him, just him and me, this evening. Let me take you to lunch tomorrow. I promise I’ll tell you everything then.’
The curtain was closed, Gracie not in sight. I put my hand on the back of Claire’s head. She didn’t resist but she wasn’t so enthusiastic any more. I gave her a big wet one and bolted out the door, feeling like a fool.
With a good run of green lights, I was back at the Trades Hall in six minutes and at the open door of the exhibition room in another two. My towel-wrapped package was under my arm. Bob Allroy was up his ladder, back turned, his hand in the etched-glass mantle of a reproduction light-fitting. Bob was one of the few men still in regular employment capable of making a day’s work out of changing a light globe. I crept across the room and slipped the picture back in place.