The mysterious painting

After pushing back from its gate, the Swiss Air midday flight to New York moved slowly through a light snow flurry to its designated runway.

The First-Class cabin was less than half full, the passenger in 1A was pleased there was no one opposite. A smiling cabin crew offered him a glass of champagne, he declined, asking for double single malt. He thought about the voicemail, a somewhat guarded call, coming from someone he hadn’t spoken to in 15 years. What drove his final response was the email attachment that followed. 

He'd tried retuning the call but it went to voice mail. He sensed something was wrong.  

He’d barely had time to return to his apartment from where he’d been staying, find his passport, pack a new bag and take his car service to the airport.

Something was telling him, missing the flight was not an option.

Phillipe Abano was an internationally recognised art specialist, having spent 35 years researching the French Impressionists. A group of artists whose collective works long after their passing, at auction would shake the artworld to its foundations.

As with many famous artists, there were finished canvases, although documented, which had never been located. The Nazi art plunder, which began in Germany in 1933 contributed to the loss of artworks across Europe. The French Impressionists were not exempt from this pillage.

Forty-eight hours previous.

Marie le Pen was an art restorer. She worked almost exclusively for the Metropolitan Museum of Art, specialising in the restoration of damaged water colours. 

On occasion she did private restoration, with the Museums’ knowledge.

She’d taken a call from a person representing a Mr Retzlaff, saying she’d been recommended by her superior at the Museum as someone to inspect a damaged watercolour he possessed. Marie who loved her work, agreed to view the painting. She agreed a time the following day. Mr Retzlaff would send a car. Very swish she thought.  

After offloading her bags from the limousine sent for her, she looked around. The street was amazing, narrow with private residences, no commercial properties. The houses all appeared to be of similar build five or six floors above ground with basements or walkdowns.

Every property was maintained like new, flowers and trees adorned the street, there was no garbage and no graffiti.

The residence they stopped in front of was impressive, with red brick and huge floor to ceiling windows, edged with carved stone. At roof level, gargoyles peered down, surveying the scene. This was a part of New York most people would never see. Amazing.

She followed the driver up the marble steps, he pulled on the brass handle and returned to the car.

A man wearing a bow tie and black trousers answered. ‘Yes madam? He inquired,

‘I’m Marie Le Pen, I believe you’re expecting me? She smiled.

‘We are indeed madam.’ the stern-faced man replied.

The entrance hall was huge. She could smell timber and brass polish. The black and white chequered tiled floor was straight out of an English TV series.

The doors leading off the foyer were all closed. A majestic sweeping staircase held sway over the entrance. Huge brass vases once filled with flowers stood empty, either side of the entrance. Apart from the electric light, the only modern consideration was a mechanical elevator.

‘Please,’ the man gestured, ‘follow me. They entered the elevator, along with her baggage, Marie watched as the man pressed 5, the door closed and they began their ascent. 

On the fifth floor was another vestibule. This one had more polished timber and huge windows onto the street below.

‘This way,’ he gestured then walked along a long corridor before he opened a large double door into what looked like a series of smaller spaces.   

If Marie hadn’t had complete faith in her boss, she’d have been scared.

At one side of the room a man sat. Straight backed with silver grey hair. She guessed at least late 80s, wearing a green corduroy smoking jacked. He stood, she could smell cigar smoke, 'thank you for coming, I’m Peter Retzlaff, fact is, Mis Le pen, I need an expert opinion as to a certain painting that is in my possession. Should I, or should I not restore it. Your superior at the Met spoke most highly of you.’ 

Marie saw several large art tables, specialist seats and an array of instruments all designed specifically for art restoration. She was gobsmacked, there had to be a million dollars in equipment and instruments, brand knew, some still in their original packaging, just sitting there.

The old man waved his hand and the valet unlocked a large steel cabinet with racks of what looked to Maria like canvases, painted canvases in various stages of decomposition. Strange she thought.

He slid one of the racks out and removed a painting, a watercolour that Maria recognised. After putting on her smock and gloves, examined the item more closely.

Behind her a phone rang, the valet took a cell phone from his pocket and listened, then said something softly to the old man. They steeped away to the side of the room, out of earshot. Maria continued looking at the canvas, heavily water damaged with a once grand frame that also appeared flawed. She was about to make some preliminary notes into her phone, as she moved around the table a splash of red caught her eye. The steel cabinet which held the damaged painting was open on one side. What she saw made her heart stand still. It was a large canvas, of what appeared to be small wooden bridge over water in a garden. Although no expert, she’d seem enough examples of French Impressionistic work to know this could be one.

Marie quickly turned her phone to camera taking two quick shots, only to be interrupted by raised voices. The old man was saying something to the valet in what sounded like German, who dashed past her securing the door to the cabinet. Ending her view.

She said nothing, returning to the recorder in her phone, her head down, trying to appear as though she was concentrating. 

The old man looked suspiciously at her. Said nothing. She could feel his eyes.

‘My god, what have you just seen? She asked herself.

Maria spent the next two hours making notes and photographing the damage.

She agreed to return the following day with her recommendations and estimates, should she consider it restorable. Retzlaff agreed, giving her a copy of a providence document relating to the painting, which she would need to study. He told her he would send a car for her at an agreed time. She shook his hand and returned to the waiting limousine.

The previous two hours did not sit well with her. Quite why, she couldn’t say. The images of the red canvas wouldn’t leave her.  

The storm had hit with a vengeance, sudden spring rain washing the roadways, reminding New Yorkers, summer was not far away.   

The crowded eateries on the streets of the East Village were suddenly deserted, sending outside diners scrambling for shelter inside. 

From her small single bed apartment off McDougall Street above a drug store, Maria sat looking at the two images she’d downloaded from her camera. The room was quiet, save for the rhythm of the rain tapping at her window.

On the larger screen she could see more clearly the image she’d snapped earlier.   

The images were very much French Impressionistic, of the late 19^th or early 20^th century. She could see the attempt to produce work inspired by real life, it was revolutionary.

French Impressionist artists rejected classical subject matter in favour of modernity, seeking to produce works that represented their current circumstances and environments.

The more she looked the more she was convinced; it was what she suspected.  

‘My God,’ she exclaimed, ‘could it be a Monet? Hidden in a steel cabinet in a residence on the Upper West Side?' It would explain the old man’s annoyance at the cabinet being left open, particularly in the presence of a third party, who just happened to be an art restoration expert.

Maria took stock, pouring another glass of wine, wondering what she should do next.

She thought about the man who had mentored her 15 years ago at Switzerland’s largest art museum, the Kunsthaus Zürich. Phillipe Abano. If anyone could make sense on what she had seen, he could.

She’d not had any contact with Phillipe for over a decade. Now he worked in a private capacity, advising galleries and writing books on the subject of French art, in particular, French Impressionism.

His web page provided email and phone contact details.

Maria thought carefully as how she should frame the call without identifying the object. 

Before she made the call, she uploaded the two photographs into a separate folder, attaching it to the email address she had for Phillipe Abano.

Suspecting the call would go to voice mail, she’d prepared a statement. At10.30pm she made the call, voicemail – she introduced herself telling him of her current position at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, reminding him of their previous association. How she’d come to see what she’d seen, making no reference to a place or names. Asking him for his opinion as to the images attached to the following email.

Finishing the call, she pressed the send button.

In the street below, a man sat in a black limousine, its wipers on intermittent sweeps clearing the spitting rain, watching the illuminated small window above the drug store.

The Swiss Air flight gathered speed as it approached its take off point at Zurich Airport, food and service trolleys rattled in their compartments as the aircraft’s nose finally lifted into a grey overcast day, the engines screaming.   

Phillipe Abano was anxious and at the same time nervous processing what he’d heard and seen in the previous few hours from one Maria le Pen. Once the pilot had removed the seatbelt sign, he reached for his laptop. Putting on his glasses, began his search.

East Village New York City

Detectives Allison Moroney and her partner Alex Sonny stood at the open door of 1A, the apartment above the drug store in the East Village. They flashed their shields at the uniform on the door, ‘what we got? Allison inquired, the uniformed officers badge’s read Lomax, ‘so officer Lomax, talk to us.’  

The officer opened his note book, ‘a deceased female found dead after we gained entry possible gunshot. A Miss Holland,’ he gestured upwards, ‘in 2A reported a cat calling and scratching at the deceased’s door. Apparently, the tenant regularly let her cat out when she came home from work and then opened up when pussy wanted in. Except, this time no response, cat keeps calling. She, Miss Holland knocked, nothing. As she heard the tenant arrive earlier that evening, she was reluctant to use the spare key she had, deciding to call 911 instead. We attended, the cat was still scratching at the door, Miss Holland gave us the key and witnessed a non-forced entry. We discovered the body, and called the station, securing the scene. The ME who arrived shortly after we called it in, puts time of death at around 8pm, give or take.’

Pulling on latex gloves, Detective Moroney knelt next to the body, ‘ID?

‘Yes, a wallet with cash and cards, a Maria le Pen, 37 works at the Metropolitan museum as an art restorer.’ ID shows her address as here. No drivers licence.’

Detective Sunny moved carefully around the small room, ‘laptop, cell?

‘Neither, though I’m guessing she had both, they’re chargers for each in here and in the bedroom.’

‘To re-cap,’ Sonny offers, ‘no phone no laptop, nothing taken except said cell and computer, not a robbery then and no sign of a forced entry.’ Sonny looked at his partner sceptically, shrugging his huge shoulders. 

‘Single gunshot between the eyes small calibre, maybee.22, very professional. This is look like a hit to me, Moroney offered, what do you think?

After three hours of intense inflight investigation Phillipe Abano concluded it was a work by Claude Monet. Albeit a later work. His once-subtle transitions between shades became bolder and less precise, reflecting the challenges posed by his deteriorating eyesight. Monet’s health struggles extended beyond his eyes, but his vision loss had the most direct impact on his art. And it was this Phillipe Abano recognised.

He'd even found a reference to a non-catalogued work titled - Pont sur l’eau bleue -

 bridge over blue water - it was listed as one of several being prepared by Monet’s agent for exhibit in Paris. The exhibition neve eventuated; the listed paintings unaccounted for. This was no great mystery for Armond, a number of explanations could be found, the artist withdrew the works, no reason given, an issue with the gallery, or, sold before exhibition, the latter Armond found more convincing. It would also explain its anonymity for over a century. A private, or family collection that may have suffered at the hands of the Nazi art plunder of the 30’s. The whereabouts of many were still unknown. 

Either way, a mystery that may well be explained when he was to meet with Maria le Pen in four hours’ time.