All's Fair: A Jonathan Benjamin Franklin Mystery

By David L. Gersh

Why would Pamela Knorrington claim a painting was stolen from a museum that had never heard of it? Is she crazy? Or can a thief make works of art disappear?

In desperation Pamela calls her friend, Mimi Aaron, the billionaire, Simon Aaron’s ex-wife. Her tale arouses Mimi’s curiosity. The weather in New York has been lousy and Mimi is bored silly. Los Angeles looks pretty tempting.

She recruits a reluctant Jonathan Benjamin Franklin to assist her. Jonathan’s wife, Nicole DeSant, is seven months pregnant and Jonathan isn’t about to leave. But Mimi Aaron can be very persuasive indeed. Besides, Nicole has Rufus, her beloved pug, to watch over her. And while Jonathan is a dear, he does tend to hover a bit too much.

In the wilds of Bel Air, working night and day, Mimi and Jonathan seek to unravel the mystery. And they discover ... nothing. Then Pamela Knorrington disappears.

Jonathan is once again in over his head. Maybe he just should stop digging. Particularly since a Columbian drug lord would like to bury him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Books
• Release date: Jul 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215682982

Book preview

Prologue

Phillipe Durande was a thief. But he was not a common thief. He played by the Rules. His own Rules. And his Rules were foolproof.

Some would say that in the art world, he fit right in. He was tall and lean, with a full head of flowing gray hair. He spent a great deal of money on his hair.

He had a wide, sincere smile and could be charming when required. He had honed his charm in his years at the Institute. His piercing gray eyes brimmed with intelligence. Women found his rather long face appealing.

It now had been eight years and not one person had an inkling they had been robbed. Nor would they ever. But he had a problem. He was too successful. Supply was expanding. He had to increase sales.

It unsettled him. This was delicate. And it was as close as he came to being vulnerable. But it was necessary. Of course, he had no intention of telling his guest the truth.

He sat at a prized table at Carcone. It was in some circles, the ones that mattered, the most sought-after restaurant in Los Angeles. Its décor was sleekly modern. The wood trim was exotic and warmed the room. Indirect lighting cast a pleasing glow on the high ceilings.

Well-dressed men and women sat at widely set tables. Silver and crystal sparkled. There was the subtle tinkle of silverware on china and the musical murmur of soft voices.

Everything here spoke of restrained wealth. Except the prices on the menu. They spoke of a substantial wealth transfer.

Durande had been known at Carcone for years. His impeccable manners, graced by substantial tips, assured him access. Carcone was so exclusive it did not have a listed phone number. Nor was its name on the building. The only way to make a reservation was to have the phone number and any caller unknown to the proprietor had to have been recommended by someone very important.

Privacy was expected and enforced. There were several A-list actors and industry executives among the guests tonight.

For Phillipe Durande, Carcone was a business tool. The food was wonderful, yes, but Durande preferred the small French café around the corner from his home where the wife cooked and the husband tended the front of the house.

Carcone was intended tonight to show his guest where he could be. Where he should be.

Phillipe rose as a dapper, short man with a thin dark mustache and a two-thousand-dollar suit came across the room behind the maître de. The little man, perhaps in his early 50s, was balding and had a small pot belly, well concealed by his bespoke suit. Durande thought the mustache might be dyed, since the carefully trimmed fringe of hair was gray. The little man looked to his right and left as he walked. He was clearly impressed.

As he got nearer, Durande noticed something was different. He focused. It was the glasses. These were round and red. They were discordant with the image of the conservative German art dealer who had been wearing gold wire frames the last time they had met. What did it mean? Was it important? Perhaps it was a good sign.

Durande rose and extended his hand. Hans, it is good to see you again. Hans Endal’s hand felt soft in Durande’s grasp.

Please sit. Durande made a palm out gesture as the maître de held back Endal’s chair.

What a delightful restaurant, Endal marveled, looking around him. I cannot believe I’ve not heard of it.

Ah, Hans, we do have our little secrets. It is nice. And the food is very good.

They engaged in a few minutes of polite chatting that Durande soon tired of.

How are things in Europe? he asked rather abruptly.

Endal was a well-known dealer with a gallery in Berlin and a taste for the glitter of Los Angeles. Apparently, that was reflected in his new eye-wear.

His tailored suit and Gucci tie hinted at money. Phillipe Durande knew it was a facade. Endal was strapped.

The art world has big ears and a bigger mouth. The rumors were that Endal was in serious financial difficulty.

Durande had been grooming this relationship for a year, observing and researching. He had had Endal investigated by a private security firm.

Hans Endal was a peasant. He was born in a small village in Saxony to a working-class family. His father was a candlemaker, much to Durande’s amusement.

He had left at 16 and emerged in Berlin. How he had earned a living in Berlin at that age was unknown, but Durande thought it probably was unseemly. Hans Endal had been a delicate boy and Berlin was a raucous city. He was self-educated, which said something for his determination.

When he was 24, he became an assistant at a large Berlin art gallery and worked his way up for six years. He left the gallery for reasons Durande’s people were unable to substantiate, but at least one person indicated he was fired.

He opened his own gallery the next year, and against all odds, succeeded. The financing for his gallery came from unknown sources. It was rumored that Endal was not above making a quick profit by less than scrupulous means, although that was not unusual for a dealer, particularly one who did not command great wealth or reputation.

Phillipe Durande had concluded that Endal was the right man for his needs. Endal seemed too interested in money and was not too keen on asking its source. And by all indications from his investigators, he could follow instructions in his careful German manner. Durande had been awaiting an opportunity.

Europe is difficult, Endal said. As here. This pandemic has made the gallery business almost unknowable. But, he said philosophically, we survive. He lifted his hand in a small, weary wave. We always have.

They chatted on about the difficulties of travelling and mutual acquaintances. The sommelier came with a bottle of red wine and presented it grandly to Durande, displaying the label.

As you requested, Mr. Durande. The 1990 Chateau Palmer. The last in our cellar. A wonderful choice. He held the bottle reverently, like a religious artifact.

Durande mused that the sommelier should hold it reverently, given its price. A piece of the true cross might be less expensive. He nodded.

Thank you, William.

The sommelier cut the foil and carefully removed and examined the cork. He placed a crystal decanter on the table and lit a candle that he placed beyond it. He tipped the decanter and carefully poured the deep red wine from the bottle into it, watching the liquid against the candlelight, being sure to allow no sediment from the bottle of aging wine to slip into the decanter. He smiled at his success.

He poured a tiny amount of the wine into the small silver cup he wore on a silver chain around his neck and sipped. He closed his eyes as he swirled the wine in his mouth, allowing the wine to flow over his tongue before swallowing. He raised his head to let the long lingering after-taste infuse him. Then he sighed.

Superb, he pronounced.

Phillipe had always enjoyed the theatre of a good sommelier. He almost wanted to applaud. He did not, but it did draw a smile. He glanced at Endal, who seemed entranced.

The sommelier poured a taste into Durande’s large, thin crystal glass. Durande swirled the wine and brought the glass to his nose and inhaled.

Ah, he said.

Then he lifted the glass, turned it from side to side, watching the tears of wine slip down the inside of the crystal. He took a sip and allowed himself time to reflect on the fullness of the wine on the mid and back palate of his mouth.

He looked up at the sommelier. You are correct, William. Superb, he said, lifting his napkin to dab his lips.

He turned his attention back to Endal.

Hans, I find this wine has reached its perfection this year. Quite good. Excellent, in fact. Will you have some?

Endal nodded. Please.

The sommelier carefully poured some of the wine into his glass.

Sante, Endal said holding up his glass and tilting it towards Durande with a nod, as the sommelier retreated.

Sante, Durande echoed, lifting his glass.

They both paused to savor. Durande broke the silence.

So, Hans, let us talk about a new gallery. I have been thinking. You seem to like it here. Your talents are certainly needed. Might you be interested in opening a gallery in Los Angeles?

Hans Endal had a soft but distinct Oxford accent, cultivated in the absence of an any education to support it. He lowered his wine glass and placed it on the table, looking down.

Phillipe, you do get to the point, do you not, he said raising his eyes and laughing. His laugh tinkled like a little girl’s. It was an unsettling trait.

The answer is, ‘perhaps’, he continued. I am quite busy in Berlin. We are expanding. Endal was rubbing his hands together. A poker tell that Durande had noticed several months ago. Endal was lying, of course.

But if, as you say, there is an opportunity, Endal said in a serious tone, I would certainly consider it. Can you tell me your thoughts?

Durande’s thoughts were quite clear. He had closed one of the galleries he had founded. He needed a new director. The former one was an unfortunate choice. He had been far too curious.

Now he needed to act. He had six paintings in his art storage facility. There were several others in the pipeline. They created his own cash flow problem, but of a different sort than Endal’s.

Individually the pieces were of good quality, but unremarkable in an art world where $1,000,000 didn’t get you into the waiting room of the sanctum sanctorum. As always, each were worth less than $500,000. But too many appearing at once might raise an eyebrow.

Getting the art was easy. Selling it presented the biggest problem. If an art object could be fenced, it was worth perhaps ten cents on the dollar. Even if that was acceptable, the paintings Durande acquired could not be fenced. The paintings were exquisite, but the artists were not brand names. They were paintings for connoisseurs. True collectors.

Durande had founded four galleries as the silent partner who provided the capital. Each gallery had a different focus. Finding gallerists was not a problem. This was the art world. There were always galleries in financial straits or museum curators who wanted to change sides. Finding the right one was the difficulty. It was hard being a businessman when all you wanted to do was acquire beautiful works of art.

None of the gallerists knew the capital was his own. He had been extremely cautious. Three had been successful. They had been expensive to form and they had functioned like other galleries. They put on exhibitions and sold paintings in addition to those Durande provided. They were breaking even. One was actually making money.

As far as his partners were concerned, he only acted as the middle man working his network of collectors to consign art to a gallery. It happened all the time. The names of the collectors were a carefully guarded secret, as any gallerist would expect. All intermediaries protected their source. The paintings that Durande consigned were owned by nameless LLCs.

The captain came to the table. I’m sorry to interrupt. Have you had a moment to look at the menu?

He took their order. Durande always had an Omelette aux Fine Herbes that the chef did particularly well. It wasn’t on the menu. They did it for him.

It was an old Parisian custom from his childhood. It was also unusual enough to be distinctive.

Of course, a red Bordeaux with an omelet was inappropriate. But Durande was sophisticated enough not to care. He liked red wine.

I’d like the Dover Sole, Hans Endal said.

Durande held up his hand. The captain stopped with his pencil poised above his pad. He appeared to be holding his breath.

Ah, Hans. No, Durande said firmly, shaking his finger back and forth. You must have the filet minion. It is superb here. In fact, it is magnificent. And with this wine, Durande gestured towards the bottle of Chateau Palmer…. Durande brought his fingers to his lips and kissed them. You must forgive me my foolishness, he continued. My omelet is an old habit, you see. But you must not let this opportunity pass.

How fortunate it was. This would become a test of how Endal would take instruction from him.

And Hans Endal passed with flying colors.

Yes, of course, the steak please.

The captain nodded approvingly. A wonderful choice. How would you like that prepared, sir? he said with a slight lift in his voice.

Medium. He glanced up at Durande who shook his head slightly, with a vague frown.

Or rather, I think medium rare.

Excellent, sir, the captain said, turning away with a slight bow towards Durande.

They returned to their wine and a companiable silence. Finally, Endal spoke, bringing them back to the topic for which Durande had provided the entertainment. Durande had been waiting for this moment. He had cast the bait. Now he needed to know if the fish was interested.

I am intrigued, Phillipe. But why did you choose me?

Durande studied Endal for a moment in silence. Because you are as dumb as a post and don’t look it. And you will do as you are told for the kind of money you will make, he thought.

He leaned forward, as if to take Endal into his confidence. He spoke in a low voice.

We need your expertise and your European contacts to make sales. You are known for your charm and knowledge. Durande gave him his most sincere smile.

I’m flattered, Endal said. But as I said, I do not have the available resources at this time to consider it.

Durande made a hand motion, dismissing the comment. My investor proposes putting up the initial capital in return for 50% of the business. I will be his voice and have his power of attorney. He requires me to oversee all business aspects of the gallery. I will set business policy. You, of course will be in charge of all artistic matters.

But what about my gallery in Berlin?

You would, of course, retain it. It will be helpful in selling our paintings. More than helpful. That was part of the reason he had chosen Endal. I would propose, continued Durande, getting 25% of the profit on any painting consigned or acquired here that you sold there.

But I will need staff.

I had assumed that. It is budgeted for.

That all sounds fine, Phillipe, but my contacts in the United States are limited. It will take some time to achieve the volume we need to make a gallery profitable.

Yes. But your fine reputation will help. We will hire a publicist, of course.

Of course?

And I do have extensive contacts here, Durande said. I have been helping and advising collectors for the last nine years, since I resigned as chief curator at the Institute.

Perhaps resigned was not the perfect word, given the ultimatum he had received from the new director at the Institute, that ass, but it would do. Durande gave a mental gallic shrug and continued.

I have developed an extensive network of active collectors. Very private people, you understand. They rely upon my advice and my discretion. That trust is the essence of the relationship. It is essential.

I understand. It is the same in Berlin.

My collectors buy and sell regularly. They do so through me. Consequently, I will be able to provide works for the gallery.

Endal thought of the conflict-of-interest Durande had just stated, but did not mention it. That was between Durande and his clients.

I need to tell you of one peculiarity. My collectors will not tolerate their art being presented on the internet.

Why in heavens not? It is becoming a major market.

They do not believe in it. They believe it debases the art. We must, naturally, accept their wishes. That wasn’t the reason, of course. Durande wanted as little exposure of his paintings as possible. There was no reason to take unnecessary risks. He would deal with art fairs as the need arose. The gallery could always participate. Just not with his art.

Endal shrugged. It was a minor eccentricity.

Are you in a position to discuss the terms of such an arrangement? he asked.

Oh, yes, Hans. And we can discuss the terms of your salary and travel costs as well, if you are willing to commit to an arrangement.

Who is your investor?

He is one of my major collectors, but he does not wish to be named. I will have a small portion of his share. Does any of that cause you a problem?

Is your client reputable?

Imminently.

Then, no, I do not have an issue. He laughed. We do get to deal with peculiar sorts in our business, do we not, Phillipe?

The Rules

Phillipe Durande loved his work. He knew it inside out from his years at the Art Institute of Baltimore. It was the most ingenious plan he had ever conceived. He was quite proud of his thoroughness. His work was lucrative. Illegal, yes, but lucrative.

Museums, like other businesses, had worked for years to become more efficient and become paperless. Now, everything was on computer. It had not been hard to find someone to hack the museum inventory systems. The Ukraine, Hungry, Romania, Russia;