The Forgotten Painting by Gabriel Farago (readnow .TXT) 📕

Twenty-five million I have. Twenty-five million. It’s against you now, sir. Any advances on twenty-five million?’

‘Twenty-seven’, called out someone else at the back. A new bidder had entered the arena.

Sitting next to Krakowski in the front row, Dr Rosen’s head began to spin as the bidding became more spirited and advanced rapidly towards the thirty million mark. She reached for Krakowski’s hand and squeezed it. Transported by memories of that fateful morning in Warsaw a lifetime ago, Krakowski remembered his distant past, images of his murdered family and Auschwitz merging into a painful blur. He turned towards Dr Rosen and whispered, ‘Pinch me and tell me this is real’, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. Dr Rosen squeezed his hand again in silent reply.

By now, three new bidders—all galleries—had entered the contest, quickly pushing up the price. Delighted—his face glowing with excitement—the auctioneer glanced in the direction of his two assistants, who were each taking bids over the phone from regulars wanting to stay out of the limelight.

One by one, the bidders in the room fell silent as the bidding approached the thirty-five million mark, until only the two phone-bidders remained. A hush fell over the auction room as the auctioneer focused on his assistants, their mobile phones pressed to their ears.

‘Thirty-five million I have; thirty-five million pounds for a masterpiece with a unique history. Any advance on thirty-five?’ the auctioneer droned on, carefully watching his assistants, anxious not to lose momentum. Then suddenly, one of the assistants shook his head and slipped the phone into his pocket. The auctioneer lifted his gavel. ‘Thirty-five million once; thirty-five million twice …’ The auctioneer paused, staring around the silent room. ‘Are you all done?’ he asked, all eyes in the room on his gavel. For a long moment, everyone in the room was completely still. Then suddenly, the pregnant silence was shattered as the auctioneer slammed down his gavel, denting the side of the lectern in front of him. ‘Sold!’ he cried out triumphantly. ‘Sold for thirty-five million pounds; congratulations!’

Cecilia Crawford pushed through the noisy crowd heading for the exit and tried to reach Jack, who was shaking Krakowski’s hand in front of the podium. ‘Mr Rogan,’ she shouted, holding up her notebook, ‘a brief word?’

Jack looked at the breathless reporter and smiled. ‘What can I do for you, Miss Crawford?’

‘Can you tell me what happened in the Imperial Crypt in Vienna?’ she asked, giving Jack her best smile. ‘My article wouldn’t be complete without it.’

‘I see. Dinner?’

‘Sure; why not?’

‘My hotel at seven?’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘The Waldorf.’

‘I’ll be there.’

 

 

Jack watched the striking young woman walk slowly towards him in the lobby. Wow! What a transformation, he thought, extending his hand. Jeans, sneakers and sweater had been exchanged for a simple black designer dress, high heels and a pair of stunning earrings. Swept up, Cecilia Crawford’s hair looked stylish and exposed her graceful neck. Well aware of the effect she had on men, she walked confidently up to Jack and shook his hand.

‘Drink?’ he asked, motioning towards the bar.

‘Absolutely.’

‘Thank you, Mr Rogan’, said Cecilia Crawford, sipping the vodka martini the barman had placed in front of her.

‘What for?’

‘Talking to me. I have to file my article later tonight …’

‘Please call me Jack’, interrupted her host, enjoying himself.

‘Then you must call me Celia; all my friends do.’

‘Chanel?’ asked Jack, leaning towards his guest, the tone of his voice conspiratorial.

A little taken aback, Celia looked at Jack. This guy is good, she thought, a smile creasing the corners of her mouth. ‘Not bad’, she said. ‘It is. Allure, in fact.’

‘Ah.’ Jack nodded appreciatively. He had a knack with perfumes and had used it often to break the ice and put women at ease. ‘I’ll tell you why I agreed to this meeting’, he said. ‘According to my publicist, you are very thorough, objective and do your homework. I think she’s right. I particularly liked your article about Dental Gold and Other Horrors. You obviously read my book; few journalists do.’

‘Well, thank you’, replied Celia, acknowledging the compliment. ‘I’ve read all of your books.’

‘You have? As a fan perhaps?’

‘Purely professional’, replied Celia, enjoying the banter.

‘Pity. Just when I thought …’

‘Don’t look so disappointed. You just told me what you liked about me. Allow me to tell you what I like about you—’

‘Another drink?’ interrupted Jack, a little embarrassed.

‘Please.’

‘Well?’

‘You are completely unaffected by your fame; you've managed to retain your persona; you speak your mind and don’t pander to the media. Very refreshing.’

‘Wow! That’s direct’, said Jack, laughing. ‘You reckon you can take the boy out of the outback, but you can’t take the outback out of the boy? Is that it?’

‘Something like that.’

‘My publicist would be disappointed to hear that. I always get into trouble with my wardrobe. She thinks I dress like a country bumpkin and makes me buy stuff I don’t like … Boss or Armani; it just isn’t me.’

‘Don’t listen to her. It’s part of your charm; trust me’, interjected Celia. ‘You should have seen the people at the auction this morning when you spoke. You had them in the palm of your hand; hanging on your every word. Not many can pull this off. A bit like the news conference at Heathrow you gave with Dr Rosen after you returned from Somalia in the Time Machine’s plane. That was quite a show.’

‘You were there?’

‘I was. It was one of the most exciting media appearances I’ve been to; like a movie, but without a script. You are a born storyteller.’

Jack held up his hand. ‘Enough! No more compliments, please. Let’s have dinner; I’m starving’, he said, laughing. ‘Country appetite, I’m afraid. Another one of my failings.’

Celia put down her glass, her eyes sparkling. ‘Let’s do that.’

 

Jack ordered two cognacs and sat back in his comfortable chair after the waiter had cleared away the dinner plates. Enjoying the ambience in the elegant dining room and the company of the exciting woman sitting opposite, he began to relax.

For a journalist pursuing a story, Celia had been very restrained. Not once had she mentioned the Imperial Crypt or the sarcophagus with the painting. Instead, she had engaged in entertaining, light-hearted conversation during dinner, and left it up to Jack to raise the subject when he was ready.

Smart girl, thought Jack, appreciating her tact. ‘You are right about the storyteller bit,’ he began, holding his warm brandy balloon with both hands, ‘that’s me. So, let me tell you a story about a lost painting, a coffin key and a remarkable boy with psychic powers—’

‘Young Tristan?’ interrupted Celia. ‘As in The Disappearance of Anna Popov and The Hidden Genes of Professor K?’

‘The very same’, replied Jack, impressed. ‘You have read my books!’

‘You have a special bond with that boy, don’t you?’

‘Very perceptive of you. Yes, I have. He’s without doubt one of the most remarkable teenagers I’ve come across. And besides, he saved my life in Somalia.’

‘Ah yes, during the sinking of the Calypso, if I remember correctly, the Blackburn flagship. It’s all in your book.’

‘Yes. The Hidden Genes of Professor K; spot on. If you want to file your story tonight, I better get on with it’, said Jack. ‘It all happened during that impromptu concert in the Imperial Crypt that Benjamin Krakowski mentioned at the auction. It’s a remarkable story. As you know, I’m a strong believer in destiny, and destiny was certainly at play that night, no doubt about it. It’s the only way I can explain what happened. Let me tell you about it, and you can judge for yourself.’

A Coffin Key and a Boy with Psychic Powers:
Imperial Crypt, Vienna: 2012

‘Everything is ready, Herr Krakowski’, said Dr Gruber, waiting for his famous guest backstage. Krakowski had just completed the final curtain call to a standing ovation, after performing his second violin concerto at the Musikverein, Vienna’s most famous concert venue for classical music.

‘So am I’, replied Krakowski, carefully placing his famous violin, the Empress, back in its case. He was very fond of Dr Gruber. With the curious title of Oberregierungsrat, Dr Gruber was in charge of some obscure department for the preservation of monuments in Austria, and had helped Krakowski and his legal team to cut through the legendary Austrian red tape before. But that wasn’t all. Highly regarded and well connected in government circles, he was also a master tactician who knew how to get what he wanted.

‘I have made arrangements for us to remain in the crypt after your performance’, said Dr Gruber, lowering his voice. I have explained everything to the custodian and spoke to him and his superior about the Francis diary and your search. Cooperation is assured and permission from the relevant authorities has been obtained; I have the necessary permits with me.’

‘I’m indebted to you’, said Krakowski, closing his violin case.

‘It’s the least we can do in return for your generosity.’

Dr Gruber realised that to have a world-famous artist like Krakowski perform a musical tribute to Sisi, one of Austria’s best-loved monarchs, at her final resting place—the Imperial Crypt—was quite a coup. In Austria, something like this counted for a lot. The publicity value alone was immeasurable, and to have the president of Austria attend the occasion was certainly the icing on the cake. In Austria, reputation was everything, and for a senior public servant like Dr Gruber to pull off something like this would elevate his reputation to enviable heights.

‘Your guests will meet us at the crypt’, said Dr Gruber, leading the way to the exit. ‘Everything has been arranged; it isn’t far.’

Jack turned to Tristan and pointed to the entrance leading down into the crypt, guarded by two uniformed policemen. ‘Remember what I told you about this place?’ said Jack.

Tristan looked at him and smiled. ‘Don’t fret; I know what it is. I’m ready.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Countess Kuragin, linking arms with Jack, ‘he’ll be fine.’

Jack already had second thoughts about asking Tristan to come along. Fully aware of the boy’s psychic powers, he had hoped that Tristan could somehow assist in the search. He knew the boy was wired differently, and had seen him in action many times. There was no doubt that his late mother’s gift had resurfaced in the boy, only stronger. Jack still remembered what she had told him about her son: ‘He can hear the whisper of angels and glimpse eternity …’

Since the death of his parents, Tristan had been living with Countess Kuragin in her chateau in France. Eternally grateful for the return of her lost daughter, Anna, and the role Tristan’s mother had played in her rescue, the countess had taken the orphaned Tristan into her home, and her heart. At first, she hadn’t been too pleased about Jack’s suggestion. But when Krakowski personally invited her to attend the concert in Vienna with Tristan, she had reluctantly agreed.

Dr Rosen fell in beside Jack. ‘You look worried’, she said.

‘It’s this place. It’s spooky; you’ll see’, whispered Jack. ‘This whole affair is weird to say the least. Looking for a lost painting hidden inside someone’s coffin … a little grotesque, don’t you think? Perhaps we should just forget it all and walk away.’

Dr Rosen stopped and turned to face Jack. ‘What? Are you serious?’ she said. ‘That’s not like you, Jack. Why the cold feet suddenly?’

‘Don’t know…’

As they gathered at the entrance to the chapel, Dr Rosen glanced again at the brochure Jack had given her earlier, it read:

The Imperial Crypt is divided into several separate vaults. At the entrance is the large Leopold Vault