Prologue

Valerian was a villainous nonentity. On a fiery August day in New York, I watched from the river bank as each effortless stroke took him nearer to the centre of Paris. He was a strong swimmer, and as he coasted through the waters of the Seine, I knew I wouldn’t catch him.

It started at Madison Square Park. I was perched on the roof of a Yellow cab at the intersection of West 26th Street and Broadway. It was the lunch time rush hour, the cab was stationary and cars were bumper to bumper. It was the time of day where traffic is gridlocked to the extent that New Yorkers know it’s quicker to walk.

I wasn’t in need of a ride. Standing on top of the cab was an essential vantage point to find Valerian. He was only a tad taller than five feet and difficult to locate amongst the pack of pedestrians who crowded the sidewalk. At length I saw him a block away, as he meandered through the crowds, heading uptown towards Times Square. He didn’t know it, but he was about to lead me to Mrs Tolley. Both of us wanted to talk to her, but for different reasons.

It’s no more than a mile to the Square, however with the oppressive heat and the crush, it was fifteen minutes before we reached it. He took a right into 42nd Street and, after a few minutes, entered the five star Wyndham Hotel.

It was obvious that our mutual ‘friend, ‘ Mrs Tolley, was not afraid to spend the money. Foolish, I thought, although it was such recklessness which made my job easier.

I was twenty seconds behind Valerian as I entered the lobby.

“Damn,” I said, as I looked around.

He’d ‘magiced’ the hotel interior into an art gallery. The lobby had been elongated and the unnecessary items such as elevators, stairs and reception desk had been removed. I was in a long, unfurnished hall, bright lit by high Palladian windows, with paintings on three walls.

He must have known I’d followed him and, although he lost me once before with that trick, I was determined he wouldn’t do it again.

“Sir, excuse me,” beckoned a voice beside me.

He was a tall young man, with a Fifties crew cut, dressed in a conservative blue suit with a name tag attached to the lapel. He extended his hand. “Your invitation, please.”

I dug into the inside pocket of my jacket and pulled out a wad of papers, and as I rifled through them, I inspected the gallery.

“Harold,” I said, as I peered at his plastic label, “are there any exits?”

“No sir,” he answered smugly, “you know there aren’t.”

I ignored his jibe and observed the other guests. It was no surprise that Valerian was not amongst them.

I handed over the invitation and took a couple of steps.

“Sir,” he called after me.

“Yes.”

“This is a Rolling Stones concert ticket.”

“Oh! Is it?” I stepped back. I didn’t remember buying it. “When’s the gig?”

He scrutinised the wording. “Ah, it’s not for a little while, Sir. April 6th, 2030.”

I gestured for the return of the ticket, replaced it in the pile of papers and resumed my search.

Harold pointed to a purple edged card which protruded from my papers. “May I?” He pulled the embossed invitation from my hand and examined it. “I thought it was you, Mr Burbank. Thank you. Enjoy the preview.”

I took a few steps, double checking the thirty odd people who milled around the gallery. They were strangers. It was time for the hunt.

From nowhere a sleek Eurasian woman glided towards me as she held out a catalogue. “Thank you, Sir.”

I smiled and accepted the offering.

“Would you care for a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

She flowed away to find other guests and I looked at the mauve coloured catalogue. The title read, THE VALERIAN COLLECTION and underneath, in smaller letters, 19th CENTURY FORGERIES. I opened it to see how many exhibits were displayed; there were eighteen. I reckoned he must be confident to use so few hiding places.

I started at the right hand wall and discounted the first two exhibits; they were portraits. I ignored them. Valerian could only hide within the confines of the painting. I realised he may have concealed himself behind the people who posed, but that wouldn’t have been a challenge. Whatever I thought of him, he was a professional with flair and initiative. Wherever he was, he would not be easy to find.

Before I reached the next painting, I was certain that’s where Valerian would be hidden. For one thing, it wasn’t a forgery, and when I was in front of it, I knew. There was no proof, yet I realised it would be the near perfect place.

The original artwork hangs in Chicago’s Art Institute. It’s a massive three by two metre high canvas with the figures in the forefront painted full size. It was the famous work by Georges Seurat, the Parisian artist, and it was that painting which launched the 1880s school of Neo-impressionism.

Chapter 1 »