Free Web NovelMurdoch didn’t even dare touch the frame. He simply leaned his body as far toward the painting as he could, examining it closely.
“Charlie, where on earth did you get this? To my eyes, it looks like a Picasso. And not just any Picasso—one that’s never been made public.”
“Does it look genuine to you?”
“Hmm...”
Even as he murmured thoughtfully, Murdoch couldn’t take his eyes off the painting.
“Charlie. When it comes to artworks, it’s difficult to say at a glance whether something is authentic or not. This really isn’t something for me—I’ll need to call in a specialist.”
If he was going to bring in an expert, then there’d be no reason for me to have come to Murdoch in the first place. I shook my head.
“I’d prefer as few people as possible to know.”
“Don’t worry. He’s someone who can keep his mouth shut. Through him, I’ve managed to acquire quite a few artworks before they even reached auction. May I call him?”
“Can you take responsibility for it?”
“Of course. Naturally.”
As if afraid I might refuse, Murdoch answered immediately.
It almost felt like he was more curious about the painting’s authenticity than I was.
Since he said he’d take responsibility—and since Murdoch knew far more about art than I did—I decided to accept his advice.
“If you’re willing to take responsibility, Murdoch, then let’s have it authenticated.”
“Good. Wait here.”
Murdoch stood up and went over to the phone, then called someone.
A moment later, once the other party picked up, Murdoch spoke in an excited voice.
“Peterson? Yes, it’s Murdoch. Come to my house immediately. There’s a painting I need you to authenticate. Hey now—do you think I’d drag you out for nothing when you’re busy? Just come. Come and see it for yourself. You’ll know what it is the moment you lay eyes on it. Yes. Right now!”
After ending the call, Murdoch returned to his seat.
Reading the question in my eyes, he explained. ƒreewebɳovel.com
“He works as an auctioneer and appraiser at Sotheby’s. Tight-lipped fellow—nothing will leak. In this industry, if you can’t keep your mouth shut, no one entrusts you with auctions.”
He kept talking, as if trying to reassure me.
Or maybe he was just talkative by nature.
“He’s been rolling around auction houses since he was young. I can say his eye is second to none. A man whose abilities were recognized well enough to rise from the bottom to an executive-level position at Sotheby’s.”
If he’d been in the field that long, he’d have a sharp eye.
When I nodded in understanding, Murdoch smiled faintly, relieved.
Still, I wasn’t trusting the man himself—I was trusting Murdoch, who introduced him.
“That’s enough explanation. I’m trusting you, Chairman Murdoch, and your judgment.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Then I’ll continue examining the painting.”
Seemingly quite taken with it, Murdoch kept studying the painting laid out on the table.
Watching him, I gestured to Manager Ma.
Manager Ma took a jewelry case containing the necklace out of the box he’d brought and handed it to me.
“Chairman. Would you like to take a look at this as well?”
I asked as I opened the case and placed it on the table.
Inside was a torso mannequin displaying a single necklace.
“Hm?”
Murdoch finally tore his gaze away from the painting and turned to the necklace.
“Oh, my. This is quite a beautiful necklace. But...”
He studied it for a long time, then slightly furrowed his brow and tilted his head.
“May I ask where this necklace was made? I’ve never seen a design like this before.”
“It’s probably the first time it’s ever been shown to the world. But it seems you don’t have much interest in jewelry, Chairman.”
“Just what is that necklace supposed to be?”
“It’s believed to be the necklace Nicholas II gave to his daughter. No photographs remain, but the design matches what’s been passed down.”
“What?! Nicholas II? You mean Nicholas II, the last emperor of the Romanov dynasty?”
“Yes. The necklace that’s been passed down almost like a legend.”
When I said it with a smile, Murdoch finally began to focus intently on the necklace.
It looked like light might pour out of his eyes. After examining it closely for quite a while, he shook his head.
“I’m not sure. The design and the gemstones certainly have enough artistic value, but... whether this is truly the necklace Nicholas II gave to his daughter—I can’t say with certainty.”
I couldn’t be sure myself, which was why I’d shown it to Murdoch in the first place.
He was knowledgeable about art, but jewelry didn’t seem to be his specialty.
“It’s unfortunate, but it can’t be helped. I just wanted to check, on the off chance.”
“I feel a bit bad that I couldn’t meet your expectations. The fellow who’s on his way also appraises jewelry, so he might be able to tell.”
“Then we’ll wait for him.”
“In the meantime, I’ll enjoy the painting some more.”
It must have really captured his heart—Murdoch gazed at it with a spellbound expression.
How much time had passed? A knock sounded at the reception room door. freewebnoveℓ.com
“Chairman. Mr. Peterson, the auctioneer, has arrived.”
Still staring at the painting, Murdoch called out,
“Let him in.”
The door opened, and a British gentleman who looked to be around Murdoch’s age entered.
“My friend, I’m a busy man too. Keep calling me out like this and I won’t stay quiet.”
Despite his neat, gentlemanly appearance, the words that came out were unexpectedly rough.
“Haha, Peterson! Welcome.”
Even though he’d just been scolded, Murdoch looked delighted and immediately went over to embrace him.
Given how eagerly he’d been waiting for someone to authenticate the painting, it was understandable.
“Hey now, at our age, what are you—”
Peterson protested, then turned his head toward me.
“And who’s this young fellow?”
“Ah, let me introduce you. He’s a businessman named Charlie. You should know him well—he’s practically the owner of Leeds United.”
“Leeds United? The champions from last year?”
Murdoch nodded.
As expected, the British really did live and die by football.
At the mention of Leeds United’s owner, Peterson’s gaze toward me instantly warmed.
“And he’s also the businessman who brought an artwork that’ll be a feast for your eyes. Someone you’ll never regret knowing.”
That’s laying it on a bit thick. I quickly stood and approached Peterson.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Charlie.”
Taking my hand, Peterson said,
“I’m Peterson, an auctioneer at Sotheby’s. Murdoch here doesn’t praise people lightly, so I’m quite curious what kind of item you’ve brought.”
After brief introductions, we moved over to the table.
Peterson examined the painting [N O V E L I G H T] and the necklace laid out there, narrowing his eyes.
“This appears to be a Picasso....”
Just like Murdoch, he said the same thing. But his attention seemed more drawn to the necklace than the painting.
“Where did this necklace come from?”
I didn’t answer—just smiled faintly.
With a small sigh, Peterson asked cautiously,
“May I handle the necklace myself?”
“Of course. As long as you don’t damage it.”
“I’ve worked in this field for decades. Don’t worry.”
Peterson took appraisal tools out of his bag and put on white gloves.
Growing impatient, Murdoch urged him,
“Peterson, not the necklace—the Picasso painting—”
“Hush, man. The painting isn’t what matters right now. Wait.”
Brushing Murdoch off easily, Peterson gently lifted the necklace.
He fitted a small magnifying loupe over one eye and examined it.
“Hm.”
Letting out a sound that could have been either admiration or awe, Peterson carefully inspected both the front and back.
The way he handled it was gentler than how one might treat a child.
After a long examination, Peterson set the necklace down and looked at me.
“Charlie, where did this necklace come from?”
“Do I really have to tell you the source?”
“For artworks whose existence is clearly documented—whether paintings or photographs—there’s an unspoken rule in this industry not to question provenance if the owner doesn’t wish it.”
Removing the lens from his eye and placing it back in its case, he continued.
“But this is different. This is an object whose existence is recorded only in written accounts—no photographs... no paintings—nothing but a few lines describing its appearance. In this case, provenance matters, Charlie.”
Unlike Murdoch, who was simply an art lover, this white-haired man was a true professional.
Every word from the appraiser carried weight.
“Of course, a client’s confidentiality is guaranteed. But for me to declare this necklace authentic, I need to know everything. My appraisal is my career—my name is on the line. So I need to know its origin to make an accurate judgment.”
“Can you tell what it is?”
“Isn’t it the necklace said to have been gifted by Nicholas II to his daughter? A jewel whose whereabouts have been unknown since the Russian Revolution. In my view, that’s exactly what it is. The design and craftsmanship match the records perfectly—and even the size and quality of the diamonds... everything points to it.”
The appraiser himself had identified it as Nicholas II’s necklace.
I nodded and replied,
“That’s a relief. I thought the same, but hearing it from a professional puts me at ease.”
“Now tell me the source.”
“Please take a look at that painting as well. It came from the same place. After you finish appraising that, I’ll tell you about the provenance.”
At my gesture toward the painting, Peterson finally turned his gaze to it.
He took out the lens again and carefully examined the framed artwork.
Perhaps because I’d promised to reveal the source afterward, he focused even more intently than he had with the necklace.
Beside him, Murdoch kept chattering.
“Well? What do you think, Peterson? It’s definitely a Picasso, isn’t it? And an unpublished one at that! That’s what I think.”
Ignoring Murdoch’s excitement, Peterson continued examining the painting.
After spending quite a long time on it, he set down his tools and removed his gloves.
“This too appears to be an unpublished work by Picasso. A definitive appraisal would require various professional tests, including dating, but... based on visual inspection and my judgment, I believe it was indeed painted by Picasso.”
“Really? It’s real? A truly unknown Picasso? I knew it—my eye never fails!”
“My friend, calm down. Picasso is famous, which means there are countless forgeries. Only after professional testing can we be sure. You know that, yet you’re still making such a fuss.”
“I know. But the moment I saw it, I was convinced it was Picasso. My instincts told me so.”
Murdoch spoke with absolute confidence, but Peterson merely shook his head as if there was no helping him, then looked back at me.
“Will you tell me the source now?”
Smiling, I nodded. Before that, though, I had to issue a warning.
“I will. But let me be clear. I have no intention of revealing the provenance to the world. Nor do I plan to sell these.”
Still smiling, I continued,
“If what I’m about to say ever becomes public knowledge, then one of the two of you here will be responsible. I haven’t told anyone else. If that happens, I will find the culprit and make them pay. Even so, do you wish to hear it?”
Perhaps it was the chill beneath my gentle tone.
Murdoch, who’d been fussing over the painting, and Peterson, who’d been pressing me for the source, both froze.
“Peterson. Think carefully before you answer. Charlie is a man who follows through. If you can’t keep a secret, don’t listen.”
Murdoch was already on a leash—he wouldn’t do anything to harm me.
But Peterson was different.
“You have no intention of putting this up for auction at all?”
“That’s still under consideration. I may put a few pieces up. When that time comes, I’ll entrust you with the appraisal and sale.”
“...So this isn’t everything?”
“You’ll understand naturally once you hear the source. Will you listen, or will you leave now?”
Peterson hesitated, unable to answer easily. Murdoch stepped in to help him decide.
“Peterson. I guarantee it—joining hands with this young, promising businessman will only help your career. You won’t lose anything.”
Peterson deliberated for a long time.
At last, he nodded.
“Very well. I’ll hear it. Keeping secrets is fundamental to being an auctioneer.”
There wasn’t a trace of wavering in his eyes.
At Peterson’s promise of secrecy, I slowly opened my mouth.
“They’re part of the personal collection of Iraq’s dictator—President Hussein.”
The moment I finished speaking, both men exclaimed at once.
“Hussein Collection!”
“The Hussein Collection?!”
