Can a work of art just disappear? Below is an exclusive excerpt from the new art mystery All’s Fair by David L. Gersh.

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.”

Visit our Reading Essentials section to discover the best bookshelves, reading chairs, book lights for reading at night, and more!

Receive top book recommendations directly in your inbox.