Chapter 167 The Authentication Certificate for This Painting Has Issues
Chapter 167 The Authentication Certificate for This Painting Has Issues
This wasn't normal. Harlow & Fitch's auction catalogs were always meticulous—each item's history documented so thoroughly it might as well be a research paper. Lot seventeen's information had been deliberately obscured.
Nora closed the catalog.
There were four private boxes on the second floor across the way. The curtains in the far right box were drawn, light bleeding through. That was Oliver's spot—Wyatt was in the corridor and could make out half a silhouette.
The curtain in the second box from the left shifted.
Just barely. Like someone had parted it with a finger, glanced down, then let it fall.
Chase.
He wasn't on the seating chart, but he was up there.
Storm's earpiece was tuned to Todd's encrypted channel. Nora couldn't hear what Todd was saying, but Storm sent a text from the back entrance of the hall: [Todd says, no moves until lot seventeen is on display.]
Nora sent back one word.
[Got it.]
The auction began.
The first sixteen lots moved quickly. A collection of modern Chinese paintings and calligraphy, two pieces of European antique porcelain, and a set of vintage sterling silver cutlery. Prices floated within reasonable ranges, the bidding atmosphere lukewarm. Nora didn't raise her paddle once.
"Next, we have tonight's lot seventeen."
The auctioneer took a breath, his tone lifting half a notch.
Two white-gloved staff members pushed a display stand out through the side door.
The red velvet was lifted.
The scroll unfurled.
Dead branches and cold crows. A three-foot vertical scroll. The ink moved seamlessly between deep black and pale washes. The gnarled branches were strong and rugged. Three crows perched atop the bare uppermost bough, each in a different pose.
In the lower right corner sat a partially hidden personal seal. Most of it was cut off by the frame, only a third of the impression visible.
Nora's fingernails pressed into her palm.
She knew that seal too well.
It came from the same stone as the seal on the painting she'd brought to the appraisal event.
This was Atlas's painting.
"This ink painting is being auctioned on behalf of a private collector." The auctioneer began reading from his notes. "The artist's identity will remain undisclosed for now. The certificate of authentication was issued by our European headquarters' appraisal team, reference number—"
Nora stood up.
Not to raise her paddle. Not to call out a bid from her seat.
She walked out.
Down the center aisle to the front row, then turned into the appraisal walkway along the side of the auction stage—a passage that under normal circumstances was reserved for invited appraisal experts only. A security guard stood at the entrance and put out a hand to stop her.
Nora reached into her bag and produced a card.
A Harlow & Fitch special appraiser's pass. Her own name on it, issued three years ago. Never used.
The guard glanced at it and stepped aside.
Nora walked up onto the appraisal walkway.
Within three seconds, every pair of eyes in the room—two hundred people—swung toward her. Some whispered to their neighbors. Some raised their phones. Julian, in the front VIP section, went from puzzled to tense—he leaned forward two inches in his seat, right hand resting on the armrest.
Calla tilted her head slightly.
Nora walked up to the painting.
She didn't touch it. She stood beside the display stand, turned sideways, and faced the room.
The auctioneer's words died in his throat. His gavel hung in the air.
"The certificate of authentication for this painting is invalid."
Nora's voice was calm. The hall's sound system carried every word to every person in the room.
A wave of noise. The room erupted.
Someone in the front row half-stood, then sat back down. Several buyers in the middle rows turned to exchange looks with their neighbors. Julian's hand moved from the armrest to his thigh and closed into a fist.
The auctioneer recovered and stepped closer to the microphone. "Ma'am, the appraisal walkway is for expert use only. If you have concerns about a lot, you're welcome to raise them with us after the auction concludes—"
"I am an expert." Nora held up the pass. "Harlow & Fitch reference HF-AP-1138, special appraiser."
The auctioneer's mouth closed.
Nora pulled a document from her bag.
Three pages of A4 paper, sealed in a clear document sleeve. She held it up by one corner so the front row could read the Harlow & Fitch logo and the red CONFIDENTIAL watermark on the cover.
"This is a copy of the original appraisal report issued by Harlow & Fitch's European headquarters."
She turned to the second page and pointed to the string of numbers following the appraiser's signature at the bottom.
"The appraiser who signed this report—reference DK-7714—was dismissed by Harlow & Fitch headquarters three months ago."
Someone in the front row drew a sharp breath.
Nora kept going.
"The grounds for dismissal: falsification of provenance documentation. Three lots were involved, two of which were subsequently confirmed to be smuggled cultural artifacts. The dismissal notice was published on February nineteenth of this year and is accessible to all credentialed appraisers."
She set down the document and looked toward the auction house's on-site director, seated to the side of the stage.
"Any authentication report signed by DK-7714 has been automatically void since February nineteenth. Including this one."
The director's face cycled from red to white to gray. He stood, adjusted his earpiece, and walked briskly toward the back.
Thirty seconds later, the auctioneer received a slip of paper.
He looked at it and cleared his throat.
"Ladies and gentlemen—lot seventeen is hereby suspended pending verification of its authentication documents. We will confirm the relevant information as quickly as possible and provide a full account to all parties present."
The room broke into an uproar.
Some people applauded. Some swore. Most reached for their phones.
Nora came down from the appraisal walkway. She didn't slow her pace as she passed Julian. But her peripheral vision caught his face—the man in his fifties sat in his leather chair, both hands resting on his knees, looking ten years older than he was.
Calla turned her head. Her eyes met Nora's for a moment.
Nora returned to her seat.
Storm leaned over and murmured, "Second box from the left on the second floor—curtains are fully drawn now."
Chase had pulled them all the way shut.
Nora's phone buzzed. Oliver.
No text. A screenshot.
It showed the security feed from the second-floor corridor—Chase stepping out of the box, baseball cap gone. His face was finally fully visible to the camera.
A line of text followed the screenshot.
[He's calling Julian. Want to listen in?]
Nora's thumb hovered over the screen.
The phone buzzed again. A second message.
Not Oliver.
Calla.
[Ms. Thorne, tonight was quite a performance. But that painting—are you sure this is how you want to get it back? My father says there are things in that painting not everyone can see.]
Nora stared at the message for three seconds.
Calla knew there was something in the painting.
She swiped back to Oliver's conversation and typed two words.
[What's the call about?.]