The Great California Game

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

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FOUR o’clock in the morning I sent Prunella home—pedantically reporting the fact on the phone to a somnolent Tye, to show scrupulous observance of the syndicate’s rules. He was narked, but it gave me the chance to give Prunella instructions about collecting an envelope from a certain international airline. I gave her the flight number.

“I’m depending on you, darling,” I told her wide eyes. “It’s life or death. Bring it when I send for you.”

“Oh, Lovejoy! Nobody’s ever depended on me!”

I tried to look disturbed, exalted. I was knackered. “I love you darling, okay?” But that didn’t sound quite right. There’s more to okays than meets the ear.

That was two incoming envelopes, Prunella and Magda. I rang the syndicate number.

“Morning, Gina. Lovejoy. I’m leaving New York this morning on the jet. What guards do I have?”

She made the plumping noises of a woman rudely wakened, tried to unthicken her voice into day.

“Tye’ll decide. Where to?”

“I’ll be hacking the New York auction houses in a very few days from now. Meantime, I’m flying to six different states.”

“You’ve already raised the necessary sum, Lovejoy?”

“You might need an edge, love.” I left space for her to explain why now suddenly we needed less money, but she said nothing. Well, suffering women have a right to privacy. “My list’s at reception.”

“No,” she said quickly. “Courier it to me. Now.”

Christ, I thought. She’s in greater difficulties than I’d guessed. I streaked to my room, wrote out a list of addresses culled from the public library, and gave it to the motorcycle maniac. Ten minutes flat.

A word about hotel night staff. They love things to do. I gave them five minutes to settle down, then remembered something very vital, and made them get a second courier. I sent him to the Benidormo with a note to Magda, to hurtle back with her signature as proof. I tipped them, said both couriers should go on the one bill, please, for simplicity’s sake. That way, I’d be the only person who knew about Magda and Zole tagging along. Then I roused Tye and told him we were moving.

By nine o’clock we were in the air, heading south in slanting sunshine over the biggest, loveliest land God ever lowered to earth.

THE entourage included Tye, two bulky goons called Al and Shelt who sat with knees apart and literally ate non-stop, peanuts, tiny savouries, crisps, popcorn. I’m making them sound friendly, but I’d never seen such menace in all my life. And a brisk stewardess, Ellie, all cold eyes and no repartee. The pilot Joker, his pal Smith, and that was us.

Is America superb, or isn’t it? Its hotels can get couriers, any hour. A pilot, would you believe, accepts that business considerations are enough! It all seems so normal that you start wondering why the whole world can’t be just the same. On the Continent you get the exhausted glance at the watch, vague assurance that maybe sometime… In England the pilot—assuming you could speak to such a lordly technocrat—would ask what’s so special about your business that it can’t be changed to suit his convenience…

The coffee was superb, drinks were there, and I could have had a film shown if I’d wanted. A suitcase of clothing was provided, I learned.

So what was wrong?

I concentrated. I’d sent out for two books and nine magazines before breakfast. And got them! I wasn’t sure how my plan would stand up to stress, but I was beginning to have an idea whose side I was on.

“Tye?” I said about one o’clock. “Can I get a message sent to the ground?”

“Anywhere, ten seconds.”

“Time the US upped its performance,” I said. “Joke, joke.”

The lassie swished up, poised for duty. I sighed. There’s only a limited amount of efficiency a bloke can take. I put a brave face on it, and asked her to get a print-out of Manhattan’s auction dates, and anything she could muster on George F. Mortdex.

“And send word that we’re arriving for prospective interview with him or his deputy, from London, please.”

“What name are you going under, Lovejoy?” Tye asked.

“Mine,” I said. “But we may not become friends.”

He said nothing, but passed his goons a slow glance. They nodded. I swallowed. Maybe I’m unused to allies.

“IS this a ranch, Mr Verbane?”

He beamed, walking ahead in his handmade tweeds, crocodile shoes. We followed his perfume trail.

“We use domicile hereabouts, Lovejoy. Virginia thinks ranch infra dig, y’know?”

He was effete, even bubbly.

The estate—all right, domicile—was not vast, certainly not much bigger than Rutlandshire. Noble trees, vast undulating fields with white fences and pale roads curling into the distance. It was beautiful countryside, which always gets me down. The house was the size of a hamlet. Civilization lurked within.

Swimming pool, tables on lawns, awning against the sunshine thank God, lovely white wood and orange tiles, ornate plasterwork in the porches. George F. Mortdex was worth a dollar or two.

Mr Verbane offered me and Tye seats on a verandah where servants were waiting to fuss. He accepted a tartan shawl round his knees. I avoided Tye’s sardonic look, smiled and said I’d rough it without a blanket.

“We don’t often get unexpected visitors,” Verbane said. “We’re so remote from civilization.”

A couple of gorgeous figures splashed in a pool nearby. Gardeners were trimming beyond. Grooms led horses along the river which incised the spreading lawn.

“I had hoped to see Mr Mortdex himself.”

Verbane sighed, all apology. “That’s out of the question. He’s so old now, always works alone. I have to manage all his personal affairs.” He smiled, waved to the girls. “Though it’s an absolute slog. Racing’s such a terrible obligation. You’ve no idea.”

“Responsibility’s a killer,” I agreed.

“That’s so right!” he cried, his self-pity grabbing any passing sympathy. “I’m sometimes drained. How marvellous that you understand!”

“Like antique prices.”

He smiled roguishly. “I knew it! You’re an antique dealer!”

I smiled back. “Antique dealers give antiques a bad name. Like boozers give booze.”

He passed glittering compliments to the waitresses over the drinks. He’d insisted on madeleines. I had a few, though cakes that little go nowhere and it was over an hour since we’d left the plane.

“I absolutely adore negotiating, Lovejoy!” He yoo-hooed to a sports car arriving at the stables. A lady in a yellow hat waved. I’d never seen such friendliness. I felt in a procession. “What’ll we negotiate about?”

“Mr Mortdex’s collections,” I said. “Their falling valuation —”

He sat up, focusing his attention.

“Falling? You’re misinformed, Lovejoy. There isn’t a collection that has withstood fluctations better than Mr Mortdex’s. I select and buy, on an absolutely personal basis.”

The tea was rotten cinnamon stuff. “I mean Wednesday.”

He was a moment checking his mind. I knew he was desperate to dash indoors screaming for the computer, but he was perfect so couldn’t be found wanting. Finally he swallowed pride, that costly commodity. “What happens next Wednesday?”

“Your statue gets impounded.”

“Statue?” He tried indolence, then casual when that didn’t work either. I’m all for façades, which are valuable things, but only when they’re some use.

“Aphrodite. Fifth century BC, that you bought in a secret deal three years ago. Wasn’t it twenty million dollars? That English art dealer who lives not far from Bury Street in St James’s? Everybody was so pleased — except the Sicilians.”

A lovely bird did her splash, rose laughing from the pool in nice symbolism, yoo-hooed, looked hard at us when Verbane ignored her.

“You’re thinking of the J. Paul Getty Museum in Malibu, Lovejoy. They’re the ones who bought Aphrodite.”

“I heard,” I said. I waved to the girl for him. She returned the salutation doubtfully. “Tye? Could you go down to the motor car, please? I think I’ve left that dictaphone thing.”

“You be okay, Lovejoy?”

“I’ll shout if I’m in danger.”

We were alone. During the intermission Verbane summoned bourbon entombed in ice. He quaffed long, had another. I really envy these folk who can drink early in the day without getting a headache.

“I haven’t any strong feelings, Mr Verbane,” I said as honestly as I could. “Hoving’s opinions about the Getty purchase aren’t my concern. Though I wouldn’t like to discount anything Hoving said, especially after he bought the St Edmundsbury Cross.”

“Are you claiming —?”

“Nothing. These rumours about a second Aphrodite being taken from Sicily and sold through London are the sort of rumours that shouldn’t be resuscitated.” I saw his brow clear a little. “Don’t you agree?”

“Of course I do.” He coughed, took a small white pill thing while I waited with the silent respect all medicines deserve.

“I deny having Aphrodite, Lovejoy.”

“Course. I’ll support you, if anyone asks my opinion.”

This scandal isn’t quite a scandal, not as major art and antiques frauds/purchases/scams/sales go these days. It was just before the nineties that the Aphrodite row erupted. She’s lovely, an ancient Greek marble and limestone masterpiece spirited—not too strong word—into the harsh public glare which money provides for any valuable art form. The Getty people made honest inquiries of the Italian Government, and bought. Then nasty old rumours began whispering to vigilant Italian police that Aphrodite was stolen. Aphrodite (her name actually means “Lovely Arse”, incidentally, though the Romans called her Venus) is worth fighting for. The battle continues, though the value’s soared in the meantime.

The rumours I’d heard had mentioned a second Aphrodite from the same source. Possibly a fake, my contact had said on the phone two days back. Well, Verbane’s delusions were no business of mine. His support was. The antique trade’s maxim is: sell support, never give.

“At a price, Lovejoy?”

“No. At a swap, Mr Verbane.”

“I don’t trade that way. Mr Mortdex hates it.”

I could see Tye slowly heading back. I’d arranged a series of signals should I want him to take more time, I tried to flatten my hair reflexively. He instantly paused to watch the horses, now mounted and cantering. “You buy at auctions, Mr Verbane.”

“I heard about you, Lovejoy.” No pansy mannerisms now. He was lighting a cigarette, cold as a frog. “Doing the rounds, protection racket in museums?”

“You’ve been misinformed. I made a sale, in antiques. If your informant told you differently, she’s lying. Which should set you wondering why, eh?

He’d stared when I implied his informant was a woman. It wasn’t as wild a guess as all that. The second Aphrodite was supposed to have been “bought”by an American natural history team in search of lepidoptera near Palermo. Natural history, as in Mrs. Beckman. I calmed him. “Mrs. Beekman didn’t tell me anything. I’m a lucky guesser.”

“What do you offer, Lovejoy?”

“One per cent of your last valuation, paid into an account I shall name. Thereafter, one per cent of all your purchases of sales, same destination.”

“And you’ll do what in exchange?”

“I’ll tell you of three high-buy fakes, international market.”

He considered that. “How do you know this?”

“That’s for sale. And their location. And who paid what.”

“As facts?”

We settled finally. I declined his offer of a meal, though it hurt. By then he’d provided copies of the Mortdex Collection valuation. I promised him I’d have it checked by auditors who’d visit within the day, whereupon the naughty Mr Verbane produced a different sheaf of printouts. Managers of private collections are the same the world over.

He stayed me as I made to leave, reminding me of the promise.

“Oh, yes. Antiques.” I’d already worked out what he deserved. “The Khmer art sculptures, South-East Asia. Remember the November sales?”

“Yes.” He was a-quiver, almost as if he’d bought a sandstone Buddha. “I remember.”

I bet you do, you poor sod, I thought. “Several were fake, Mr Verbane.”

He licked his lips. A girl called an invitation to come and join them. He quietened her with a snarl.

“That sandstone thing’s recent, made in Thailand. Mr Sunkinueng who was Phnom Penh Museum curator —”

“But the reputation of Sotheby…” He was giddy. I’d have felt almost sorry for him, except I didn’t.

“Reputations are made for breaking. That four-armed god sitting on a lion, from Angkor Wat, 1200 AD. bought by a famous American collector.” I looked about at the lovely countryside. “Who lived hereabouts.”

“Fake?” he whispered. His lips were blue.

“Modern fake,” I said cheerfully.

“You said you’d tell me something I could…”

“Make on? Very well.” I thought a bit, as if I hadn’t already made up my mind. “You’re rivals to the Getty Museum in California, right? Well, their male Kouros statue from Greece is said to be two thousand years old—by kind friends with a vested interest.”

He brightened, as they all do at the grief of rivals. “But its attribution is doubtful?”

“Don’t ask me. Ask Giuseppe Cellino—he’ll tell you exactly how it was peddled round every antiques museum and gallery in the known world by a Swiss dealer for three years. He has all the addresses, times, dates. Don’t say I sent you.”

Smiles and grief were still competing on his face when we drove away.

“Lovejoy?” Tye said as our limo paused at the entrance of the imposing estate. “How much of all that was true?”

“All of it, Tye,” I said sadly. “All.”

He was driving, taking us carefully out into the two-laner. “Then how come these big experts don’t know from fakes? That Sotheby Gallery place is supposed to be —”

“Tye,” I said, watching the great house recede into the distance. “There’s enough of us already in. Don’t you start, okay?”

“Capeesh, boss.”

At the airport while Tye and his goons saw to the plane, bags, paid off the saloon car, I phoned news of the hack to Gina. Then phoned Prunella to get moving. I never carry a watch, but checked the time and reckoned Magda and Zole should be about halfway to my next destination. It’d be risky for her, but that’s what women are for.