He would have to buy the painting ‘for the House’ and that would mean a bidder in the hall to do exactly what he was told yet not look like a Darcy executive. He would use Bertram, the head porter, a man on the threshold of retirement, utterly loyal after forty years’ service and with the imagination of an earwig. But able to obey orders.
At the other end of the phone Trumpington Gore had hung up and turned to Benny.
‘Dear boy, do you really know what you are doing? Fifty thousand pounds is a hell of a lot of money.’
‘Trust me,’ said Benny. He sounded more confident than he was. Hourly he was praying to the cynical god of Old Masters that Slade would be too greedy to reveal what he intended to do into the ear of the rigorously honest Professor Carpenter.
By the end of the month all the senior executives were back in-house and preparations were in full swing for the first major sale of the autumn, the Victorian Masters of 8 September.
SEPTEMBER
Peregrine Slade remained silent on the matter of his own intentions for that day, and was pleased that Alan Leigh-Travers was also a model of discretion, refusing even to mention the subject. Nonetheless, every time they passed in a corridor Slade gave him a broad wink.
Leigh-Travers began to worry. He had always thought the vice-chairman a mite too foppish for his tastes, and had heard that men in middle years with a frigid marriage occasionally turned to the idea of playing an away game. As a father of four he earnestly hoped Slade had not started to fancy him.
The morning of the 8th produced the habitual buzz of excitement, the adrenalin rush that compensates in the art world for all the drudgery and the chore of examining the dross.
Slade had asked the venerable head porter Bertram to be in early and had briefed him to the last detail. In his years of service with the House of Darcy, Bertram had seen five changes of ownership. As a young man, just back from military service, following in his father’s footsteps, he had been at the retirement party of old Mr Darcy, the last of the line. A real gent, he was; even the newest porter was invited to his party. They did not make them like that any more.
He was the last man in the building to wear a bowler hat to work; he had in his time carried masterpieces collectively worth billions up and down the corridors and never once put his foot through one.
Nowadays he sat in his tiny office, straining endless cups of tea through his walrus moustache. His orders were simple. He would sit at the back in his blue serge suit, armed with a bidding paddle, and he would bid for only one work. Just so that he would not mistake it for any other still life, he had been shown the two bedraggled partridge hanging from their hook. He had been told to memorize the title The Game Bag which Mr Slade would announce in clear tones from the podium.
Finally, just to make sure, he had been told by Slade to watch his face. If Slade wanted him to bid, and there was any hesitation, he would give a quick wink of his left eye. That was the signal for the old retainer to raise his paddle. Bertram went off for a cup of tea and to empty his bladder for the fourth time. The last thing Slade needed was to see his stooge shuffling off to the loo at the crucial moment.
Alan Leigh-Travers had selected a worthy menu of pictures. Stars of the show were two Pre-Raphaelites, a Millais from the estate of a recently deceased collector and a Holman Hunt that had not been seen in public for years. Close behind them were two equine paintings by John Frederick Herring and a sailing ship in stormy weather from the brush of James Carmichael.
The sale started on the dot of ten o’clock. Bidding was brisk and the hall full; there were even some against the back wall. Slade had three still-life oils involving game and shotguns, and he decided to bring in the Scottish work as an unlisted fourth to this batch. No-one would be surprised, and the matter would be over in minutes. When he greeted the assembled throng he was at his most genial.
Everything went well. At the back Bertram sat and stared ahead, paddle in lap.
On the podium Peregrine Slade exuded good humour, even joviality, as the lots went for close to, or above, the upper estimate. He could recognize most of the bidders by sight but there were a dozen he did not know. Occasionally one of the overhead lights flashed off the pebble glasses of a dark-suited man three rows from the back.
During a brief pause as one picture was carried out and another placed on the easel, he beckoned one of the attendant girls to his side. Leaning down from the podium, he muttered: ‘Who’s the chap three rows from the back, left-hand side?’ The girl slipped away.
At the next picture-change she was back and put a small slip of paper into his hand. He nodded his thanks. Opening it on the podium he saw:
‘Mr Yosuhiro Yamamoto, the Osaka Gallery, Tokyo and Osaka. He has presented a letter of credit drawn on the Bank of Tokyo for one billion yen.’
Slade beamed. About £2,000,000 to spend. Not a problem. He wa
s certain he had heard or read the name Yamamoto before. He was right. That was the admiral who bombed Pearl Harbor. He was not to know that a namesake was back in Knightsbridge on a similar mission, or that the letter from the Bank of Tokyo was one of Suzie Day’s computer creations.
Mr Yamamoto bid several times for offerings in the early part of the sale but never pursued, and withdrew in favour of others before the canvas was finally sold. Still, behind his impenetrable pebble lenses, he had established his bona fides as a genuine bidder.
The first of the four still lifes arrived. The three listed ones were all by relatively minor artists and went for between £5,000 and £10,000. As the third was removed Slade said with roguish humour: ‘There is a fourth still life, not in your catalogues. A late arrival. A charming little piece by the Highland artist Collum McFee.’
Colley Burnside had not been able to resist the temptation to put at least part of his first name into the title of the artist. It was the only recognition he was ever going to get.
‘Entitled The Game Bag,’ Slade said clearly. ‘What am I bid? Do I hear a thousand?’
Bertram raised his paddle.
‘A thousand at the back. Do I have an advance on a thousand?’
Another paddle went up. The man must have been short-sighted. The rest of the bidders, dealers, collectors, agents and gallery owners were staring in something close to disbelief.
‘It’s against you, sir, at two thousand pounds,’ said Slade, looking fixedly at Bertram. He lowered his left eyelid a fraction. Bertram raised his paddle.