himself.
Business was not brisk; the waiter had a slight air of underemployment. One person, however - and Argyll warmed to him the moment he saw him pointing a shaky finger at the whisky – seemed to be doing his best to make the poor soul feel wanted.
'Great,' said this stranger, a man in his late thirties with long fair hair of an antique cut. 'Thought I was the only person here drinking something other than Perrier. What you having?'
This wasn't so generous, considering all the drinks were free, but as an invitation to conversation it was adequate. Argyll refilled and they leant back on the table, companionably side-by-side, and watched the world go by.
'Who're you?' the man asked. Argyll explained. 'Thought I'd not seen you around before,' he said. 'You here to unload fakes and curios on my old man?'
Argyll was both affronted and intrigued in equal measure. This, it seemed, was Arthur M. Moresby III, known as Jack, although he did not know why. So he asked. Jack Moresby looked pained.
'To distinguish me from my father. My middle name, I hate to say, is Melisser.'
'Melissa?'
'Melisser. My mother's maiden name. Father reckoned that being his son gave me too many advantages, so he thought he'd give me something to struggle against. You know, he sort of thought that being beaten up at school for having a cissy name would give me an edge.'
'Goodness.'
'Yeah. I can't be called Arthur, as I refuse to be mistaken for him, and being someone who drinks a pint of whisky a day, I naturally can't accept being called Melisser. Jack seems more writerish, I reckon.'
'You write books?'
'Just said so, didn't I?'
A direct manner, just this side of being rude. Argyll began to understand why he was not held in high esteem by architects and people like that. To change the subject he assured him that he did not sell fakes. He was here to deliver a small but exquisite piece of unquestioned value.
Jack was not convinced, but seemed content to let it pass. Argyll asked if he spent much time at the museum. He nearly choked on his whisky and said he would ordinarily not be seen dead in the place.
'Look at this bunch,' he exclaimed, sweeping his arm across to include the entire room. 'Have you ever seen such a collection of creeps gathered into a room before? Eh? What you think?'
Legally, this is known as a leading question and was one which required a careful answer. Besides, as Argyll could assure him, in his line of business a whole room full of creeps was nothing unusual. Who else was he meant to sell his pictures to?
Jack conceded the point, and refilled. Argyll proffered a bowl of peanuts by way of return. Jack shook his head. Never touched them. The salt made his ankles swell up. Argyll regarded the peanuts with new respect. Which creeps did he have in mind, in particular? he asked, pointing out that, being new to the country, he was not so good at spotting them yet.
So junior gave a quick guided tour. He was surprisingly knowledgeable, considering that he said he avoided his family and its associates as much as possible.
Samuel Thanet, he said, pointing ostentatiously to the director, who had been cruising around the room being hospitable ever since they got there. He had a very definite party technique: regulation one minute of conversation then on to the next person. Some people do this well, but not Thanet; he managed to make everything seem an unwelcome chore. Not surprising, really, Jack commented. Thanet didn't really care about people; he was wedded to the idea of going down as founder of the greatest private museum in North America. Using other people's money, of course. Mousy, quiet, nervous, but utterly poisonous. A man who would never do a mean trick - as long as he could get someone else to do it for him.
'Look at him there,' he said. 'All tweedily a-twitter, waiting for my father to turn up so he can give his boots a good lick.'
The characterisation seemed a little unfair. Argyll was prepared to agree about the mousy and nervous side, but so far at least had seen nothing resembling venom. On the other hand, he was prepared to admit he did not know the man very well. In any case, his technique clearly worked, whatever it was, if Moresby was on the verge of shelling out over $300 million on a new museum.
Jack didn't seem very impressed. 'You don't know my father,' he said. 'I'll believe in this new museum when I'm invited to the opening ceremony.'
He got tired of contemplating the director and moved on. 'James Langton,' he said, pointing at the white- linen-clad man in his late fifties who had been so gratifyingly keen on Titian. 'English slimebag.'
Argyll raised an eyebrow.
'Sorry. But you know what I mean. Supercilious, disdainful, mocking, dishonest. Wouldn't you say those are national characteristics?'
'Not really,' Argyll said, a host of English people fitting that description swarming into his mind.
'Well, I do. Used to be chief leech, until Thanet came along. Since then he's become an international parasite. Paris, Rome, London, New York, as they say on the perfume bottles. Devoted himself to searching out every overpriced fake in the world for my father's collection, buying it and taking a hefty cut for his services.'
Argyll felt aggrieved, and mentioned his Titian once more. He was beginning to develop a complex about it.
'So we all make mistakes,' Jack said with no discernible interest. 'Even a man of Langton's huge talent couldn't get a hundred per cent success rate. He must slip occasionally and buy something genuine.'
On he went. 'Mummy dearest,' he said, pointing at the petite, expertly dressed woman Argyll had encountered earlier that afternoon. She had arrived twenty minutes earlier. 'She's my stepmother, but she doesn't like to be called that. On the make. Quite assiduous about it. She has a vague southern accent but in fact comes from Nebraska. Do you know where Nebraska is?'
Argyll confessed he didn't. Jack nodded as though this proved it.
'Nor does anybody else. She hit the jackpot with my old man, and will stick with him until he croaks and she can get her hands on his money. Unless the museum gets it first.' He regarded the woman with apparent indulgence, then dismissed her abruptly from his mind and switched to another target.
'David Barclay,' he said firmly, pointing to an excessively groomed personage talking to Anne Moresby. 'His signature will be on your cheque - if you ever get it. My father's lawyer and personal factotum, on permanent secondment from some law firm. The
'I beg your pardon?' Argyll said, caught a little by surprise.
'Little David is connected to my family most intimately,' Jack said, speaking ever more loudly. 'All services, legal and otherwise, rendered with equal skill.'
He sniggered, and Argyll regarded the lawyer with increased interest. He expressed surprise that the man kept his job.
'Discretion is a wonderful thing. The trouble is, it's not that easy to keep up. Even the best-kept secret is apt to leak out eventually. Given a helping hand, anyway. That's why I'm here, in fact,’ Jack went on elliptically. 'I love firework displays, and are we going to have one tonight.'
'Are we, indeed?' Argyll said, thinking that perhaps this party might turn out to be more fun than he'd anticipated. 'You don't seem to rate your father's judgement of character very highly.'
'Me? The grateful son, not respect one of the richest men in the world? I have the highest opinion of his judgement. After all, he spotted me immediately as a drunken, ill-disciplined bum who'd never make a go of anything. And I can assure you, he was right. I have never disappointed him in the slightest.'
There were distinct signs by this stage that Jack was teetering on the brink of self-indulgence. The last thing Argyll wanted was a detailed account of life with father, so he caught di Souza's eye as the Spaniard wafted past. He barely had time for introductions when there came the sound of Samuel Thanet trying to get the attention of the
