Lonely business. Twice Michelle sent a breathless girl—we had two of these runners, not really enough—with some query, quite mundane. It occurred to me that maybe Michelle was checking on me, rather than proving she was on the ball. Once Tinker came coughing up carrying me a pint of ale. At least, he nearly did. The beer slopped so much on the stairs he didn’t think it worthwhile to finish the ascent, so he drank it and called up that he’d go back and get me another. “Another?” I yelled down. “I haven’t had the bloody first yet.” He clumped off, muttering. That’s friends for you. I mean, I thought from my perch by the leaded window, Michelle was really too attractive, but cuckolding Duncan, whom I liked, hadn’t been my fault. She’d realized how good and sincere I am deep down. That’s what did it. Finer qualities always go over big with women…
Dobson walked from the covered way. He paused to scan the still, kilted figures of Duncan’s five watchers. Undecided, he strolled round the east wing. I smiled. Sure enough, he returned. Hamish’s big cousin Charles, Number 17, was posted there with his shepherd’s crook and his noisy eight-year-old son. Dobson moved more purposefully round the west wing. I waited while the viewers, now a teeming throng, poured about.
And back he came, now surly and fuming. It was Hector’s sister’s lad Andy on that corner with his border collie. Dobson turned, shook his head slowly. No go, he was telling somebody.
My blood chilled. An overcoated man, bulky and still, was standing among the crowd.
He raised his hand to his hat, and five—five, for Christ’s sake; there’s only one of me—
others joined him. They came and ascended the steps, with Dobson’s lanky, morose figure striding behind. I swallowed. Well, I tried to. These were hard nuts, continentals from the Hook. Ferrymen, as Tinker calls them. Pros, the heavies with which our gentle occupation abounds.
They left after two hours, into the nosh tent. At four Duncan’s bell started ringing. At four-thirty the last cars left, carrying the caterers. A lady dealer, one of the Brighton familiars, was winkled out of the loos by a dog. Five o’clock and Duncan’s men raised an arm, Robert’s numbers each holding a plaid flag from the windows. Michelle came out and signaled jubilantly up to me, smiling all over her face. I opened the window and yelled to stand down, everybody. One or two applauded, all delighted. Trembler had one small item missing, a fake Stuart drinking glass. Cheap at the price, but Trembler went mad. Tinker complained the beer tent hadn’t allowed the statutory twelve minutes’ drinking-up period, and went to fill the aching void with Mrs. Buchan’s brew.
Other people haven’t his bad chest. Elaine was thrilled and joined us all in the kitchen for a celebration.
“A perfect View Day!” she exclaimed, congratulating Trembler in the hubbub.
“Absolutely right!”
Nearly, I thought, as the retainers talked, grinning in the flush of success. Almost nearly. But I grinned yes, wasn’t it great, well done. All there was left to do now was leave my promised panic message on Antioch Dodd’s answer phone and wait for the dawn to bring Dobson’s vicious army and the holocaust. When I made my final run from Tachnadray, I desperately wanted Antioch and his merry men waiting and watching for me out there. Loneliness is dangerous. I’ve always found that.
« ^ »
—— 28 ——
Auction Day.
The Great Hall at Tachnadray was crowded. Seats were in rows, three hundred.
Dealers, collectors, and even other auctioneers, plus a few stray human beings were cramming in. The talk was deafening. Michelle was lovely though pale on her podium, with little Mrs. Moncreiffe in place behind her neat blocks of forms. To the auctioneer’s far left, two solemn lasses waited at telephones. Retainers were stationed at the exit and by each window down the length of the hall. Trembler’s two shop-soiled whizzers had arrived overnight. With the eidetic memory of their kind, they hastened once round the entire stock, then went to the beer tent to take on fuel, bored. I entered as Trembler checked the time, made for his podium. He looked great, really presentable, posh.
“Morning, Lovejoy,” somebody said.
“Morning, Jodie.”
“How did a scruff like you get a commission like this?”
She was smiling as she gibed. Jodie Blane’s a bottle-blonde who does business with those clandestine dealers who’re forever in and out of Newcastle. She has genuine watercolors and Regency silver. She says.
“Me? Influential friend of the family.”
We laughed. I said I thought I’d just seen Dutchie. She said no, that I must be mistaken because she’d heard Dutchie was in Brussels. I asked from whom, and sure enough, she replied Dobson. Surprise, surprise. Elaine wheeled in, emitting the ephemeral radiance of the love child, and smiling up at Trembler. Oho, I thought, moving on in the press. Trembler gaveled, and we were off. His two whizzers appeared from nowhere, one in each aisle.
“Good day, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Tachnadray. Please refer to the conditions of sale. No buyer’s premium”—a few ironic handclaps met his wintriest smile—” but otherwise Sotheby’s rules apply. Note that the auctioneers deny responsibility…” Jeers and catcalls, some laughter. In the buzz Trembler summarized all the other escape clauses, making sure we could get away with murder, and went straight in. It’d be a long sale. He begged for haste in the bidding.
“Lot One. De Wint: ‘Dovecot, Derbyshire,’ watercolor.”
“Showing here, sir!” cried a whizzer.
“Who’ll start me off? Two hundred?” Trembler intoned, then in surprise responded to a nod from the farthest telephone girl. All phony. Last Sunday he’d drilled her till she cried. He feigned a bid beyond me, also off the wall, and finally knocked the painting down to the telephone girl. She called the buyer’s name: “Gallery Four, sir.” The fourth private gallery registered incognito with the auction. It indicated big secretive buying interests. The audience’s faces hardened, and settled down for blast-off. The phony telephone wires dangled out of sight below the girls’ desks, of course. It didn’t matter, because the De Wint watercolor was also dud. Elaine had done it, under my guidance.
But it had keyed the audience up to a spending mentality. Trembler’s a real artist. I stepped into the corridor.
