I was to remember that, later.
MY team assembled at Pennsylvania Station. Tye was along, of course, monolithically, saying nothing. I’d told him not to come armed, and he’d agreed. I didn’t believe him. He needed a secret howitzer. I had a first real look at Prunella in action: today with obvious contact lenses a foot deep and extraordinary flying elbows, as if protecting her files. I’d slimmed my team down to just us, was now having misgivings about my wisdom.
“Prunella,” I said wearily as she scattered her files all over the coffee shop for the umpteenth time.
“Sorry, Lovejoy.” She retrieved them.
Jim Bethune arrived, gave Tye the bent eye.
“I don’t believe this,” he said. “Us? Up the stake in the ’ckin
Travellers were pouring past. Touts were touting. We were scrunged up at a small table, at least those of us not dropping folders. The coffee was dire, first bad quaff in this wonderful land.
“Which museum are you milking, Jim?” If he had any thoughts of undermining my position, now was the time to disillusion him.
“Lovejoy,” he said, confidence swelling, “this is between you and me, right? I don’t discuss business in shitholes.”
“Tye,” I said evenly, “get rid of him.”
Tye rose, hauled him upright.
“Wait a minute, Lovejoy. I don’t mean —”
I gave him my saddest. “Jim. You’ve blown your one chance. Goodbye, and good luck.”
He clawed desperately to stay by the table as Tye started leaning towards the exit. A boy with a white forage cap by the popcorn stand edged nervously into the walkway.
“You can’t do this, Lovejoy! Metropolitan Gallery of Arts. Bickmore’s the boss…”
Tye walked him out, returned. Bethune stood outside staring in, kid at a toffee shop window perishing of neglect.
“Right, team. Prunella, you come with me. Tye, you also, but act like a chauffeur or a private assistant, okay? Jim’s to be brought in once I’ve got going.”
“We need him?” Tye asked, surprised.
“Essential. Let’s go.”
On the way to the street I told Prunella to phone Bickmore and get an immediate appointment; subject: security.
THE Metropolitan Gallery of Arts claims to be the largest in the western hemisphere. It’s right, but I’m not too sure about the arts bit. Don’t misunderstand me. It’s got tons of genuine art. It’s also got tons of stuff that is hard to classify. I can’t come to grips with a massive cube with a grandiose title. I allow that it’s art, but not my sort. I need this big stone block to tell me something about the bloke whose name’s on the caption, and it doesn’t. That off my chest, I admit that any place with 3.3 million works of art truly is a wonder.
Bethune waited nervously by the information desk while Prunella scurried on ahead, Tye patiently scooping up her dropped papers. I spoke harshly with Jim. It was difficult moving, because of the Madonna and Child. The terracotta was set in a nook by the stairs at the end of the enormous hall. Blue and white glaze is often a giveaway, as here. It bonged like a cathedral bell into me. I believed the Andrea della Robbia label—it was his uncle Luca who enamelled glazes this colour onto terracotta. I’d seen pictures of it, loved it for years. Who hasn’t? But to see it in the flesh —
“Lovejoy? Mr Bickmore’s waiting.”
Prunella scampered alongside, shoes clacking. “Are you all right, Lovejoy? You look —”
“Never heard of hay fever?” I told the silly cow, then felt sorry when she fumbled in her handbag for medicaments—
The office was grand. Bickmore was a tall, arid man of the old school. He had a knack of being willowy, so he could peer over his bifocals. I’m used to the worm’s eye view. And I’ve been put down by every trick in the book. I smiled, shook his hand, sat as Prunella’s files cascaded around.
“Prunella’s been with me a long time, Mr Bickmore,” I said. “The only polymath in my corporation.”
“You’re not American.” He was broad smiles. “What museum is your favourite back home?”
We chatted awhile about the British Museum, a few others, just enough to prove I was on intimate terms with their layout. I supplied him with a card citing me at Nicko’s office address, and was in no doubt he’d checked before letting us in.
“It’s a matter of security, Mr Bickmore,” I said pleasantly. “Yours, not mine.”
His split-level specs sloped disapproval. “You’re not selling, Lovejoy?”
“I’m not. You are. We bought tickets,” I added, smiling to show no hard feelings.
“Think of it as a suggested donation, Lovejoy.”
“Always makes fees seem easier, Mr Bickmore.”
“Security,” Bickmore said coldly. “If it’s a matter of—”
“Of the protection money you were going to pay.” I let the silence solidify. I’d warned Prunella not to be shocked. She was scribbling it all down, pen flying.
Bickmore gave orders to an intercom, rose and closed an intervening door.
