I concentrated. I’d sent out for two books and nine magazines before breakfast.
“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
“Responsibility’s a killer,” I agreed.
“That’s so right!” he cried, his self-pity grabbing any passing sympathy. “I’m sometimes
“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
“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 facades, 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
