the motor car, please? I think I’ve left that dictaphone thing.”
“You be okay, Lovejoy?”
“I’ll shout if I’m in danger.”
We were alone. During the intermission Verbane summoned bourbon entombed in ice. He quaffed long, had another. I really envy these folk who can drink early in the day without getting a headache.
“I haven’t any strong feelings, Mr Verbane,” I said as honestly as I could. “Hoving’s opinions about the Getty purchase aren’t my concern. Though I wouldn’t like to discount anything Hoving said, especially after he bought the St Edmundsbury Cross.”
“Are you claiming —?”
“Nothing. These rumours about a second Aphrodite being taken from Sicily and sold through London are the sort of rumours that shouldn’t be resuscitated.” I saw his brow clear a little. “Don’t you agree?”
“Of course I do.” He coughed, took a small white pill thing while I waited with the silent respect all medicines deserve.
“I deny having Aphrodite, Lovejoy.”
“Course. I’ll support you, if anyone asks my opinion.”
This scandal isn’t quite a scandal, not as major art and antiques frauds/purchases/scams/sales go these days. It was just before the nineties that the Aphrodite row erupted. She’s lovely, an ancient Greek marble and limestone masterpiece spirited—not too strong word—into the harsh public glare which money provides for any valuable art form. The Getty people made honest inquiries of the Italian Government, and bought. Then nasty old rumours began whispering to vigilant Italian police that Aphrodite was stolen. Aphrodite (her name actually means “Lovely Arse”, incidentally, though the Romans called her Venus) is worth fighting for. The battle continues, though the value’s soared in the meantime.
The rumours I’d heard had mentioned a second Aphrodite from the same source. Possibly a fake, my contact had said on the phone two days back. Well, Verbane’s delusions were no business of mine. His support was. The antique trade’s maxim is: sell support, never give.
“At a price, Lovejoy?”
“No. At a swap, Mr Verbane.”
“I don’t trade that way. Mr Mortdex hates it.”
I could see Tye slowly heading back. I’d arranged a series of signals should I want him to take more time, I tried to flatten my hair reflexively. He instantly paused to watch the horses, now mounted and cantering. “You buy at auctions, Mr Verbane.”
“I heard about you, Lovejoy.” No pansy mannerisms now. He was lighting a cigarette, cold as a frog. “Doing the rounds, protection racket in museums?”
“You’ve been misinformed. I made a sale, in antiques. If your informant told you differently, she’s lying. Which should set you wondering why, eh?
He’d stared when I implied his informant was a woman. It wasn’t as wild a guess as all that. The second Aphrodite was supposed to have been “bought”by an American natural history team in search of lepidoptera near Palermo. Natural history, as in Mrs. Beckman. I calmed him. “Mrs. Beekman didn’t tell me anything. I’m a lucky guesser.”
“What do you offer, Lovejoy?”
“One per cent of your last valuation, paid into an account I shall name. Thereafter, one per cent of all your purchases of sales, same destination.”
“And you’ll do what in exchange?”
“I’ll tell you of three high-buy fakes, international market.”
He considered that. “How do you know this?”
“That’s for sale. And their location. And who paid what.”
“As
We settled finally. I declined his offer of a meal, though it hurt. By then he’d provided copies of the Mortdex Collection valuation. I promised him I’d have it checked by auditors who’d visit within the day, whereupon the naughty Mr Verbane produced a different sheaf of printouts. Managers of private collections are the same the world over.
He stayed me as I made to leave, reminding me of the promise.
“Oh, yes. Antiques.” I’d already worked out what he deserved. “The Khmer art sculptures, South-East Asia. Remember the November sales?”
“Yes.” He was a-quiver, almost as if he’d bought a sandstone Buddha. “I remember.”
I bet you do, you poor sod, I thought. “Several were fake, Mr Verbane.”
He licked his lips. A girl called an invitation to come and join them. He quietened her with a snarl.
“That sandstone thing’s recent, made in Thailand. Mr Sunkinueng who was Phnom Penh Museum curator —”
“But the reputation of Sotheby…” He was giddy. I’d have felt almost sorry for him, except I didn’t.
“Reputations are made for breaking. That four-armed god sitting on a lion, from Angkor Wat, 1200 AD. bought by a famous American collector.” I looked about at the lovely countryside. “Who lived hereabouts.”
“Fake?” he whispered. His lips were blue.
