The Great California Game

paid over fourteen million sterling, at Sotheby’s, for a painting he already half owned. You’ll scream outrage when the AI hullabaloo is raised tomorrow about big auctioneers allowing the new relay bid—you know the old trick, Joe nods to Betty who winks at Fred who scratches his nose so Jean waves to the auctioneer. You’ll holler Is this fair? and all that. You know how to yell, I’m sure.”

“Mangold’s has been the subject of abuse from —”

“Sure, sure.” My tone was cold. Asking for sympathy, and him an auctioneer. “False high estimates: ‘anticipatory valuation’ to the trade. That too will be complained abour. New legislation will be demanded from the Europeans, and Parliament. Quote Turner’s Seascape Folkestone—the whole trade knows about that. And cite the different values given to different museums for the same painting.” I pretended to think a while, though I’d already decided. “That Cuyp painting simply couldn’t be officially worth only three million sterling in Wales, and twice that in Edinburgh, right? Here’s a list of suggestions for your press handout, with details and dates. Some you’ll already find in your clippings file. Others are my own… imaginings.” I smiled. Even he cracked his face a little. “I’m hoping you’ll dish the obvious dirt, Mr Mangold, like telling the world that all those awful hundred- thousand dollar Utrillos are fakes.”

“Three full pages, Mr Dulane?” He read rapidly, looking for his own name, relaxed when it wasn’t there.

“I was pushed for time.

He did smile then. “Who’ll be making the protest to the Antique Internationalers?”

I sighed at the memory of what it would be costing me when young Masterson, Eton and Oxford, suaved to his feet and delivered the speech in Brussels. I’d be paying for the rest of my life, if I lived that long.

“An interested party, Mr Mangold,” I said mournfully. “Here’s your bill: just get me secretly to Los Angeles, at maximum speed. Add pocket money, and we’re quits.”

He folded the lists away. “When your man has raised Cain in Brussels, Parliament, the European Commission —”

“Now, or I cancel.” I stood, the better to run.

He moved even faster, clambering his desk to wring my hands. “It’s a deal,” he said.

“Plus the phone call.” He unwrung, as if hearing me demand that secret four per cent discount on commission which they allow antique dealers, as a bribe. I explained. “The call I’ll make very soon, from LA, asking you to agree that you’ll donate to me one hundredth of the joint Sotheby-Christie Impressionist sale prices.”

He gaped. “That’ll be a fortune! Mangold’s could never afford —”

“Mangold’s will,” I promised. “Because the Rail Pensions Fund can’t risk scandal. Play your cards, and they’ll switch the sale to you. Surely you can afford one per cent of their gelt?”

Tears filled his eyes. “If that comes to pass, Mr Dulane,” he said huskily, “I’ll give you two per cent”

His mind was orgasming at the thought of failures and suicides among his rivals. I was pleased. I’d hate to see auctioneers mellow. Keep progress at bay, I always say. You know where you are with sin.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

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MANGOLD did an efficient job. No ostentation, just sent his secretary to conduct me along miles of tortuous corridors. We came out through a shopping mall where a hired saloon waited. A private plane from a small airport beyond Little Ferry, and I had time to think and hope and be relieved the fliers weren’t Joker and Smith.

The loveliness whizzing below brought tears to my eyes, seeing it all being wasted because I was zooming to fabulous California and probable demise. I was heartbroken with pity for Lovejoy Antiques Inc’s stupidity. So I wallowed and planned, and finally decided I’d better be ready for anything, or else.

Which brings me to a little place called Los Angeles.

ONE thing you have to admit about East Anglia is that its villages have centres. Each town has a middle. Every city has an area that definitely is bullseye. Like an idiot, I’d assumed Los Angeles would be similar. I’d actually told Magda and Zole to meet at the railway station, six o’clock every night until I showed up. I’d stay at some hotel “near the town centre”. I remembered using the phrase.

Lovejoy, he dumb. Brains of a Yeti.

For Los Angeles is a tangle of cities, towns, areas, coasts, harbours, suburbs, all by the veritable dozen. I stared down disbelievingly as the massive spread grew beneath us. Strings of motorways wound through cities strewn about the globe’s surface, motor cars streaming along umpteen-lane highways that melded, parted, and emptied themselves into the misty distance where still more cities sprawled. I’d seen rivers of traffic before, never floods.

Just as I thought I’d identified L.A.’s town centre, it was supplanted by another. And another.

Shakily I asked the air lass what this place was. She looked brightly out of the window.

“That’s old L.A.,” she said fondly. “Great, huh? We’ll be landing at one of the airports shortly.”

Get it? One of the airports? I shrank, didn’t want to disembark. I was already lost. I’d thought Los Angeles was a seaside resort. Instead it was a universe.

We landed at a smaller airport near ?Glendale. It was as big as most countries, and took six minutes to slot me into a motor car. I laid low, occasionally peering out. The world was rushing, whizzing to God knows where. The driver was a Turk, who talked of baseball for the twenty or so miles.

“YOU look like I feel, Lovejoy.”

I’d never been so glad to see anyone as Magda and Zole. He’d acquired a skateboard, blew gum between