Bradley reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. “Let me ask a question before I say anything. Are you helping the boys in blue?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The police?”
“No, I am not. I work privately, as I said in my note, and as you can see from my card.”
“So, who’re you working for? Who’s paying you?”
“I have been asked by Georgina Bassington-Hope to conduct a limited investigation into her brother’s death. She felt that there were a few unanswered questions. In order for her to put the family’s loss behind them, Miss Bassington-Hope retained my services.”
“So are you investigating me?”
Maisie smiled. “Mr. Bradley, you are an avid collector of Mr. Bassington-Hope’s work, so he obviously spent time with you—any artist would be anxious to keep the buyer happy, is that not so?”
Bradley nodded. “Yep, you’ve knocked the nail on the head there. Nick was nobody’s fool, and knew where his bread and butter came from. He may have had his garret on the beach—I never went there, but heard all about it —but he knew how to sell his work.”
“What do you mean?”
The American acknowledged a waiter who came bearing a silver coffee pot, setting it on the table with a matching jug and sugar-bowl. He did not speak until the waiter had left the table after pouring coffee for Maisie and himself.
“Cream?”
Maisie declined. “You were talking about Nick, his understanding of the business of art.”
Bradley took a sip of coffee, and went on. “A lot of these folks, artists, have no idea when it comes to selling their work. They have an agent, a guy like Svenson, and that’s it, they leave it all up to him. But Nick was interested—interested in
“I see.” Maisie nodded as she spoke, setting her cup in its saucer.
“You see what?”
She cleared her throat, not quite used to conversing with someone so forthright, and embarrassed to recall that Stratton had challenged her with exactly the same words. “It’s a figure of speech. I’ve been trying to build a picture of who Nick Bassington-Hope was, and I find that he was something of a chameleon. He was an artist, and people sometimes jump to conclusions about artists, that they don’t have their feet on the ground, that sort of thing. Yet Nick was a most sensible person, someone who had seen unspeakable things in the war, and yet who did not draw back from depicting them. And he wasn’t afraid to use real people in his work either. So, when I say ‘I see,’ I am simply seeing more of the man than I did before. And seeing the man Nick Bassington-Hope was is essential if I am to submit a comprehensive report to my client.” Maisie did not miss a beat before putting another question to Bradley. “So, when did you first learn of his work? How did you go about building the collection?”
Bradley stubbed out his cigarette, went to reach for another, and changed his mind. “Remind me to hire you next time I want to check into the background of someone I’m about to do a deal with.” He paused and continued. “First let me tell you that I served in the war, Miss Dobbs. I’d already built a business by then, but was drafted in by our government to advise on supply of, well, you name it, anything and everything, before the first doughboys went over in ’17. I could’ve stayed in the States, but I shipped over to France myself, to make sure the job was done right. Didn’t come back until after the Armistice. So I saw the war, Miss Dobbs, saw what the boys went through. And your boys went through it all for a lot longer.”
Maisie said nothing, knowing that at this point in the meeting it was best to simply allow the man to speak. He had leaned back in his chair, not too far, but enough to indicate that he was letting down his guard. He reached for that second cigarette, poured more coffee for both Maisie and himself, and continued as he put away a silver monogrammed lighter, half closing one eye against a lingering wisp of smoke. “Svenson came to see me, oh, must have been in ’22. Nick had a few pieces in an exhibition at the gallery—of course, it was a much smaller outfit then. I reckon Svenson has made a mint off Nick Bassington-Hope, and those old masters he buys from Europeans on the brink of ruin. Anyway, he tipped me off early, so I came along—I was in England anyway—and saw, right there and then, that this was an artist I could appreciate. I’m not the kind of collector who will buy anything just for the heck of it, Miss Dobbs. No, I have to like the piece I’m buying. But…” he paused and looked at her directly, “I go all out for something I want. And I wanted this boy’s work.”
“Why?”
“It was just darn amazing! So simple, so—Lord, what did Svenson say? Measured, that’s it,
“Truth?”
“Right. He could touch the truth.”
“So you started buying.”
“There and then, like I said. And I wanted to see what he’d done before, and I wanted everything he painted that was for sale later. His American period is a departure, but has all the hallmarks that he’s known for—and remember, I know the place, done business all over.”
“So what about his latest collection? You’ve bought all but the main piece, I understand.”
“Yeah. Bought it all, didn’t even have to see it. I know what I’m buying with this boy—and it’s worth a heck of a lot more now that he’s dead. Not that I’ll sell.”
“But you didn’t procure the main piece?”
“Nick didn’t want to sell. But I’ll get it, you’ll see. When they find it, I’ll get it.”
“I understand there was another bidder.”
