I understand you are not thinking of selling at the moment. However, should you allow the painting to be sold at some point in the future I can assure you our auction house, with our list of buyers from around the world, would be able to obtain the very highest price for you.
Yours sincerely,
Anton De-Bonneville.
Unfortunately, Harold wasn’t aware the letter had been made to look old by a process Peter learned over the years involving staining the paper with a solution of cold tea.
The painting of the lady in pink, to which the letter referred, rather than being one hundred and fifteen years old, was actually less than one month old and had been copied from a photo of the original painting.
Peter had found a small art studio in Shenzhen just north of Hong Kong who boasted they could supply museum quality hand-painted copies of masterpieces so perfect they could fool virtually anyone except a real expert. $80 might not get you much in the west, but in the Far East, it provided a talented artist with enough to feed their family for more than a week.
So Peter was ordering paintings made to look like old masters and having them shipped over and selling them at local auctions.
It was a scam he had been running for several months at various auction houses. Bidders thought they had stumbled across an old master in a box of items from a country house clearance. At the auctions, Peter placed bids against them in order to get the price up. Then when the price was right, he stopped bidding.
One hour later, as his latest ‘victim’ stood waiting for Lot 135 to come up, Peter positioned himself close by and pretended to be speaking on his mobile, slightly whispering to give the impression he didn’t want to be overheard but with enough volume that he could be. He wanted to remove any last doubts Harold might have.
“Yes, I’ve seen it in a box from Burlington House. I’m certain it’s genuine. I remember seeing it there years ago. The old bugger must have passed away, and nobody has recognised it as an original. The estimate said ten to twenty pounds. Yes, I’ve got enough cash to bid up to £500 but not a penny more, that’s all I can afford. I know, it’s worth a bloody fortune.”
Peter noticed when he said his limit was £500 Harold grinned. If he had been hesitating because he wasn’t sure, that should convince him. After all, in Harold’s eyes, someone else had now recognised the painting as being genuine. Peter was sure he had done enough that Harold would want it. At any cost!
The bidding on Lot 135 started at ten pounds with a bid from Harold. The auctioneer looked round for further bids, but none seemed to be forthcoming. He searched the room a second time and just when Harold thought he had won Peter put up his hand and watched as Harold’s face dropped.
Harold looked round to see who was bidding against him and seeing Peter, gave him a stare as cold as ice and mumbled to himself, “Okay mate, if you want a fight you’ve picked the wrong person. I know how much you can afford.”
As Harold Croft walked out of the auction room carrying the box marked Lot 135, he looked extremely pleased with himself. He had been the successful bidder at £520. With the addition of a buyer’s premium, his bank account was £598 poorer. Buying the box of items had taken virtually every penny he had, but it would be worth it when he sold the painting for a fortune. The job lot of tools he had come to buy could wait. He had needed them to secure a contract that would give him the money to pay the mortgage company at the end of the month to stop them from taking legal action, but he could probably afford to pay the whole mortgage off in full once he sold the painting.
As Harold reached the exit, he noticed Peter standing close by. He couldn’t resist so he stopped and leaned over. “Better luck next time, mate.” He looked surprised when Peter gave him a big grin but then didn’t give it more than a moment’s thought.
Two days later, one of the art experts at Christie’s was scratching his head. He had just had to disappoint the third person in two months who’d arrived with a painting that was obviously a copy and a letter purporting to be from the early 1960s from an Anton De-Bonneville who, according to their records, had never worked for the auction house.
Harold left the plush reception area and walked onto the cold pavement outside. In those few seconds, all his dreams came crashing down, but the main thought on his mind was whatever would he say to the mortgage company now he had spent every penny he had on a painting that had turned out to be worthless.
And the contract he had needed the tools for – that he had turned down – had gone to someone else.
All he wanted to do now was find the nearest pub and drown his sorrows.
It wasn’t going to make him a fortune but Peter’s latest scam was keeping his head above water.
Harold would never know he was the latest victim in a long line of people conned by Peter with his ‘Hong King Scam’, though he doubted it would be of any consolation if he ever discovered the truth.
Together with the income from his tiny antiques shop in Dulwich in south London, Peter was making a reasonable living, but he was always looking for ways to make more.
He had been running the scam for ten months, and it had had a good run but perhaps now was a good time to call it a day and move on
