“And we have the money which is always the governing power.”
The guard carefully measured us and, without a word, opened the door to a busy kitchen where a busy crew was preparing dishes of shepherd’s pie and Welsh rarebit. Two slightly built Asians were washing and drying dishes while they smoked cigarettes and spoke in a totally incomprehensible language. We were ignored, with no one even bothering to glance our way. We passed through a crowded, noisy pub where we received a few curious stares, but little else. At the end of a long bar was a nicely decorated Christmas tree that was laden with circles of tinsel and gingerbread figures. Nearby, a happy working-class couple, with mugs of beer in hand, were embracing and kissing beneath mistletoe which hung from the ceiling. I could not help but wonder if they knew of the sordid and at times murderous dealings that emanated from the back rooms of the Morrison establishment. Of course they were aware, I decided, but one turns a blind eye to such activities when it is in one’s best interest to do so. A door to our right opened and we were ushered into a rather plain office that was filled with cigar smoke. From behind an uncluttered desk, a heavyset man wearing a nicely tailored suit stood and motioned us to the two chairs in front of him. He was well groomed and could have passed for a businessman except for the deep scar that ran from his ear to his upper cheek.
Without introduction, he asked, “You have the bank’s letter?”
“Yes,” Joanna replied and handed him a letter obtained with the assistance of Scotland Yard, which carried a Bank of England letterhead and certified the Vanderhorsts could cover any purchase up to a hundred thousand pounds. “Your name, please.”
“That is unimportant,” said he.
“It is to me,” Joanna said sharply. “You know our name and I must know yours, if you wish to do business.”
“Roger Jones.”
“That is not a very convincing alias.”
“That is my name.”
“Then we are not off to a very promising start, are we, Mr. Freddie Morrison?”
The mention of his true name did not seem to faze the man. “I see you do your homework, Mrs. Olivia Vanderhorst.”
“That is how I do business,” Joanna said, her South African accent spot-on. “I take it my letter of credit is satisfactory.”
Morrison read the letter before holding it up to the light to ascertain its watermark. “It appears genuine.”
“Then let us proceed,” Joanna said, retrieving the document.
“First, I shall go over the rules you must agree to and follow. To begin, whether or not your bid is successful, neither this meeting nor the people involved are ever to be mentioned.”
Joanna flicked her wrist at the demand.
“You must agree for us to continue. Please keep in mind that failure to follow the rules could end up being unpleasant for you. And we have friends in Johannesburg who owe us favors.”
Joanna leaned forward and stared directly into Morrison’s eyes. “We pledge to remain silent in all our dealings. But I would like you, Mr. Morrison, to keep in mind that I am not moved by your threats and, most importantly, that I have the power and money to wipe you and your family off the face of the earth.”
Morrison smiled thinly. “Then we have an understanding.”
“Go on with your rules.”
“You can make one bid and only one bid, so I would advise you to make the very best bid possible. This is not an auction, nor will it become one. Each new bidder is told of the highest offer and can either increase it or withdraw. There are no second opportunities.”
So very clever, I thought. Everything was straightforward and on top of the table, with no haggling or quibbling or messaging between the bidders. No time would be wasted and the masterpiece would still demand the highest price.
“If your bid is successful,” Morrison went on, “you will be notified and a site agreed to where the transaction will occur. You alone will be present for the transfer, and no second parties will be allowed. How you transport the masterpiece and what you eventually do with it is your business and of no concern to us.”
“We insist you guarantee it will reach the London address we give you,” Joanna demanded.
“That can be arranged.”
“And we will not be charged an additional fee for this service.”
Again a thin smile crossed Freddie Morrison’s face, but this time it was accompanied by a nod. “The transaction will of course be in cash.”
“Of course.”
“In hundred-pound notes.”
“Done.”
“We will have a man present to make certain the banknotes are not counterfeit.”
“And I an expert to certify beyond any doubt that the item in question is a true masterpiece.”
“We will require the name of the expert.”
“That is none of your concern,” Joanna snapped. “He has a reputation to protect and cannot risk his name being associated with the transaction.”
Morrison considered the demand before giving the briefest of nods. “How do you propose your expert do the inspection?”
“You will deliver the masterpiece to a suite at a Knightsbridge hotel which we both will agree on,” Joanna instructed. “The expert will take as long as necessary to certify that the painting is authentic. The room will have no terrace nor any exits to adjoining rooms. You can have one of your men stand guard outside the door, if you wish.”
“I insist that I be in that suite,” Morrison stipulated.
“You shall be, but you will be facing the door.”
Morrison shook his head forcefully. “The masterpiece never leaves my sight until I have the money in hand.”
Joanna pondered the quandary at length, obviously understanding Morrison’s insistence. He wished to make certain that there was no possible way a switch could occur. Criminals at the level of Freddie Morrison were quite clever, particularly when it came to the various subterfuges of thievery.
“Then we shall have our expert masked,” Joanna said, seeking middle ground.
“Agreed.”
“And the money exchanged once the masterpiece is certified.”
“Well and good,”
