glancing down at the pearl and her right hand was positioned as if about to reach up and touch it. The effect was amazingly erotic and Stevenson smiled when he saw its impact on me.
‘Powerful,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘But I’ve tired of it I’m afraid, and have my eye on something else altogether. Now you’ve noticed the empty space. That’s where the pearl was, the very same pearl that Galliard painted. It took me a great deal of effort and money to acquire it but I finally did. Needless to say, the value of the painting goes up immeasurably when accompanied by the pearl. It’s vulgar, I suppose, but I felt the same way myself, I have to confess.’
‘What sort of money are we talking about?’
‘Oh, say one point five million for the painting itself.’
‘And with the pearl?’
‘Three million, possibly more, depending on the buyer.’
‘What’s the pearl worth on its own?’
‘I’m not sure. It’s not extraordinary in any way. Perhaps a hundred thousand. It’s insured for a little less.’
‘So the thief got the wrong thing?’
Stevenson shrugged. ‘I have to assume he didn’t know what he was doing.’
I stared at the painting for a while. I liked it a lot and thought it’d take me a long while to tire of it, but I could find much better uses for a million five. Most recovery of stolen property work is done through insurance companies and the recoverer gets a percentage of the insured value. Nice enough most times, but Stevenson was talking about a different situation altogether and the payoff had to be big. Tempting, but a bell named caution rang not too far distant.
‘There are specialists in this sort of thing, Mr Stevenson. Why me?’
‘For a very good reason,’ Stevenson said as we moved away from the painting. ‘I’m planning to auction the picture and the pearl in a few weeks. That information is abroad, but not widely. Sufficiently, shall we say. Subtlety is of the essence in these matters. People like to think they’ve acquired the knowledge through their own cleverness, or that it’s held by a few. You understand?’
I was beginning to dislike this phrase of his. Patronising. But with nothing else important on hand, the credit cards up near their limit and the bills coming in, I couldn’t afford to be choosy. I nodded.
‘If I used one of the usual agencies the information would leak out that the pearl is missing. Interest would drop immediately. The atmosphere would be… negative.’
I said, ‘I see,’ before he could ask me if I understood.
It sounded okay. We went through to a room he called his study. It was book-lined, with more pictures and a big desk with a computer and other high-tech equipment. I’d done the usual quick check on Stevenson before I’d arrived. He’d inherited a lot of old money and made a lot more new money on the stockmarket. He had an old money wife and two daughters who’d married on the same financial level. Money cosying up to money the way it does.
Peter Corris
CH28 — Taking Care of Business
I had one of my standard contracts with me and we signed it and he wrote me a retainer cheque. I was guaranteed fifteen thousand dollars for the return of the pearl on top of my usual daily rate and expenses. I put my copy of the contract and cheque in my pocket and shook his cool, dry hand.
‘I wonder if there’s a photograph of the pearl,’ I said.
‘Of course. He opened a drawer in the desk and removed a plastic envelope. From it he slid out two photographs, one, a bit above postcard size, of the painting and the other, slightly smaller, a close-up of the pearl on its ribbon. Both were expertly done, vibrant and alive.
Then I was given an inspection of the alarm system that protected Stevenson’s collection. State of the art, probably, twenty years ago, but now pretty primitive. No laser beams or photoelectric cells, just a pulsing alarm and a hook-up to the police call board. The main doors to the house had deadlocks but Stevenson showed where a wall had been climbed and a window, not connected to the system, had been expertly cut out. Stevenson and his wife had been away in the Blue Mountains (acreage at Blackheath) at the time of the burglary.
‘I’m surprised the insurance company was happy with these arrangements,’ I said.
Stevenson let slip a wry smile. ‘Ah, now there you’ve caught me out a fraction. That’s another reason for my… preference for your services, Mr Hardy.’
It’s nice to find that people aren’t completely straightforward. Humanising.
Stevenson was right about leaks in the detective business, but there was one sure way to plug them, at least temporarily-with money. I knew some of the art theft boys in the game, and my first move was to get in touch with one I could at least partly trust. Quentin James is an art validator, assessor and recoverer of stolen objects. We’ve worked together successfully a few times. Money is his god, and the right amount buys his total discretion.
I went to James’ office in Pitt Street and laid out the story. James is close to sixty, very fat and wheezy, a chain smoker and boozer, but he knows his business. As an ex-smoker I find it hard to spend much time with him in the fug he creates. He’s not a window opener, not a fresh air man.
‘Hmm, I believe I heard something about a Galliard going up for sale. Not which one, mind. Interesting.’
‘What d’you think of the amounts mentioned?’
‘Hard to say. Could be right.’
‘Is it possible that someone might think the pearl is worth more than the painting?’
James shook his head as he exhaled and a cloud of smoke wafted towards me. ‘No. More likely a ransom job. “I’ve got the pearl. You pay up and you’ve got your package back.” He hasn’t been approached?’
‘Not yet. So who’re the likely candidates?’
‘Alarm system disabled, wall climbed, glass removed. Wall hard to climb?’
‘Hard for me, impossible for you.’
He smiled. ‘I find climbing stairs taxing enough. There’s work involved here, Cliff, my boy. Ring around, find out if Stevenson’s had any inside work done on the house lately. Who did it, if so. Who they might pass info to. Like that.’
‘I’m on a big earner, Quentin. I’ll pay.’
‘Leave it with me.’
I busied myself with other matters for the next few days. Then two things happened. First, the story of the theft broke in the newspapers. The report described the painting and the pearl and said that the Sydney private enquiry agent Clint Hardy was investigating. I rang Stevenson immediately.
‘It wasn’t me,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t get my own name wrong.’
‘I believe you. It’s most unfortunate. Perhaps my wife, perhaps one of my daughters… I don’t know. They gossip. Have you made any progress?’
‘Some.’
‘Well, our arrangement holds.’
‘You haven’t been approached with an offer?’
‘Offer?’
‘To buy back the pearl. Understand?’
He said, ‘No,’ quite sharply, but whether he knew I was getting at him was hard to tell.
Later that day, Quentin James faxed me a list of three possible burglars.
I rang him. ‘Sandy Foreman’s in jail,’ I said.
‘You’re well informed.’
This was just part of the fencing that goes on in this business. James would have known that Foreman wasn’t a candidate and put the name in to pad the list and check that I was on the ball. I was left with two names-Jim ‘the fly’ Petersen and Kevin Barnes. James gave me last-known addresses for both.
‘Something’s troubling me about this business of ours,’ James said.
