back, pacing from side to side in front of the pictures, viewing them from different angles. He struck a pose, one leg stretched in front of the other, arms crossed, shaking his head slowly as he marveled, a silver lock of hair falling down over his forehead.
“Well,” he said finally, raising his eyebrows and turning to Corsier with a look of theatrical amazement, “these are really quite beautiful. Convincing. I certainly have no hesitation to bring Wolf into this. The things just look like Schiele. I mean, it’s a hell of a thing to discover Schieles, for God’s sake, isn’t it?”
“I could hardly believe my eyes,” Corsier said.
He decided to grow serious instead of joyous. Knight had always to be tempered. If he were morose or skeptical, one had to pick him up. If he were ebullient, one had to portray studious sagacity. Knight appreciated a certain amount of tension, a certain equilibre.
“To be honest, Carrington, I find I’m a bit humbled by this discovery,” Corsier said. He walked around to join his flamboyant associate. “Can you imagine these things hanging in obscurity for something like eighty years? Can you imagine how easily they might have disappeared?” He put his hands behind his back, a big, studious bear of a man, and stood before the drawings. “This hausfrau brings them in the back of her Volvo, and she knows nothing of what she has.”
Knight said nothing. He turned and stepped to the table, uncorked the champagne, and filled the two flutes. He handed one to Corsier, and the two men faced each other.
“To Schiele.”
They clinked their glasses and drank, then simultaneously turned to the drawings. They looked at them.
“They haven’t names?” Knight asked.
“Not that I know.” Corsier stroked his goatee.
“They must.”
“What do you suggest?”
“This one,” Knight said, gesturing with his glass to the two girls, “should be Two Lovers Reclining.” He was emphatic. He stepped to the second drawing. “God, I love the way he’s done the bottom of the buttocks here. And the reflection of that dark pudenda.” He was pensive. “This one should be Model Regarding Herself in a Mirror.” He raised his eyebrows quizzically.
“Oh, I wouldn’t change either name,” Corsier said. “They are perfect. Schielean titles.”
“Then there we have it.” Knight drank. “You’ll need to prepare a statement of provenance. You’ve got to get them from Schiele’s studio to here.”
“Easily.”
“I’ll need a letter from a lawyer stating that he is representing an anonymous owner and that the drawings, ‘the Property of a Gentleman,’ can be legally represented by him.”
“Yes,” Corsier said. “Here is the name of the barrister who will issue the letter.” He handed Knight a card. “If by some off chance Schrade should balk at the proposition of anonymity, you may tell him that he is welcome to contact this man. He will keep my identity completely secure and at the same time be able to allay any doubts Schrade may have about provenance. I urge you to give the barrister’s name only as a last resort.”
“I doubt this will be necessary,” Knight said, glancing at the card and putting it aside. “Schrade has bought anonymously from me before. Never was a problem.”
“That would be the best possible situation.”
“Now”-Knight continued looking at the drawings as he spoke-“it seems to me that the energy of discovery can best be sustained if I call Schrade immediately, announce the discovery, and urge him to act quickly. This is a momentous event, after all, and he can’t expect me to linger with these. He will get first look, but he will not have a lot of time.” He turned to Corsier. “When do you place them?”
“As you mentioned before, early. I’m going to think… 1911. His sister Gertrude was still posing nude for him then. I rather think the mirror one looks like Gertrude in the mouth and the eyes.”
“Damned if I don’t agree with you, Claude. Exactly.”
They stood, regarding the drawings.
“When did you say you were going to call Schrade?” Corsier asked.
“Tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 49
TWO DAYS LATER
The woman had called the day before and wanted an appointment to see him. Carrington Knight had no openings in his calendar for that day. She persisted. She said that she understood he was one of the leading authorities on the drawings of these five particular artists. She named them. Was this true?
Knight modestly agreed. He detected an American accent.
Well then, she had drawings by these artists. Seven drawings, which she wanted to sell for a client.
Knight was suddenly alert. These artists did not come on the market every day. In fact, they were rare. Highly collectible. She had seven of them?
These were actual drawings? Documented?
Oh, yes. Every one. Documented.
Maybe they should meet after all. What about tomorrow? he asked. That would be fine, she said, and they arranged a meeting late in the afternoon.
So here he was now, balancing a cup of Lapsang souchong and looking out the windows at the brooding day. On the countertop nearby he had propped up the two photographs of the Schiele drawings. For the past two hours he had paced his second-floor showroom, casting a bright eye at the rain one moment and an avaricious eye at the Schieles the next. The previous day he had e-mailed his news of the Schiele discoveries to Wolfram Schrade at a special number reserved for his art business in Berlin. The woman who handled the paperwork for his acquisitions had responded immediately. She was quite excited at his news, but, she said, Mr. Schrade could not be contacted until that evening. She would communicate the news to him as soon as possible. She was sure she could get back to him the next day.
Today. But she hadn’t. Yet.
Knight looked at his watch. Urgency was very important in these situations. It created a fire in the clients. Urgency begat urgency, and the greater the urgency about a particular piece of art, the greater its importance. Therefore urgency was a valuable psychological tool, and once urgency had been introduced, it was a terrible thing to let it subside. It was like an erotic moment. One did not want to be distracted by the plumber or by a delivery from the grocer. Sustained urgency usually could be stoked up to a really satisfying financial climax.
So Knight looked at his watch again. He sipped the smoky tea, which he particularly enjoyed on rainy days. A rich tea for a rich moment.
He was thinking of this as his eyes made regular sweeps from the photographs of the Schiele drawings to the telephone at the end of the library table and down to the rainy street-unlike most Londoners, he relished the rain, liked watching it, always had, and summer rain was the best-when the black Jaguar Vanden Plas pulled up to the curb in Carlos Place and stopped.
After a moment a uniformed driver got out of the front door, put up an umbrella, and opened the back door of the car. For a flicker of a moment two long legs, almost entirely exposed beneath a short black dress, swung out of the car and onto the sidewalk; the chauffeur’s umbrella blocked his line of sight and hid the woman’s face. As she was helped out of the car, Knight saw the drape of an ankle-length raincoat descend to cover her long legs, and then the chauffeur and the woman hurried up the steps to the front door of Carrington, Hartwell amp; Knight.
Knight’s preoccupation was momentarily arrested. What an elegant arrival. He loved it. It was a fine day.
He watched as the chauffeur returned to the car with Jeffrey, Knight’s receptionist/security guard. While the chauffeur held the umbrella, Jeffrey removed a package from the rear seat, and the two of them hurried up the steps and out of the rain. Ms. Paille and her seven drawings had arrived.
Jeffrey had been given instructions to show her up straightaway upon her arrival, so Knight stood beside his
