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 my interest in his work. He wanted to meet me, and we talked a lot, got to know each other.”
“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, measured. Nick didn’t just serve up blood and guts, no, he could touch the…the…essence of the scene. And he didn’t draw back from the horror of it all, in his war work, and that’s what I saw, at first. But he added something else, something…”
“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.”
Bradley shrugged. “Small fry. I’ll get it, like I said.”
“Do you know anything about it, apart from the fact that it’s supposed to be more than one piece?”
“That’s what I’ve been told, Nick said as much to me, and it’s what I would have expected.”
“Why?”
“Well, you look at his other work; it has a serial quality to it. So I’m pretty sure this one is a triptych. And I’m sure the subject is the war. That’s why I want it.”
Maisie made no immediate response, whereupon Bradley stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward, his elbows on the table.
“I believe that this piece, whatever it is, will distill—yeah, I reckon that’s a good word—distill everything he thought and felt about that war. Remember, I’ve collected him for years, watched him grow, change, sort out his life with his art. I think that once it was finished, this final piece, he was ready to let the past be the past, you know, step forward to whatever was next. I predict that whatever he moved on to would be an example of…of…”
“Resurrection? Rebirth?” Maisie offered, almost absentmindedly, for her mind had wandered, thinking about Nick Bassington-Hope and the work that had caused his death.
“Yeah, that sounds about right. I like that. Yeah. It was there, to some extent, in his American period. But even that seemed to show an exploration, a journey, not an arrival.” He nodded again, and looked around the room, now filled with guests taking luncheon. He looked at his watch. “Any more questions, Miss Dobbs?”
“Oh, yes, just one or two if you don’t mind. I’d like to know how long you’ve been doing business with Stig Svenson, and—I promise this is confidential—what he’s like to deal with.”
“I’ve known Svenson since before the war, when we were both starting out. I’d made some money and I wanted to indulge myself. When I was a boy, an English fellow”—he grinned, checking that Maisie had caught the quip—“lived on our street. He wasn’t rich, none of us were in that neighborhood, but every day he left that house dressed as if he were going to the Bank of England. His clothes weren’t new, but they were good. I didn’t know anything about him, except that he was dapper, as you would say. Dapper. I wanted to be like him, and when he died his family—turns out he had kids in the city—came out and sold up everything. And you know what? He worked in a factory. Not a fancy office, but a factory. And he spent money on art, all sorts of pictures from artists you’d never even heard of. I was only young, but I bought a couple I liked, cheap. So, that set me on my path, my love of art. I came to see Svenson in ’19, when I was in London before shipping back home. I bought a couple of pieces from him—cut price, you guys weren’t in any position to haggle then—and we kept in touch. My business boomed and I was over here as much as I was at home.” He paused, once again reaching for a cigarette, then reconsidering before he continued talking, looking directly at Maisie. “Now, even though I’ve known Svenson awhile now, I believe he’d take the shirt off my back if he could. We respect each other, but I know what he’s about. He’s sharp, understands what sells—and right now, that’s European art, all your rich dukes and counts and princes selling off the family heirlooms. God only knows where he’s getting it from—and he knows who wants to buy. Make no mistake, if there is a pie with money anywhere in London, Paris, Rome, Ghent or Amsterdam, Stig Svenson’s finger is in it.” He stood up and came around to pull out Maisie’s chair for her. “And Nick had his number. Knew Svenson could pull a buyer, but watched him like a hawk all the same.”