“From what?” he asked wryly, gesturing around the room. “Do you see customers? Do you see a single customer? For this I left a low-paying but steady job in a museum? Where shall we go?”
We left his assistant—Janie, he called her—and headed for Starbucks. “I guess you were implying business is not exactly great,” I said.
He laughed. “Oh, it’s okay. No fame and fortune, though. But I always thought I’d like working for myself, and I do. Sorry about your place. Dreadful thing. Insured?” I nodded. “Good,” he said. “You’ll let me know if there is anything I can do.” I smiled my thanks.
We chatted awhile, and then it struck me that Sam might indeed be able to help with something, by way of information. “Would the name A. J. Smythson and the Smythson Gallery mean anything to you?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied. “Surely you remember too.”
“The name sounds familiar, but I can’t really recall why,” I said. “So tell me. I can tell from the expression on your face that there’s a good story here.”
“It’s quite a tale, all right, but good isn’t exactly the word,” he replied. “In fact it is precisely the wrong word. Smythson, Anton James Smythson—his friends, I wasn’t one of them, called him A. J.—was an art dealer on King Street West. He had his gallery in one of those industrial buildings that are being converted in that old part of town. He lived in a fabulous loft over the store.
“He was very successful, in a way I am coming to realize I never will be. He threw the most extravagant openings for his artists, and I attended several. A little collegial schmoozing, you could say. His gallery was only a few blocks from mine. Champagne, caviar, oysters. Only the best. But the parties in the gallery were nothing compared to the private parties he threw in his loft. These were unbelievable. I only got invited to one, but it was spectacular: flowers everywhere, fabulous food, witty entertaining guests, movie stars, politicians, all the glitterati.
“Really, he had it all. Lovely stone cottage in the country, winter residence in San Miguel de Allende. He also had good taste. Make that exceptional taste. The paintings he owned personally in his loft were to die for.” He paused. “Actually that is an entirely inappropriate expression considering what happened, forgive me. But he had a couple of Rothkos in the dining area of the loft that I would have given my eyeteeth for.
“Unfortunately he also had a few weaknesses. One in my mind was that he was just a little too successful. This may sound like sour grapes; I mean no one is ever likely to call my gallery a huge success, but when you’re in the business we are, you have to be careful not to accept stolen goods. It’s easy enough to do, and it is done. You and I both know that. You know that when you’re buying antiques in the East, for example, you have to make sure that they are not national treasures, that they have an export permit.” I nodded.
“It’s easy enough to be fooled, of course. I recall when I was collecting for the museum, someone brought me some very exceptional silver pieces. Very old, Persian, about thirteenth century. I was desperate to add them to the collection. You know the rules as well as I do. Canada is a signatory to various UNESCO conventions on trade in art and artifacts, and particular agreements with various countries, and it was therefore necessary for me to ensure that these objects had left Persia, or Iran, before Canada signed the agreement with that country.
“I asked the person who had brought the objects for that proof. The person was not asking for money, incidentally, which is just as well because the museum, in fact most museums, have no acquisitions budgets anymore, and they rely on donations. The person merely wanted a tax receipt for them. Easy enough to do. This person—who shall remain nameless— showed me some documents that indicated that the pieces had been in New York in the late 1950s, which technically meant that we could accept them. But you and I both know that all kinds of stuff came out of Iran when the Shah was deposed, and a lot of the old, wealthy families hightailed it out of the country with the family treasures. I decided in all conscience I had to do some more checking. I did, and in a way I’ll forever regret it, because I found that the objects had been in Iran until after the Shah left in 1979, and that the New York documentation was false. I could have accepted the counterfeit proof. If it ever came out, which it probably wouldn’t, anyone would have thought I’d just been fooled. But I didn’t. I know I did the right thing, but it was not an easy thing to do.
“I tell you all this only by way of saying that I always had the impression that Smythson wouldn’t have gone that extra mile to check. That’s all I’m saying. Maybe it went further than that, and he knowingly handled illegal goods, but I have absolutely no firsthand knowledge that this was the case. When I went to his apartment for that party, some of the objects I saw there—really, really exquisite—were things I wasn’t sure he should have had. I couldn’t prove anything, of course, and I didn’t even try. Live and let live, you know. But after that evening, whenever I shook his hand, I had the feeling I’d been slimed.
“This is getting to be a long story. And now the part I’m sure you will remember. Smythson had at least two other weaknesses: cocaine and beautiful young men.”
He hesitated for a second or two. “We’ve never discussed it, but I assume you may have noticed I’m gay,” he said.
“Sure,” I said.
“Well, Smythson had a bit of a reputation in the gay community. How do I put this delicately? He liked the rough stuff. He did the whole bathhouse thing. In the end he was found with his pants down, literally. The police were not too forthcoming on the details, but I gather it was pretty gory. The theory was that he’d taken the wrong beautiful young man home. There was lots of cocaine in his blood too, so the other theory was that it was a drug deal gone bad.”
“I do recall now,” I exclaimed. “It was much in the news for a couple of days, but I don’t recall hearing they caught whoever did the deed.”
“They never did. I have a theory, of course, of my own. I think it could have been either the drugs or the sex. But I also think it could have been the art, and, being a member of the gay community myself, I think the police leapt to the conclusion they preferred. Not that they didn’t have reason to reach that conclusion. He’d been in trouble before, possession of drugs, not selling, and he got off on a technicality, but the record was there. But I’ve always felt that the bias was there too. In other words, it was a prominent gay man, so it had to be sex and drugs, if you see what I’m saying, so they didn’t look at anything else. And maybe the hint of an idea that he’d gotten what he deserved.”
“I don’t suppose one of the investigating officers was named Lewis,” I said sarcastically.
“I don’t know,” Sam said. “Why do you ask?”
I told him about my conversations with Sergeant Lewis, and about his elliptical way of speaking and his insinuations. “It’s not so much what he says as how he says it that bothers me,” I said. “He thinks Alex is guilty of something, but he never comes out with it.”
“I can imagine your Lewis fellow doing the investigation into Smythson’s murder.” Sam paused, then leaned forward in the way I’d described Lewis and said, “Bit of a poufter, was he?”
“Which bathhouse exactly!” I countered.
“Precisely how much cocaine?” Sam said.
I smiled at him. “You’ve cheered me up, Sam, as you always do, even though you were making a serious point here. Thanks for your help.”