The gallery, just three doors away from Sotheby’s, consisted of one vast room with a worn gray carpet and red faded wallpaper. As David was later to learn, the more worn the carpet, the more faded the walls, the greater the success and reputation of the gallery. There was a staircase at the far end of the room, against which some unregarded paintings were stacked, backs to the world. David sorted through them on a whim and found, to his delight, something that appealed to him.
It was an oil by Leon Underwood called Venus in the Park. The large, rather somber canvas contained about six men and women sitting on metal chairs at circular tea tables. Among them, in the foreground, was a comely naked woman with generous breasts and long hair. Nobody was paying her the slightest attention and she sat gazing out of the picture, face inscrutable, a symbol of warmth and love in indifferent surroundings. David found her utterly compelling.
The gallery proprietor, Jean-Pierre Lamanns, advanced on him, adorned in an elegantly tailored suit, as befitted a man who rarely received checks for less than a thousand pounds. At thirty-five, he could afford the little extravagances of life, and his Gucci shoes, Yves St Laurent tie, Turnbull & Asser shirt and Piaget watch left no one, especially women, in any doubt that he knew what he was about. He was an Englishman’s vision of a Frenchman, slim and neat with longish, dark wavy hair and deep brown eyes that hinted at being a little sharp. He was capable of being persnickety and demanding, with a wit that was often as cruel as it was amusing, which may have been one of the reasons why he had not married. There certainly had been no shortage of applicants. Customers, however, saw only his charming side. As David wrote out his check, Jean-Pierre rubbed his forefinger backward and forward over his fashionable mustache, only too happy to discuss the picture.
‘Underwood is one of the greatest sculptors and artists in England today. He even tutored Henry Moore, you know. I believe he is underestimated because of his dislike of journalists and the press, whom he describes as nothing more than drunken scribblers.’
‘Hardly the way to endear oneself to the media,’ murmured David, as he handed over the check for £850, feeling agreeably prosperous. Although it was the most expensive purchase he had ever made, he felt the picture was a good investment and, more important, he liked it.
Jean-Pierre took David downstairs to show him the Impressionist and Modern collection he had built up over many years, continuing to enthuse about Underwood. They celebrated David’s first acquisition over a whiskey in Jean-Pierre’s office.
‘What line of business are you in, Mr Kesler?’
‘I work with a small oil company called Prospecta Oil, who are exploring prospects in the North Sea.’
‘Had any success?’ inquired Jean-Pierre, a little too innocently.
‘Well, between the two of us, we’re rather excited about the future. It’s no secret that the company shares have gone from £2 to nearly £4 in the last few weeks, but no one knows the real reason.’
‘Would it be a good investment for a poor little art dealer like myself?’ asked Jean-Pierre.
‘I’ll tell you how good an investment I think it is,’ said David. ‘I am putting $3,000 in the company on Monday, which is all I have left in the world — now that I’ve captured Venus, that is. We’ll shortly be making a rather important announcement.’
A twinkle came into Jean-Pierre’s eye. To one of his Gallic subtlety, a nod was as good as a wink. He did not pursue the line of conversation any further.
‘When’s the strike going to be announced, Bernie?’
‘I’m expecting it early next week. We’ve had a few problems. Nothing we can’t lick, though.’
That gave David some relief, as he had taken up 500 shares himself that morning, investing the remaining $3,000 from his bonus. Like the others, he was hoping for a quick profit.
‘Rowe Rudd.’
‘Frank Watts, please. Jean-Pierre Lamanns.’
‘Good morning, Jean-Pierre. What can we do for you?’
‘I want to buy 25,000 Prospecta Oil.’
‘Never heard of them. Hold on a minute... New company, very low capital. A bit risky, J.-P. I wouldn’t recommend it.’
‘It’s all right, Frank, I only want them for two or three weeks, then you can sell. I’ve no intention of holding on to them. When did the account start?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Right. Buy this morning and sell them before the end of the account, or earlier. I’m expecting an announcement next week, so once they go over £5 you can get rid of them. No need to be greedy, but buy them in my company name; I don’t want the deal traced back to me — it might embarrass the informant.’
‘Right, sir. Buy 25,000 Prospecta Oil at market price and sell before the last day of the account, or sooner if instructed.’
‘Correct. I’ll be in Paris all next week looking at pictures, so don’t hesitate to sell once they go over £5.’
‘Right, J.-P. Have a good trip.’
The red telephone rang.
‘Rowe Rudd are looking for a substantial block of shares. Do you know anything about it?’
‘No idea, Harvey. It must be David Kesler again. Do you want me to speak to him?’
‘No, say nothing. I’ve released another 25,000 shares at £3.90. Kesler’s only got to do one more big one and I’ll be out. Prepare our plan for seven days before the end of this Stock Exchange account.’
‘Right, boss. You know quite a few people are also buying in small amounts.’
‘Yes, just as before, they all have to tell their friends they’re on to a good thing. Say nothing to Kesler.’
‘You know, David,’ said Richard Elliott, ‘you work too hard. Relax. We’re going to have enough work on our hands when the announcement’s made.’
‘I guess so,’ said David. ‘Work’s just a habit with me now.’
‘Well, why don’t you take tonight off and join me for a spot of something at Annabel’s?’
David was flattered by the invitation to London’s most exclusive nightclub and accepted enthusiastically.
David’s hired Ford Cortina looked somewhat out of place that evening in Berkeley Square among the double-parked Rolls Royces and Mercedes. He made his way down the little iron staircase into the basement, which at one time must have been no more than the servants’ quarters for the elegant town house above. Now it was a splendid club, with a restaurant, discotheque and a small elegant bar, the walls covered in old prints and pictures. The main dining room was dimly lit and crowded with small tables, most of them already occupied. The décor was Regency and extravagant. Mark Birley, the owner, had in the short period of ten years made Annabel’s the most sought-after club in London, with a waiting list for membership of well over a thousand. The discotheque was playing in the far corner of a crowded dance floor, on which you couldn’t have parked two Cadillacs. Most of the couples were dancing very close to each other — they had little choice. David was somewhat surprised to observe that nearly all of the men on the floor were about twenty years older than the girls they held in their arms. The head waiter, Louis, showed David to Richard Elliott’s table, realizing it was David’s first visit to the club by the way he stared at all the personalities of the day. Oh well, thought David, perhaps one day they’ll be staring at me.