Jesus. Mary. And Joseph.
“Ms. Paille,” he said, pulling out a chair for her, “please sit down.” He held the chair for her. He pulled out another for himself and sat down, each of them turned half toward the other, the unbelievable portfolio between them on the table.
He concentrated on bringing himself under control. Ms. Paille-how the hell did she get that name? — was, it was obvious, a most sensible woman. She would not react well to flighty excitement.
“This is a very fine collection,” he began. “Really, it is superb. A singular collection.” He hesitated, but only a heartbeat or so. “Does Mr. Cao have any idea of the collection’s worth?”
She looked down at the two Maillols. Knight studied her profile, appreciating the little dimple at the corner of her mouth that gave her smile a slightly askew expression.
“I have looked into this a little,” she said. “It’s my responsibility to be somewhat informed. But I would rather you told me.”
“I would say, surely, a minimum of three million pounds.”
Slowly, ever so slowly, as slow as the minute hand, her mouth formed a soft, pensive smile.
“Well,” she said, “what do we do now?”
“If you want me to sell them for you, I shall need all the documentation you can give me about their provenance. You mentioned that you had considerable documentation.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll need some time to examine that. I will also need to spend time with the drawings themselves, outside of the portfolio. I’ll want to examine the paper, and the medium… whether it’s pencil, crayon, graphite, chalk, etc.”
“I understand,” she said. “But they must not leave here.”
“Oh, of course not. They remain here.”
“Now, I would like to discuss some of the business aspects of the sale.”
Knight nodded.
“What is your fee for brokering these?”
He told her.
“Will you sell them as a lot or separately?”
“I think as a lot.”
“As I understand it,” she said, “the drawings market is distinctive, quite different from, say, paintings.”
“Exactly.”
“Those collectors-individual collectors, that is, excepting institutions, who consistently pay the highest prices for the finest-quality works-are a rather small group. Some of them, those at the top, are passionate.”
“Exactly.”
“I looked into this,” she said, “and I would like you to offer Mr. Cao’s drawings to three different collectors. I understand that they are especially ardent collectors, and therefore pay the highest prices.”
She suddenly produced a small card of cream paper with deckled edges and put it on the table between them.
“I’d like you to offer the drawings to these persons, one at a time, in this order.”
What an extraordinary turn of events. Carrington Knight picked up the card and read the names. He looked at Ms. Paille.
Her eyes were fixed on his. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he realized that he had underestimated her.
“Well,” he began, momentarily at a loss for words, “you have indeed done your homework. How did you arrive at these names?”
She smiled. “The same way I arrived at yours. It is my job to research well whatever Mr. Cao asks me to research. Mr. Cao does not tolerate mistakes. Would you disagree with the list?”
“I should say not.”
“Not even the order?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then that is what you will do?”
He hesitated, though he didn’t know why. She was absolutely right. For some reason he could not fully put his finger on, she seemed suddenly more astute. He felt a little odd about it.
“Yes,” he said, “I will.”
“Good. Mr. Cao has one stipulation.”
A stipulation? What would an eccentric collector be without a stipulation? In this rarefied business prerequisites were a common expression of a special clientele.
“Mr. Cao wishes to remain anonymous in this sale.”
“Very well.” This was not out of the ordinary.
“Nor does he want you to reveal the seller’s ethnic identity. Or mine, his representative.”
This was out of the ordinary. But not a problem, just odd. “Very well,” he said. He loved it.
“Then we have an agreement?”
“Yes, indeed, we have.”
CHAPTER 50
Carrington Knight stood at the window and looked down at the street. In a moment she emerged with her chauffeur, the black umbrella hiding her head and shoulders, and quickly disappeared into the back of the black Jaguar. Silently the car pulled into the traffic of Carlos Place and disappeared into the rain.
He smiled. She was a very shrewd woman. A lovely woman. A woman who might even be dangerous to know. Dangerous in a nonlethal sense. Dangerous in the sense that she was capable of enthralling. He did not have the impression that she would take a man places he did not want to go, but, rather, that she could seduce a man into wanting to go places he normally would have the common sense to avoid. In fact, she had just taken Knight there.
It was his policy to be scrupulous about not identifying his clients. Especially those clients like Schrade who were reclusive-and big spenders.
He was also scrupulous about veiling his methods of selling expensive works. He had learned long, long ago that however colorful he himself might enjoy being, when it came to money, and to the buying and selling of fine art, far more profit was to be made from discretion than from flamboyance. He actually bought most of the artwork he sold, but when he did agree to broker something, he never revealed to a seller the potential buyers he might approach.
Ms. Paille had smoothly relieved him of these two long-standing rules of operation. She had done it in such a way that he had relinquished these long-established principles without protest. He had even enjoyed it.
He looked at the portfolio still open on the library table. It hardly mattered in this instance. Besides, the end result was that he was going to broker one of the sweetest little collections of drawings that he had come across in a long while.
She would bring round the documentation later. Jeffrey had quickly typed up a brief description of the seven drawings, which they all had signed, affirming that she was leaving such items in his safekeeping.
She had been most insistent that the sale take place as quickly as possible. She had given reasons, all having to do with her eccentric employer, Mr. Cao. They had agreed that she would call the next day to make an appointment to bring by the documentation.
All in all a very exciting hour.
He turned back to the library table, relishing the idea of a leisurely examination of the drawings.
The telephone rang.
Knight flinched. He’d forgotten. Quickly he walked to the telephone. He let it ring one more time, then lifted the receiver.
“Carrington.”
“This is Wolf.”
“Yes, Wolf, good of you to call.” Knight was alert, ready, suddenly onstage.
“Helene told me about the Schieles.” Schrade’s baritone conveyed a languid self-confidence that was entirely peculiar to this man. “What do you think?”
“It would be easy to rhapsodize about them, Wolf, but just let me say this: They are first-rate. They are solid. I have never felt more sure of the quality of a Schiele. They’re stunning.”
“Mmmmmm. Good. They are genuine Schieles?”
“As I told Helene, I don’t have any doubts about them being Schieles, but I’ve still got to open them up.”
“When can I see them?”
“The sooner the better. I’ve been retained by the owner to authenticate them.”
“Who is the seller?”