“Your statue gets impounded.”
“Statue?” He tried indolence, then casual when that didn’t work either. I’m all for façades, which are valuable things, but only when they’re some use.
“Aphrodite. Fifth century BC, that you bought in a secret deal three years ago. Wasn’t it twenty million dollars? That English art dealer who lives not far from Bury Street in St James’s? Everybody was so pleased — except the Sicilians.”
A lovely bird did her splash, rose laughing from the pool in nice symbolism, yoo-hooed, looked hard at us when Verbane ignored her.
“You’re thinking of the J. Paul Getty Museum in Malibu, Lovejoy. They’re the ones who bought Aphrodite.”
“I heard,” I said. I waved to the girl for him. She returned the salutation doubtfully. “Tye? Could you go down to the motor car, please? I think I’ve left that dictaphone thing.”
“You be okay, Lovejoy?”
“I’ll shout if I’m in danger.”
We were alone. During the intermission Verbane summoned bourbon entombed in ice. He quaffed long, had another. I really envy these folk who can drink early in the day without getting a headache.
“I haven’t any strong feelings, Mr Verbane,” I said as honestly as I could. “Hoving’s opinions about the Getty purchase aren’t my concern. Though I wouldn’t like to discount anything Hoving said, especially after he bought the St Edmundsbury Cross.”
“Are you claiming —?”
“Nothing. These rumours about a second Aphrodite being taken from Sicily and sold through London are the sort of rumours that shouldn’t be resuscitated.” I saw his brow clear a little. “Don’t you agree?”
“Of course I do.” He coughed, took a small white pill thing while I waited with the silent respect all medicines deserve.
“I deny having Aphrodite, Lovejoy.”
“Course. I’ll support you, if anyone asks my opinion.”
This scandal isn’t quite a scandal, not as major art and antiques frauds/purchases/scams/sales go these days. It was just before the nineties that the Aphrodite row erupted. She’s lovely, an ancient Greek marble and limestone masterpiece spirited—not too strong word—into the harsh public glare which money provides for any valuable art form. The Getty people made honest inquiries of the Italian Government, and bought. Then nasty old rumours began whispering to vigilant Italian police that Aphrodite was stolen. Aphrodite (her name actually means “Lovely Arse”, incidentally, though the Romans called her Venus) is worth fighting for. The battle continues, though the value’s soared in the meantime.
The rumours I’d heard had mentioned a second Aphrodite from the same source. Possibly a fake, my contact had said on the phone two days back. Well, Verbane’s delusions were no business of mine. His support was. The antique trade’s maxim is: sell support, never give.
“At a price, Lovejoy?”
“No. At a swap, Mr Verbane.”
“I don’t trade that way. Mr Mortdex hates it.”
I could see Tye slowly heading back. I’d arranged a series of signals should I want him to take more time, I tried to flatten my hair reflexively. He instantly paused to watch the horses, now mounted and cantering. “You buy at auctions, Mr Verbane.”
“I heard about you, Lovejoy.” No pansy mannerisms now. He was lighting a cigarette, cold as a frog. “Doing the rounds, protection racket in museums?”
“You’ve been misinformed. I made a sale, in antiques. If your informant told you differently, she’s lying. Which should set you wondering why, eh?
He’d stared when I implied his informant was a woman. It wasn’t as wild a guess as all that. The second Aphrodite was supposed to have been “bought”by an American natural history team in search of lepidoptera near Palermo. Natural history, as in Mrs. Beckman. I calmed him. “Mrs. Beekman didn’t tell me anything. I’m a lucky guesser.”
“What do you offer, Lovejoy?”
“One per cent of your last valuation, paid into an account I shall name. Thereafter, one per cent of all your purchases of sales, same destination.”
“And you’ll do what in exchange?”
“I’ll tell you of three high-buy fakes, international market.”
He considered that. “How do you know this?”
“That’s for sale. And their location. And who paid what.”
“As facts?”
We settled finally. I declined his offer of a meal, though it hurt. By then he’d provided copies of the Mortdex Collection valuation. I promised him I’d have it checked by auditors who’d visit within the day, whereupon the naughty Mr Verbane produced a different sheaf of printouts. Managers of private collections are the same the world over.
He stayed me as I made to leave, reminding me of the promise.
“Oh, yes. Antiques.” I’d already worked out what he deserved. “The Khmer art sculptures, South-East Asia. Remember the November sales?”
“Yes.” He was a-quiver, almost as if he’d bought a sandstone Buddha. “I remember.”
I bet you do, you poor sod, I thought. “Several were fake, Mr Verbane.”
He licked his lips. A girl called an invitation to come and join them. He quietened her with a snarl.
“That sandstone thing’s recent, made in Thailand. Mr Sunkinueng who was Phnom Penh Museum curator —”
“But the reputation of Sotheby…” He was giddy. I’d have felt almost sorry for him, except I didn’t.
“Reputations are made for breaking. That four-armed god sitting on a lion, from Angkor Wat, 1200 AD. bought by a famous American collector.” I looked about at the lovely countryside. “Who lived hereabouts.”
“Fake?” he whispered. His lips were blue.
“Modern fake,” I said cheerfully.
“You said you’d tell me something I could…”
“Make on? Very well.” I thought a bit, as if I hadn’t already made up my mind. “You’re rivals to the Getty Museum in California, right? Well, their male Kouros statue from Greece is said to be two thousand years old—by kind friends with a vested interest.”
He brightened, as they all do at the grief of rivals. “But its attribution is doubtful?”
“Don’t ask me. Ask Giuseppe Cellino—he’ll tell you exactly how it was peddled round every antiques museum and gallery in the known world by a Swiss dealer for three years. He has all the addresses, times, dates. Don’t say I sent you.”
Smiles and grief were still competing on his face when we drove away.
“Lovejoy?” Tye said as our limo paused at the entrance of the imposing estate. “How much of all that was true?”
“All of it, Tye,” I said sadly. “All.”
He was driving, taking us carefully out into the two-laner. “Then how come these big experts don’t know from fakes? That Sotheby Gallery place is supposed to be —”
“Tye,” I said, watching the great house recede into the distance. “There’s enough of us already in. Don’t you start, okay?”
“Capeesh, boss.”
At the airport while Tye and his goons saw to the plane, bags, paid off the saloon car, I phoned news of the hack to Gina. Then phoned Prunella to get moving. I never carry a watch, but checked the time and reckoned Magda and Zole should be about halfway to my next destination. It’d be risky for her, but that’s what women are for.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
« ^ »
WE were airborne in an hour. Joker and his ambling mate Smith cleared us for landing in Chicago by dusk. I felt I’d been travelling for years. Tye’s two goons were still uncommunicative, the air hostess Ellie of amphibian responsiveness.
Tye still hadn’t mentioned why one of our tame vigilantes hadn’t travelled with us to Mr Mortdex’s ranch. Or why we’d been followed there and back, by a separate saloon motor that kept vanishing and reappearing. It even changed its colour once. I felt less friendly towards Tye now, because I was doing the business as well as anyone could, right?