by Alex Connor
The young man’s eyes had narrowed.
“Dealers trade works of art every day. What’s so different about this?” he said. “I’ve asked around about you. You’ve bought enough paintings; you know how the business runs. No one gives the stuff away, do they? They sell it.”
“But I buy through the proper channels.”
The sweating man had laughed then, flopping into a seat behind Lim Chang. The younger man said, “If I was sitting in a gallery in Bond Street, you wouldn’t give this a second’s thought.”
Watched by the three men, Lim Chang had realized that he was in a very precarious position. He wanted the Hogarth but was reluctant to approach his superiors for half a million pounds without telling them from whom he intended to purchase the painting. But then again, he could hardly let the opportunity slip through his fingers. The solution was obvious. He would have to lie. If lying was the only way to secure a notorious masterpiece, so be it.
Outwardly calm, he appeared to be considering the proposal, but he had actually been weighing his options. If he didn’t buy the Hogarth, who would? He was worldly enough to know that many art purchases were suspect, even illegal. The young man had been right. To all intents and purposes, he was just another dealer.
Who also happened to be a gangster dealing from a basement in Chinatown.
“Where did you get it from?” Chang asked.
“You don’t need to know that,” the young man replied, his left eye running. “You asked for help finding it. We found it.”
“Where?”
“Do you want it or not?”
“I’ll need some time to raise the money.” Lim Chang stood up, catching the young man off guard.
Surprised, he had risen to his feet. “I need a decision now!”
“Why? You have another buyer?”
“You’re too fucking smug,” the young man said coldly. “I could find a dealer in a minute. Just walk a few streets and into any gallery off Piccadilly.”
“No, you couldn’t,” Lim Chang had replied, for the first time feeling confident. “You’d never get away with it. They’d have the police on you in an instant. And even if they didn’t, you really think you’d see any money? You know as well as I do that you can’t get rid of a painting as famous as this one without everyone wanting to know where you got it from. Every dealer in this town or any major city would recognize the work.” He had carried on, his equanimity impressive. “People have always believed this Hogarth was destroyed, but everyone’s actually hoped that one day it might reemerge.”
“I don’t need a lesson in art history. It’s just a fucking painting that I want money for.”
Lim Chang paused. He had to be careful; if he said too much about its importance, the triads might decide to keep the work for themselves. He couldn’t afford for them to realize what they had. So he decided to tell them enough to scare them, to make them want to get the Hogarth off their hands as quickly as possible.
“Perhaps I should warn you that there have been two deaths already because of this painting. And for all I know, there might have been others.”
The young man had sat down, rolling up the canvas and sliding it back into the cylinder.
“You trying to scare me?” He had looked at his colleagues, amused. “I think this little government ass licker is trying to scare me.”
Chang had taken in a breath. “You don’t want this painting.”
“Yes, I do!” The young man’s violent tone reverberated around the basement room. “Only you want it more, Lim Chang. You want it much more. Then you can run home and get a pat on the back from your superiors.” He had sneered, provoking him. “What a little hero you’ll be then. They might put a note under the painting to say that you obtained it from the Western despots. You’re the perfect company man, Chang. A product of old China, born to serve.” He had paused, letting the words take effect. “Find a way to get that half a million or I’ll find another dealer. You really think there’s only one route to sell this?”
“You have to give me some time.”
“You’ve got a week,” the young man had said dismissively. “Now get out.”
Remembering the devastating humiliation he had felt, Lim Chang walked back into the bathroom and picked up the creased tie, returning it to his wardrobe and picking out another. Slowly he finished dressing, then walked out of the hotel, leaving his key card at reception, and headed for Hyde Park. In the bitter winter morning, he moved through the underpass and then came out into the greenery of the park, taking a route that eventually would lead him to Piccadilly.
But the morning was spoiled by the memory of the previous evening. Chang bristled at the thought of the young man with the sore eyes calling him an ass licker, born to serve, then wondered why he had felt the insult so acutely. Hadn’t he always been proud to serve his country? Proud to have risen up the ranks to a position of some authority and respectability? Hadn’t he devoted his life to duty? His wife had played only a minor role in his existence, and his son was a shadowy figure; he had left them very much on the periphery of his life, both of them largely ignorant of Lim Chang’s true nature.
Over the years, he had learned to excuse his ruthlessness, his venality, by referring to his successes. Having acquired many important pieces of art for his country, Lim Chang had assuaged any guilt with his belief that all was forgivable in the service of the people and the people’s country. But slowly, seeing how China was becoming a major player in the world, he had realized that he must become more flexible.
Still smarting, Lim Chang walked toward Piccadilly, finally turning into the Burlington Arcade. Checking the time on his wristwatch, he silently rehearsed his speech one more time, then pressed the buzzer at the entrance to Sir Oliver Peters’s gallery. He could see movement inside, and an attractive female secretary opened the door for him, smiling a welcome.
“Can I help you?”
“I’ve come to see Sir Oliver Peters,” Chang said confidently.
“Have you an appointment? I’m afraid he’s very busy today.”
“He’ll see me. Just tell him Lim Chang wishes to have a word with him.”
Thirty-Five
AS LIM CHANG COOLED HIS HEELS IN THE GALLERY, OLIVER WAS ON A call to his brother-in-law, Ambrose Wilton. Although he had expected little in the way of help, anxiety for his family finally had forced him to approach the recluse. But even after he had confided that he had terminal cancer, there was only a muted, grudging response.
“How long have you got?” Ambrose asked imperiously, as though the whole matter was an inconvenience with which he never should have been troubled.
“A couple of months,” Oliver replied, hearing the dogs barking in the background as an accompaniment to Ambrose’s regal tone resonating down the line from rainy Ireland. “Sonia’s your sister.”
“I know who my family members are.”
“Then have some concern for them!” Oliver snapped. “God knows, I’ve helped you often enough in the past.”
“You like helping people,” Ambrose replied loftily. “You always have. I’m not like you, Oliver. I don’t feel the need to dig people out of holes. You have a social conscience; congratulations. I’m sure your obituary will be effusive.”
Taking in a breath, Oliver dropped his voice. “I’m not asking for myself but for your sister.”
“You have money; you’ll leave her well off,” Ambrose retorted. “Sonia and I were never close.”
“That wasn’t her fault.”
“I like dogs,” Ambrose said curtly, “not people.”
“Without my help you’d have been on the streets.”
“You can’t force sympathy out of me,” Ambrose went on. “It’s not in my nature. I don’t care about you or Sonia. I live alone because I like it, so please don’t expect anything from me. You would only be disappointed.”
And that was that.
Oliver leaned back in his seat, reflecting bitterly on the conversation. He was
so angered by Ambrose Wilton that it was a relief when Lim Chang was shown into his office. Oliver’s manners were as graceful as ever as he showed Chang to a seat before regaining his own behind the desk.
“I have some news,” the Chinese dealer announced without ado.
Oliver concealed his relief. It had been three days since he last had seen Lim Chang, and he’d begun to wonder if he had been cheated, even dreamed of Chang finding the Hogarth and returning to China with it, with him learning the mortifying news from the Daily Telegraph.
“News?” Oliver repeated. “Good news?”
“The Hogarth has been found.”
Touching his mouth with the tips of his fingers, Oliver took in a breath. The Hogarth was safe.
“In London?”
“In London.”
“Who has it?”
“That’s not important,” Lim Chang went on. “They want half a million pounds for it.”
A laugh bubbled up in Oliver’s chest. Half a million pounds. Where was he going to get half a million pounds? Of course, he appeared to have that much money; he had all the outward trappings of wealth, but it was a sham. He had assets but a paltry bank account.
“Half a million pounds?”
Chang nodded.
“You think that’s a fair price?” Oliver asked, watching Chang intently.
The Chinese man raised his eyebrows. “It’s a fair price for someone who wants to get rid of it fast.”
“Won’t you please tell me who has it?”
Chang ignored the question. “We both know, you and I,” he said, “that the picture would raise a lot more at auction. Possibly fifteen million, perhaps more.”
“But half a million pounds.” Oliver mused, the strong scent of the tea roses on an occasional table making him momentarily queasy. Could he perhaps raise it? Could he make such a big sale? And even if he could, how long would it take? Or could he borrow so much? Time—and the lack of it—was pressing hard on him. “It’s a bad market to raise finance.”
“I thought perhaps you would have the funds available to you.”
“Half a million pounds?” Oliver said, smiling. “Those days are gone. Like many others, I’m struggling.”
Lim Chang covered his surprise as Oliver asked, “Where did they find the painting?”
“I don’t know.” Lim Chang met his gaze evenly. “I honestly don’t know.”
“You’re being very cagey,” Oliver remarked, unsure of his own ground and feeling anxious but pressuring his visitor nevertheless. “Why won’t you tell me how you got hold of the picture, Chang?”
At any other time Oliver would have obeyed his instinct and retreated. As one of the London dealers who had always been above reproach, all his deals legal and fair, he had avoided any smear on his reputation. He had seen many dealers overreach themselves or try to steal a march on their competitors by underhanded means. Some had profited by misattributed works, dummy auction lots, and seeding, but several had been caught. If the dealer was old school, he would be given a slap on the wrist, but any newcomers, upstarts, or foreigners were drummed out. The art world had a long-standing code of tacitly protecting its own but crucifying any greedy infiltrator.
But Oliver Peters was now a desperate man, and his usual caution deserted him.
“I thought we trusted each other,” he said quietly. “I thought that was why we joined forces.”
“Which is why I’ve come back to you with news of the Hogarth,” Lim Chang replied, somewhat annoyed. “I could have returned to my country with the painting and reneged on my promise. Some dealers would have done just that.”
“I apologize,” Oliver said, shamed by his unspoken suspicions. “My remarks were uncalled for. But I simply don’t have half a million pounds at my disposal. I could certainly try to raise it, but it would take time.”
“I’ve been given a week.”
“A week.” How long a week seemed in business, he thought, and how short when your life only had weeks to run. “I can try.”
Silent, Lim Chang studied the Englishman. He had thought that Sir Oliver Peters would be able to raise the money immediately and was shocked to find he was unable to do so. It irked Chang that his plan had been summarily overturned. The Chinese government wanted the painting and was prepared to buy it, but bureaucracy impeded the process and Chang knew it would take much longer than a week to secure the money from Beijing. He had been relying on Oliver’s funding; that was the reason—the only reason—he had joined forces with him. With Sir Oliver Peters’s money he would have obtained the Hogarth immediately and then done exactly what the Englishman had suspected and taken the painting back to China.
Now his plan was coming unstuck, and anger flickered beneath his impenetrable exterior. “We have to obtain this painting.”
“I know. I do know,” Oliver agreed emphatically, glancing over at the family photograph on his desk. His imminent dishonesty shamed him, but Lim Chang’s discomfort hardly ranked alongside his own inherited responsibility to the secret of the royal bastard or the future security of his family. Besides, the Chinese man’s record was far from impeccable; he had had many guilty dealings in his past, many ruthless deals. Would it be so unforgivable to cheat him to regain what was, after all, his own property?
Afraid that his intentions would show on his face, Oliver kept gazing at his family photograph. He had had no other means of finding the Hogarth, he told himself; he had been forced to use the Chinese dealer. And it had worked; the painting had been found. All that remained was to raise half a million pounds and the painting would be back in his possession. He needed Lim Chang to get the picture, and Lim Chang needed him to supply the funds. They needed each other, and both resented it.
Oliver vowed to himself that no matter what happened, Chang would not get the Hogarth. He didn’t know how much the man knew about the history of the work, but to have the royal family in any way besmirched was intolerable. Or worse, if the surviving descendant was found and exposed … Oliver swallowed, barely able to contemplate such a catastrophe, but one thing was certain: he could not fail. All he had to do was somehow raise or borrow half a million pounds.
“I’ll get the money,” he said at last, raising his head. “Did you see the Hogarth?”
“Yes,” Lim Chang replied. “And it’s genuine. I would bet my life on it.”
“Do the people who have it … Do they know what they have?”
“No,” Lim Chang said curtly, “but they know it’s valuable; nothing more than that.”
“So no other dealers have seen it?”
Lim Chang shook his head. “None.”
“Then we know what we have to do,” Oliver replied, standing up to indicate that the meeting was over.
He did not extend his hand; his conscience at least prevented that. Instead, he showed Lim Chang to the door and out into the Burlington Arcade. Deep in thought, Oliver was still staring ahead when his secretary interrupted him.
“You’re about to have another visitor, sir.”
Surprised, he stared at her. “I made no appointments.”
“I know, but the gentleman said he wanted to talk to you about a Hogarth painting because you were one of the best dealers in English art in London. I told him that you were in a meeting, and he said he would call back in half an hour.” She glanced at her watch. “He should be here any time now.”
Taken aback, Oliver stared into the secretary’s pretty face. “Did he give you a name?”
“Mr. Victor Ballam.”
The name caught Oliver off guard. So much so that for an instant he was uncertain how to react. Then he nodded and walked toward his office. He paused at the door, turning back to his secretary.
“Victor Ballam?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I see. Well, when he comes back, show him in, will you, and we’ll have some coffee, please. Oh, and Margaret, don’t disturb us and don’t put through any calls while Mr. Ballam is here.”
Thirty-Six
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BACK AT HIS DESK, OLIVER PICKED UP HIS PEN AND ROTATED IT IDLY, thinking about his imminent visitor. A man who had come into the art world like a pistol shot, catching everyone off guard. A glamorous, attractive man with a quick mind, a connoisseur’s taste, and a dealer’s skill. Brave, occasionally reckless, but smart enough not to overreach himself too soon. Victor Ballam had had a background in advertising, and fellow dealers initially had sneered at his confidence, but his talent was soon obvious to all, attracting admiration and envy in equal measure. By the time Victor had worked in Dover Street for eighteen months, he had been poached by a gallery in Cork Street and feted for his unerring, almost uncanny predictions on the market.
He had been one of the few who had sensed the first struggles of Britart and spotted the growing appreciation of Russian and African painting. As cunning as a market trader, Victor allied his skill to a God-given instinct for art. The self-taught upstart outsider was viewed with awe as his fortunes rose faster than a helium balloon. No private view was complete without the dark-haired figure of Victor Ballam. No gallery opening was a success without his presence. And he wore his success well. Another man would have become arrogant, pompous; Victor did not. He defended what he believed in and stood his ground, but he was easy to deal with. Within another year he had become a partner in the Cork Street gallery. He was wanted and accepted, one of the few outsiders to have penetrated and impressed the art world.
But for all his predictive skills, thought Oliver, still twisting the pen in his fingers, Victor Ballam had not foreseen his own downfall. When he was charged with fraud, Oliver had been the only person to speak out in his defense. To no avail. When Victor was sentenced, his fallen star left a crater so deep that it buried him for years in Long Lartin.
“Sir Oliver?”
He looked up to see his secretary in the doorway.
“Mr. Ballam is here now.”
“Show him in, Margaret,” said Oliver, watching as the familiar figure entered the room. Familiar but different. Victor Ballam was older, of course, but his carefree charm had been tested and it was a noticeably more chary individual who sat down in the proffered seat. Waiting until Margaret had brought in the coffee and left the office, Oliver finally spoke.
