by George Sims
Balfour pocketed the card. ‘I’ll need this. I must call on Howard after Max. One of them should have seen Sam in the last week or so.’
Chapter VII
Our life is short and our days run
As fast away as does the sun
Balfour made his way from Jermyn Street along Piccadilly and Berkeley Street to the insistent rhythm of the lines by Herrick which were engraved on the old sundial in Olivia Phelips’ garden at Roehampton. They went round and round in his head without any depressing effect—indeed, they heightened his physical pleasure in being alive and feeling the sun’s rather meagre warmth upon his back. It was a cloudy day with pallid sunshine and a feeling more of autumn than summer, but it was perfect for strolling about the metropolis. Balfour kept his Lancia in a lock-up garage in Hendon and rarely used it in London. Occasionally he would take a taxi or bus, but he preferred to walk. During twenty years he had quartered London on foot and had found innumerable odd places which interested him—a street behind the Portobello Market which tough-looking gypsies used for selling suspect cars, the bizarre mixture of tombs and gasworks at Kensal Green, the melancholy decaying tenements of Columbia Square, Shad Thames.
While he was looking around him, noting a furtive expression on a doorman’s face, the eroded Nymph statue by Munro, and the superb flowers in Moyses Stevens in Berkeley Square, another part of his mind was occupied with a memory which just could not be hauled up into the light. Its shadowy form had teased him since he had been talking with Patricia Bowyer. Then, suddenly, as he walked past Bruton Street, from its immense rag-bag repertory his mind pulled out the fragment. Quite clearly he heard a voice from the past. It was Sammy telling him how his brother Dr David Weiss had died: ‘A hopeless form of cancer. Melanosis—an abnormal deposit of black pigment. Nothing could be done…’ It was perhaps ten years since David Weiss had died, and Balfour was not conscious of thinking of it since. Was that possibly a clue to Sammy’s own death? Had he been informed that he too had cancer and needed an urgent operation? This might account for the cable ‘VITAL I HAVE YOUR ADVICE ON TERRIBLE DECISION…’ Even so he could not believe that Sammy would not face up to such an operation. Engrossed in this problem, he went through the stream of traffic from Mount Street oblivious of his surroundings and pulled up just as he was walking past the steps to Max Weber’s house.
A casual passer-by would have had no idea that he was only a few steps from one of the finest small art galleries in London. On the corner of Carlos Place, facing the Connaught Hotel, it was indistinguishable in a row of similarly pleasant looking red brick houses. The white number on glass panes above the front door was five inches high, but the name MAX WEBER LTD FINE ART was in tiny gold letters on a small marble plaque requiring abnormal eyesight to read it from the street, and even as one mounted the steps it was difficult to see any paintings in the shadowy room behind the window box.
The weight of the Padauk door might have been the first sign to the perceptive caller that this was a rather special house. Then there was a small hall containing on the left-hand wall a fine example of lapidary art, the motto
THE WAY OF FREEDOM
IS OF LIMITATION
LET EACH MAN TAKE
UP HIS CHISEL AND
INSCRIBE HIS OWN FATE
Cut on a panel of Hopton-Wood stone, and on the right a charmingly coloured Catazala majolica reproduction of the Madonna and Child by della Robbia, which was of little value and not for sale.
Balfour carefully opened the interior door of ebony and bronze fleur-de-lys grille work and entered the first show-room on the right. It was empty and his attention was taken up by a striking painting of a little girl with large brown eyes and delicately curved lips.
There were quiet footsteps on the saffron carpet and Oliver Gerrard, Weber’s chief assistant, appeared. He smiled, showing teeth suitable for a dentrifrice advertisement, but Balfour thought he detected a hint of deep boredom.
Gerrard was the main obstacle between entering the house and going upstairs to see Max. Habitually dressed in a dark grey suit, cream shantung shirt and black tie, always slightly tanned and with perfectly barbered short black hair, Gerrard first hovered discreetly, then politely questioned callers. Anyone who had looked in thinking that ‘Fine Art’ implied reproductions or that he might find a bargain for a few pounds was soon shepherded back through the hall. Gerrard also dealt with most of the more serious inquiries. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of art—Max had once pointed to the monumental Nonnemacher’s History of Art saying, ‘I don’t need that with Oliver around’—and only a handful of customers actually got to see Mr Max Weber at Carlos Place. Over a period of years Gerrard had asked Balfour random questions on literary subjects, knowing it was useless to talk to him about paintings, and having found Balfour’s knowledge was often sketchy he now confined himself to generalities. He was always superficially friendly, but nevertheless managed to convey his surprise that Max should want to bother with seeing Balfour.
‘Cornelius de Vos.’ Gerrard came closer, with a discreet whiff of West Indian Lime cologne, indicating some quality of the painting with a sternly controlled gesture. His enthusiasm escaped in the way he regarded it, saying, ‘Very like the subject of his Little Girl with a Bell.’ Then he took a step back and said, ‘My, what a tan!’
Gerrard took two holidays a year in Sicily and was the last person to be impressed by a sun-tan. Balfour did not like to hear the palpably false compliment for he knew Gerrard’s gift for saying what he judged would be welcome.
Balfour saw Elizabeth Savoyent in the hall—a tall, remote Viennese girl whom he found more intimidating than Gerrard. He was struck again by the fact that all of Max’s assistants were of a pattern: quiet, discreet, very polite and, underneath, as tough as old boots. Max’s motto was ‘Befehl ist Befehl’, and Balfour thought that being employed by him must be like walking an unending tightrope, but if one could always obey orders efficiently then undoubtedly the rewards would be high. He knew that Gerrard had a house in Seymour Street and a cottage in Palermo.
There was some mute communication between Gerrard and Miss Savoyent, who said: ‘You wanted to see Mr Weber? I’ll go up. He has someone with him at the moment.’
When she had gone Gerrard grinned and seemed to relax. For a moment Balfour glimpsed another, carefully suppressed, personality. ‘Someone is an understatement. There’s five hundred pounds of prime Texas beef on the hoof upstairs.’ It was a rare confidence, made under the pressure of unusual irritation and Balfour guessed its source: ‘Not Mr Henry Beutel Temple II?’
‘The same. And his old Mum!’ Gerrard raised his eyes heavenwards in a faintly pansyish expression of despair.
The Beutel Temples visited Europe twice a year, always sending selected dealers a printed circular letter, ‘Mother and I will be over again,’ listing dates of their ‘usual tight schedule’ when they would be at Brown’s Hotel in London, the Amstel in Amsterdam, Maurice in Paris, and Bar au Lac in Zurich. They collected manuscripts as well as paintings, and it was with great satisfaction that Balfour had noticed their London trip dates were safely within the period he was due to be away. His unforeseen return had changed things.
He tugged at his ear with a thoughtful expression. ‘Perhaps I won’t bother Max just now.’
‘You will, you know. You’ll go straight on up like a good boy.’
Hearing the attractive ‘little girl’ voice, Balfour looked round and saw Mrs Max Weber on the curve of the staircase.
‘Phyl—how nice!’
She put out both hands as she came down, then preferred her cheek for him to kiss. As he did so he was shocked by a dramatic change in her appearance. Her skin was an unhealthy junket-white, her cheek dry and her hands hot. Her mouth was slightly open and he could smell gin.
She covered her face with her hands in an uncertain movement. ‘You mustn’t look too close. I’m only just out of be
d. No face on yet.’ She looked quite ill and her gaiety was forced, like a mockery of her usual gamine self. ‘I feel I’m just off the boat.’ She laughed nervously. ‘Or still on the plane anyway. We’ve had the four most hectic days in Switzerland. You know Max the human dynamo! I think I’ve left bits of me in various galleries and apartments—if I can just have a quiet half-hour then they’ll come together again, I hope…’
She paused and impulsively reached out for Balfour’s right hand again, holding the tips of his fingers tightly. ‘Oh God! All that chat and I haven’t said a word about Sammy. We were so depressed to read about it. Horrible! Just the cold bare announcement in print. “Later identified…” Poor old Ned, you must be down. I know Max wants to see you about it. He was quite appalled and baffled—but I don’t expect you understand it either. I know he feels guilty about being away too. Apparently Sam came round here the morning…Well, the very morning. What a stupid world!’
She talked rapidly and as if her mind was not on what she was saying, moving round in an inconsequential way. Her eyes, which Balfour had often thought looked like glittering topazes, were now quite dull. She wore brown Gucci shoes, hallmarked by the miniature stirrups linked across the vamp, a dark brown velvet skirt, and a pink Hermès blouse with exotic printed feathers; but the attractive clothes seemed to have been slung on without any care, her stockings were wrinkled and her short chestnut hair looked as if it had not been touched since the previous night.
She whispered confidentially: ‘You’ve heard we have the Beutel Temples here. That’s always enough by itself to put Max on edge. You know how they dither and waste time. And then that terrible aura of embarrassment they carry around with them. Do be conciliatory, dear boy.’ She seemed already to have forgotten Sam’s death; Max’s desires were paramount with her as always.
Balfour nodded. ‘I shall be a study in conciliation.’
He walked up the elegant staircase slowly, looking at the figured Indian laurel panels on the walls. Usually he was whisked up and down by Miss Savoyent who did not allow any dawdling. Max’s door was open and as he approached he heard Max say ‘a putative ascription’ in a chilly voice which did not welcome further comment. When he went through the door he was immediately struck by the similarity of the Beutel Temples, looking just like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, turning to regard him with blank sagacious faces. Phyl Weber had not exaggerated their strange talent for spreading embarrassment. Entering the room was like being involved in a scene from an early talking film, circa 1930, when one was very conscious of silence and every sound, every clink of a coffee-spoon, was exaggerated; the occupants all seemed on edge and self-conscious. Balfour immediately had the impression that he was guilty of some unforgivable solecism.
‘I saw Phyl—she said I should come up.’
‘Of course.’ Max smiled and then grimaced sadly, his card-player face showing an unusual amount of emotion.
Mr Henry Beutel Temple said, ‘Well, hello Ned!’ forcefully but without enthusiasm, and Max’s expression again became remote and defensive.
The Temples were both seated facing Max, so Balfour took a little chair by Max’s black walnut desk. It was a large attractive room with a deep golden carpet, heavy cream and gold wallpaper and striped terracotta curtains with huge swags and bobbles. There was one painting on view: a masterpiece by Gerard Van Spaendonck, a basket of flowers on a marble ledge beside an alabaster urn. On a black walnut table by the wall there was an Atmos clock by Jaeger-LeCoultre, a framed photograph of Kennedy and Khrushchev seated on a couch, and crisp unopened copies of Die Welt, Algemeen Handelsblad, Neue Zürcher Zeitung and The Times.
Max’s hair was thin but it was so skilfully cut at Trumper’s that this was not very noticeable. He had a long straight nose with a high bridge and heavily developed brow; there were prominent tendons in his cheeks and his mouth was drawn down at the corners as though from pain or irritability. His face was as calm as Buster Keaton’s, but restlessness, impatience, unfulfilled desires showed in his blue-grey eyes.
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘I shouldn’t put unbounded faith in what “Tony” Suffolk says. For Italian seventeenth century Mr Denis Mahon is the expert,’ he concluded firmly.
Mrs Beutel Temple leant forward towards Balfour and said in a stage whisper: ‘We were at Jermyn Street last week and were so sorry to miss you. But we had a nice little visit with Miss Patricia and she showed us some of the goodies in back. We bought some fine things.’ The sentence ended with a short blink of her staring eyes and once again she looked like a grotesquely fat doll. The Beutel Temples in the presence of Max Weber were on their best behaviour; it was obvious that there would be none of their usual malicious rumours and cunningly snide remarks.
Max looked up at this, smiling at Balfour: ‘I always say that Ned has a quite unique talent for finding things. He should be called “The Nose”. I remember a good friend of mine, in this very room, casually mentioning in front of us both that he was particularly interested in a story by Thomas Mann. Some youthful indiscretion, a tale of incest by the Master which was to have appeared in a magazine but was suppressed by his family. Within two weeks he was the astounded owner of both the manuscript and proof. Ned had found it—where?—wasn’t it mouldering in some printer’s cellar?’ A certain mild facetiousness offset the compliment. His tone subtly implied a little contempt for anyone so footloose and impulsive as to embark on what would probably be a wild goose-chase across Europe for a story of incest.
The Beutel Temples both had an owlish look and made no comment. Max gave the matter a long considering slant of his large head. He seemed to have retreated to some coign of advantage, remote, unreachable.
The awkward silence was broken by the nearly silent entrance of Miss Savoyent: ‘Da ist ein Telefonanruf von Herr Cato. Möchten Sie es nehmen? Hier?’
Max replied: ‘Ja bitte, verbinden Sie ihn!’ It was obvious to Balfour that the Temples, like himself, had some knowledge of German—there was a slight change in their expressions. They were at once alert, anticipating hearing a tale to add to their vast repertoire. Mr L. K. G. Cato, head of the great exporting firm, Toller, Cato, was reputed to be one of the few British collectors of paintings who were in their own class, perhaps even above it.
Max usually sounded sharp and distrustful on the phone as if he expected to be tricked, but his ‘Leonard-Willkommen! I found a little treasure for you’ simply expressed pleasure and friendship. He went on to make some small talk about his trip to Switzerland which must have irritated the Temples as it gave nothing away, but Balfour was glad to have a chance to covertly study Max’s face. The immobility of the lower part was due to plastic surgery which had skilfully covered up damage done by an SS man’s truncheon in 1945, but he could also mask his eyes so that it was impossible to know what he was thinking. At auction sales no one had any idea whether he was pleased or dissatisfied by the way the bidding went.
When Max’s telephone conversation was finished he turned to Mrs Beutel Temple: ‘Oh, I nearly forgot, Olga. When you’re in Zurich do call in on Mannheimer. He has a fine group of Louis Breguet watches—from the Salomons collection…’ He broke off to explain to Balfour: ‘Superb timepieces which were very much in demand in the Napoleonic era, showing the day of the week, phases of the moon, etcetera. Wellington had one.’ Max frowned thoughtfully then yawned, partly disguising this with a restless movement. The Temples realized somehow that their palaver was finished. They got up slowly from their chairs and Mr Temple shook Balfour’s hand with persistence though he looked as if he did not enjoy doing it. It took a long time for them to go even with the expert guiding of Miss Savoyent, and Max rolled his eyes.
When their loud braying voices could no longer be heard he said: ‘At last. Sorry about that. We just got back last night and we only read about Sammy in the plane. Do you know what really happened?’
‘No. No idea. That’s why I called round—I did
n’t know you were abroad too!’
‘Oh, purely a business trip. Just four days whizzing round to see people…How could a thing like that happen? What kind of place was it?’
‘I’m sorry, Max. I can’t tell you anything. Later on—I have to see the police—when I know the details I’ll contact you again. At the moment I can’t even begin to guess.’
Max sighed deeply. ‘I wonder if he could have got into some kind of mess.’
Balfour shook his head doubtfully. ‘I can’t think of anything. He seemed fine when I last saw him. And financially…’
Max made a brief waving movement of dismissal. ‘No. For cash he could have come to you, or I would have backed him. But there are other pitfalls. One hears strange things about people one knows. Terrible things.’
Balfour watched Max’s expression closely—there was a darkness there—was it anger, fear?
‘And they can happen so suddenly. I’ll tell you a story, ugly but true, that I heard only the other day.’ Max looked down at his immaculate nails with distaste. ‘I have a very wealthy customer. Swiss. Lives in Zurich but he has a country “shack” right on Lake Geneva between Lausanne and Vevey. Collects Dutch seventeenth century. Has wonderful paintings by Bol and Dou and Flinck. A gentle old man of great taste and sensitivity. Well, so the old man has a young, flighty wife. She has even…’
Max shook his head wearily and his eyes looked desperate for a moment. ‘From their country place they went to a party at Villars and returned very late, all a little drunk, in their big Mercedes. My old friend sat at the front with the chauffeur. His wife and a “friend” sat at the back. There was some playful nonsense going on in the back seat. Giggling, feeble protests, that kind of thing. The old man ignored this. Then silence at the back. Think of that, Ned, the absorbed, the horrid silence. At last the old man has to turn round and finds the two of them—joined together. The “friend” is immersed in his wife’s parts…Regardless of the risk, like rutting animals. No, insects—that’s better. Have you ever seen dragonflies in sexual congress, curved together in a taut circle? You could go right up to them as they hang entwined from a twig, dash them to the ground if you would. So this gentle old man found himself reaching over into the back of the car trying to part these fornicating insects. Then there was some kind of disgusting drunken scuffle with the chauffeur involved too. Do you think that when the old man shaved that morning, looking out over Lake Geneva, he ever dreamed that within a few hours.…You see. Such things can happen quickly. They “boil up”, get out of control…’ He shook his head again in eloquent inarticulateness. Cool smoke-blue light glittered in his eyes.
