by George Sims
For Balfour there was some unreality about the story—at some point it had been exaggerated, either in the old man’s mind crazed with jealousy, or possibly in Max’s distaste for sex.
Suddenly Max got up and walked over to touch the pile of unopened papers on the walnut table. ‘Do let me know what you find about Sam. And you must come to dinner soon. I’ve recently acquired some Hattenheimer Nubbrunnen Riesling—a trockenbeerenauslese of quite superb quality. Come and help us drink a bottle. Phyl would like that too.’
Max smiled and put his hand on Balfour’s arm—a rare gesture of friendship, but also one of dismissal because secretly a bell must have been rung. Miss Savoyent appeared silently and in a few moments Balfour was once again glancing at the della Robbia majolica plaque on his way out of the house.
Chapter VIII
‘Go on, piss off’ was Balfour’s vocal introduction to Lampeter Parade. Stepping out of an alley-way in the Seven Dials area between Cambridge Circus and Covent Garden he at once noticed the Parade’s nameplate on a wall and heard this forthright advice. Glancing along to his left he saw four small scruffy carts, uniformly painted white and decorated with a pig enjoying a sausage and the motto ‘GALLEY’S HOT DOGS ARE THE PORKIEST’. A further look at the absorbed group of unkempt youths about the carts was enough to assure him that he had not been so peremptorily addressed. He walked past them slowly, noting the chipped paint, greasy washing-up bowls and grey cloths, wondering how they escaped the attention of the Public Health Department and managed to sell their wares.
It was an appropriate introduction to the Parade, the first part of which consisted of a high grimy brick wall, topped with broken glass and posted with No Admittance signs. Then there was a row of bleak shops dating from the Victorian era, all with disproportionately high doorways and an air of being deserted though most of them were ostensibly open for business.
Garratt’s shop-door was shut and the black lettering of ‘Quadrant Galleries’ on the cream façade was only half finished. In the window there was a chair, a step-ladder, a pot of paint and a ‘closed’ notice. Hanging on the door a Donald Duck cardboard clock proclaimed that the shop would be open, surprisingly enough, at half-past six. Balfour pushed at the door and it swung back.
The dim interior was full of open crates, cardboard cartons, paintings and empty frames. It had a very high ceiling and would look exceedingly depressing in artificial light. The back of the shop was partitioned off by the two large art nouveau screens of which Garratt was inordinately proud.
Slowly Balfour became aware of odd noises behind the screens—heavy breathing, muffled shouts, the sound of things being knocked down. He walked quickly to the side of the largest screen and saw Howard St John Garratt scuffling with an equally small red-haired man. Garratt wore an out-moded sports jacket with golf ball buttons, an Etonian tie, jeans and dirty co-respondent shoes. The cumbersome paraphernalia of a National Health hearing aid still hung from his ear though he looked very dusty, as if he had been dragged along the floor a few times. Balfour interposed himself between the couple, holding them off easily. They were well matched, both game but slight. Garratt’s arm felt touchingly thin. He claimed (and most of his unlikely stories turned out to be true) that he had been to both Eton and Harrow, and Balfour had often been puzzled how an upbringing which included periods at the best public schools could have produced such a puny rachitic physique.
The ginger-headed man in frustrated rage had gone beyond heavy breathing and was making a noise like a child who has sobbed past exhaustion. After a minute, pointing a nicotine-stained finger at Garratt, he managed to say, ‘Never mind. I’ll have yew—yew’ll see.’
Garratt replied enigmatically, ‘Well, that’s that then,’ opening wide his prominent hazel eyes in what he no doubt considered a challenging look.
Balfour felt extraordinarily sane and well-balanced, as he always did in Garratt’s company. When he said ‘What’s all this about?’ he realized that he sounded just like a policeman.
The irascible red-haired man’s voice became even more strident: ‘I’ll tell yew what the ——ing trouble’s about. This ——er has had some pricey stuff from me. Best —ing strip lighting, switches, spot lamps. Now he’s given me a kite. ——ing cheque came back this morning. N.B.G. Little twister!’
Garratt had drawn away from Balfour’s restraining hand and was once more in control of the situation. His head was cocked at a knowing angle and his voice took on a superior tone. ‘But I’ve told this—chap that it’s a purely temporary thing. Just a brief withdrawal of the bank’s facilities.’
‘In that case,’ said the red-haired man, ‘let me have me ——ing strip lighting back.’
‘That’s quite impossible, old man,’ Garratt said in a tolerant, patient voice which had, even to Balfour, an irritating quality. At times Garratt seemed to listen with satisfaction to his own voice as violinists do to their playing. ‘I’ve already explained that a good deal of this equipment has been installed. And, indeed, is functioning beautifully.’
Balfour walked to the door with the still protesting creditor. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll see my friend settles this. That’s a promise. Leave it to me.’
The red-haired man appeared somewhat mollified and went off slowly down the street, turning back once or twice. Suddenly Garratt appeared by Balfour’s side and dramatically made a gesture at the retreating figure. It was a gesture which he called ‘atropaic’, intended to ward off evil spirits, but had a more commonly held, coarse interpretation. Balfour hauled him back into the shop and shut the door.
‘You’re a nut, Howard. A real absolute twit. Giving him a dud cheque. You could be in serious trouble. You should have asked me.’
Garratt grinned and made the Hindu, prayer-like, sign of welcome. ‘You turned up in the—very nick of time.’ He capered about the dusty shop in a grotesque dance, apparently swept by a momentary mood of euphoria. Then he sobered up, hunched his back to do a theatrically limping step, and spoke in a very clipped, precise voice:
‘What trifling coil do we poor mortals keep;
Wake, eat and drink, evacuate and sleep.’
They went back behind the screens and this time Balfour was able to see that the rear part of the room contained most of Garratt’s much-travelled personal belongings. On a shelf there was a gas-ring, a pile of tins and all the other makings for elaborate curries. On the floor a tortoise-shell cabinet, a wicker basket, an enormous tin trunk lettered ‘Captain Llewelyn St John Garratt, RN’, and two battered cases. The prized sign which had hung outside Garratt’s first shop in the Quadrant Arcade leant against a wall. He had made some attempt to bring order among piles of art magazines and reference books, but there were dirty cups and glasses all over the floor and on every other flat surface. There was one canvas-backed chair and an unmade camp bed.
Garratt was absently cleaning his black-and-white shoes, flicking them with a filthy duster. He turned with an expression that showed he now expected some kind of verbal attack, opening his arms wide to show his hopeless position.
‘I was absolutely up against it. Got turfed out of Crawford Street and lost my rooms. Just had to find a new place and fix it up quick so I could sell some things. I’ve really slashed prices. Now if I can only get a little luck.’ He ended on a note of doubt and morose suspicion.
‘I can lend you a hundred. Will that get you straight?’ Balfour said shortly.
Garratt made the Hindu prayer-like gesture again and this time Balfour found it rather irritating. ‘For which many, many thanks. That should bridge the gap nicely. But I must tell you straight out that Sam lent me fifty when I had to move. Now I suppose I owe it to his estate.’
Balfour stared unbelievingly at Garratt, moved by a quirk of annoyance. ‘Honestly—Howard—it’s sick-making. To think you were worrying Sam with your unending financial problems when he…When did Sam lend you the money? That was what I
really came round to ask you—when you last saw him and if you knew any reason why he should have done such a thing.’
‘Reason why he should have done such a thing?’ Garratt repeated incredulously. ‘Oh, not a chance. Sam? No! You know how he was about heights. Naturally I took it that he’d had an attack by a window, something like that. You don’t really think that he could have committed suicide?’
‘I don’t know,’ Balfour admitted. ‘But I had a cable from him while I was in Calvi saying that he needed my advice about “a terrible decision”. Then the next thing I heard was that he was dead. What was he like when you last saw him? Did he say anything to make you think he was down? Was he ill?’
‘I’ll have to think. I’ve seen him quite a lot just recently. You know he often had an evening meal at Smith’s the butchers in the Edgware Road. You can get jolly good salt beef sandwiches and lemon tea there. He lent me the fifty quid in Smith’s about the middle of last month. I know it was just the time you were going abroad. Then I saw him last—oh, about ten days ago. I wouldn’t have said he was depressed but he certainly had something on his mind. He seemed absorbed in a problem, brooding a bit. I remember that evening I came up behind him and noticed he had made a list of names. Well, of course as you know he was always a great one for notes and lists. But this one rather stuck in my head. Quite frankly there was a place-name in it and I thought it might mean that he’d hit on some good little sale that was coming up. As soon as I got back home I looked it up in a gazetteer, but with no success. I think it was Knowl Green. There’s a Knowl Hill in Berkshire but no Knowl Green. Then I thought I might have got it wrong and looked up Bowl Green. No luck with that one either.’
‘Knowl Green? Never heard of it,’ Balfour said. ‘What else was there on the list?’
Garratt hovered in alert speculation for a moment, then picked up a piece of paper and wrote quickly as he tapped on his forehead with his other hand. ‘That’s it, I think.’
‘Knowl Green? Steiner? Quarry?’ Balfour studied the list with a frown. ‘Doesn’t mean a thing to me. But I’ll keep it. I’ve got to see the police about this business—they might be interested.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Garratt walked up and down with his eyes closed. ‘There was another name, I think. Or some word which made me think that Knowl Green might be a place where there was a sale. Was it an auctioneer’s name? No—well, not one of the big ones anyway. Mmmm. I can’t get it. Look, let me make you a curry. This is a fantastic pickle—you should try it. Perhaps the other name will come to me if I do some cooking and empty my mind.’ He handed Balfour a jar for inspection, pointing to the label which read ‘Fern’s BRINJAL pickle, Mrs N. Fernandes, 19 Frere Road, Kirkee, Poona 3’.
‘That’s the real stuff, bai Jove. Absolutely piping hot. You feel just as if your mouth was on fire!’ he added persuasively. Garratt had spent some of his youth in India and was a curry addict who could enjoyably spend an hour choosing ingredients in the Bombay Emporium in Grafton Way. He stolidly persisted in ignoring Balfour’s lack of enthusiasm for curries. He set up a card-table and produced a frying-pan from behind a curtain.
‘No—thanks all the same.’ Balfour took out his chequebook. ‘You think about the other name over your lunch. And with this loan I shall expect you to put your affairs in order. Don’t forget to pay that red-haired electrician. Then really make an effort to sell some stuff. It shouldn’t be that difficult. You’ve got paintings out there you could take along to Max Weber this afternoon…’
‘I know. But if I knock out all my good paintings in the trade, how am I ever going to build up a private collector’s list?’
‘Build up…’ Balfour nearly exploded in irritation. ‘You ass! What you’ve got to worry about is not going down the drain! Pay your debts, get straight. Then you can think about choosing who you want to sell to. Really!’ He waved his hand round at the sleazy set-up. ‘Howard, for Christ’s sake, pull yourself together! You’ve got a flair for spotting a good picture but you’re about the world’s worst businessman. You must sell to dealers, collectors, one-eyed Zulus, anyone who can pay!’
Balfour’s tirade seemed to have little effect on Garratt, who had weathered many similar storms. He stood with half-closed eyes and a rather smug grin, waving the cheque in order to dry the ink. Then he held his head on one side and moved his fingers up and down as if he was slowly typing out a message. ‘Ah. Got it. It was you mentioning dealer. There was another name on that list with Knowl Green, etcetera. L. Spiegl. You know—the inimitable Leo!’
Chapter IX
‘Sorry, but I want to keep the lot intacto as the milkmaid said to the farmer.’
‘He raced through those last few a bit quickish…’
‘He wants his lunch like you and me.’
‘Just keep taking the tablets then.’
The book-sale at Sotheby’s had ended and the dealers, collectors, and a few spectators were dispersing against a background of banter. There was a press of people coming down the narrow steps from the book-room which prevented Balfour ascending, and he waited at the bottom feeling a little frustrated in case Leopold Spiegl slipped out of the St George Street entrance. He had got a taxi direct from Lampeter Parade knowing that Sotheby’s was his best chance of contacting Spiegl.
‘Balfour.’ James Henderson nodded and grimaced—a twitching movement of the pepper-and-salt moustache which bared horse-sized teeth and a good deal of gum. It was a grudging acknowledgement of Balfour’s existence which also conveyed the impression that things generally would be better without it. Henderson was one of the ‘old school’ of dealers who persisted in saying that Balfour was just a lucky speculator, owing his success to his wife’s money. They eyed each other levelly. Henderson said gleefully: ‘We’ve seen so little of you recently. I see no point in concealing that we thought you’d had it, professionally-wise.’
Balfour nodded. ‘Thank you. Sorry about any disappointment. Have you seen Leo?’
Henderson hesitated a little over the formation of an epigram, giving Balfour a look that made it plain he was not worthy of it: ‘Yes. We have been exposed to yet one more example of his traditionally irritating behaviour.’
The question and answer had not been necessary because higher up the stairs Balfour could hear Leopold Spiegl saying ‘And you…and you,’ then laughing hilariously. Henderson gave Balfour’s clothes a disgruntled look, examining the dark grey and blue striped blazer, grey button-down shirt, bishop’s apron trousers, and moccasin loungers with equal disfavour, then moved off.
Spiegl had a world-wide reputation among dealers as being more of a clown or an actor than a businessman—he was said to have attended a summer sale at Christie’s in a Hawaiian shirt and Bermudan shorts. But his flamboyance, continual jokes, and clowning manner covered an unusual ability to find interesting material and place it without having a permanent address or any proper business premises. From briefly rented rooms or apartments in New York, London, Dublin and Paris he was perpetually ‘getting things moving’. Spiegl’s vaunted motto was ‘I only like to gamble with what I can’t afford to lose’ and he had handled things as disparate as Farouk’s pornography and Robert Browning love-letters.
He appeared round the corner of the stairs, saying tauntingly over his shoulder, ‘The name of the game is money…Well, see you in court.’ When he saw Balfour he shouted ‘Maestro!’ and hurried down the last few steps, throwing a flurry of punches in the Rocky Marciano crowding style and ending up by tapping Balfour quite hard on the collar-bone.
Spiegl had a large handsome mobile face, a full head of black curly hair which was going white in an attractive way, and a swarthy complexion. He had missed one or two shaves but still managed to look spruce in a dark brown light-weight suit, pale blue shirt, and yellow tie.
‘Ned Balfour! A genuine human being!’ he exclaimed as if he was introducing him to a television audience. Then he looked round
to see if he was in danger of being overheard. ‘Do you, or do you not, want in on the biggest deal of the century?’
‘I’d like a chat,’ Balfour admitted cautiously. ‘Have you got time for a coffee?’
‘Better yet,’ Spiegl said, taking out all the change in a trouser pocket and shifting it round in his hand, ‘I have the cash I think to buy you a sandwich in the Grove Street nosh bar.’ There was a vaguely continental smell about him, partly compounded of the thin Dutch cigars he smoked and a musky but pleasant soap.
As they made their way past Sotheby’s long inquiry counter where people were queuing to pay for their purchases, it was plain that Spiegl was in a febrile mood, calling out to various dealers, ‘Put your money where your mouth is,’ ‘Up yours,’ ‘Don’t give me that old ho-hum.’
When they were in New Bond Street he jubilantly explained to Balfour: ‘I swept the board. I spent money that hasn’t been minted yet.’
‘At least you seem to have annoyed Mr James Henderson,’ Balfour said slyly.
‘——ing old woman,’ Spiegl said. ‘All huff and puff. I’d like to put him in a cannon and fire him in the general direction of Constantinople.’
As they turned into Grove Street Spiegl put his hand on Balfour’s arm and said confidentially with a disarming grin, ‘I got carried away. My bill! I hate to think of it. My bank manager doesn’t know that kind of money exists. I might just be prepared to turn some of the loot over at a very small profit.’
