The Ponzi Men

by David Chilcott

  Chapter 4

  It was five to twelve when McBride drew his car up to Ian Smith’s country house. Georgian, at the end of a sweeping drive. Smith had heard the car and was opening the front door.

  “Bang on time,” said Smith. “Stay there, and let me put a jacket on.” Five minutes later he was in McBride’s car, and they swept down the drive, McBride following Smith’s directions. Two miles later and they pulled into the car park of the Green Man, a well known gastro pub.

  Ian Smith bounced into the bar, full of bon homme. “Good Morning Landlord,” he shouted, and McBride winced behind his back. He needn’t have bothered. Mine host was as pleased to see Ian, and several other customers shouted their greetings. McBride felt unhappy at what he guessed would become a giant boozing session stretching through the afternoon. But he needn’t have worried. The landlord got them seated at a table. Ian chose chicken with potato cakes, McBride duck and noodles. Ian chose the wine, a bottle of Sancerre. McBride had one small glass, and Smith quickly dispatched the remainder.

  “So, fun with the police in Chester? And they just pulled you out of the hotel? Tell me more.” McBride quickly recounted the whole story, and how once Smith had vouched that he had phoned McBride at the hotel at the critical time, he was off the hook.

  “And, of course, you didn’t do it?” asked Smith, hoping maybe that McBride had lived up to his gung ho reputation.

  “Of course not, if I was going to kill the fellow, I would have chosen a subtler way to do it.”

  “Ah, you didn’t like him, then?”

  “Well the guy stole a hundred grand, and even more from my friend Dusty Miller. You remember him? We all had dinner one night at that hotel in your village. Though I can’t remember much about it.”

  “Oh yes, I remember. He was an SAS friend. Tall guy with facial scars, and a constitution for alcohol that drank me under the table.”

  “I didn’t think he was that good. Anyway, Dusty is working in a South African country, and we decided that the dead man’s colleague needs punishing, perhaps we can con some money back from him. The man’s living in South Africa now. I said I would go over there to help him, and to pay my way I would paint some wild animal watercolours in the safari parks. Good idea, do you think.?’

  “What conning someone, or painting animals? We could sell whatever you decide to paint, so yes, go with it. Who is going to fund your tour?”

  “I did a painting of the Dee estuary last week, yachts on the water, Welsh mountains in the background. Even I think it is a breakthrough painting. Imperial size. I suggest we do a limited edition of a thousand.”

  “Well, I haven’t seen it yet. But no, you’re good, but not well known enough yet, to support an issue of that size. Say five hundred, and if it’s as good as you say, then yes. Signed edition of course. You know how long it will take to sign five hundred? About half a week, I reckon.”

  “I thought you’d pay me maybe twenty quid a print royalty?”

  “Yes, okay.”

  “Then I’ll use the money to pay the airfare and accommodation in Africa. You’ll buy all the wildlife paintings?”

  “Of course.”

  McBride thought that this was a bit too easy. He should have asked more for the print royalty. He knew his fame was growing, though that was in part due to Smith’s patronage. Better not push his luck too fast.

  “One proviso.” Smith emptied the last glass of wine. “When you get back, you tell me how you beat the guy who conned you both.”

  Later, back at Smith’s house McBride carried his portmanteau of paintings into the house, Smith bringing McBride’s overnight bag. They went to Smith’s study, almost a small gallery. With two huge desks, and large easels to view unmounted paintings.

  “The Dee estuary one first,” commanded Smith.

  McBride opened the portmanteau, took a painting out, put it on the easel.

  Seeing it again for the first time since he had painted it, McBride realized it was even better than he had thought. It overpowered Smith, thought McBride as he watched Smith’s expression. Smith was silent for a few minutes, the he said: “Wow!” in a low voice.

  “You like it?” asked McBride.

  “I don’t like it, I love it. We’ll keep it to five hundred. I was tempted to up the print run, but no. But I’ll give you twenty-five royalty on each of five hundred. We can price it accordingly. Very well done, young McBride. My faith in you has paid dividends.”

  McBride was transported back to the moment Smith had appeared at his shoulder when he was painting in the Dales. “I like your style, I’ll sell all your output if you like.” And he had been true to his word.

  Smith stood in front of the Dee Estuary painting for several minutes more, and then wrenched himself away. “Show me the others, John. Don’t forget the commission.”

  McBride went over to the other easel, putting one painting after another on the easel, replacing them only after Ian Smith had given a nod. When the commission painting came up, Smith said: “I got you four thousand for that, John, and it’s worth every penny. Two thousand for me, two thousand for you. Out of that I have to frame, of course, and deliver.” And, thought McBride, there was the publicity, PR on tap, the private showings, the gallery exhibitions, articles in all the world’s press. Yes, the man was worth it. In ten years, he had heaved McBride up there with the best. And McBride thought he was good, but might not have made it without Smith.

  “As for the Chester series, I think I’ll run a small select showing, inviting previous clients. I guess we can shift eight of the ten within a month. Maybe more.”

  Smith called his secretary through, got her to list the new paintings, giving McBride a copy. Then she produced his statement of account with paintings sold, and a large cheque. McBride put the papers carefully in his inside pocket.

  “Bring a note book with you John, we’re going into the garden to discuss your future output. Helen here will organize some tea and cakes. You must think I do nothing but eat and drink.” McBride smiled and didn’t comment. He followed Smith down a corridor, and out on to the terrace overlooking the superb garden sloping down to the boundary ha-ha, beyond which the Cheshire countryside rolled into a blue haze. Helen brought a tray of tea things, cups, saucers, teapot, milk sugar. And a plate of mixed shortcake biscuits.

  Smith served the tea, accompanying his activities with non-stop questions and suggestions. “Well, the next thing you do is the safari park thing. What ten, twenty paintings can you manage there?”

  McBride, nodded, his mouth full of biscuit.

  “I’ve been thinking about the next leap forward, John.” Smith peered intently at him. “America. I mean, the United States. Vast market. I’ve only got one person that has cracked that market, but I do think you could be the next one. You’d have to be committed, though, for two reasons. One,” he counted on the fingers of his hand, “I will have to pour money in to back you. You can’t go after it half cock, or we’ll fail. Secondly, it could commit your time for up to twelve months, and you would still have to keep some of your present work output, or everybody would forget you. Understand what I’m saying?”

  “You’re saying it will be hard graft. Would it be worth it? We’re both not doing so badly. My accountant is still surprised I earn as much as he does. So he says.”

  “It’s whether you want to go to the next level, which would take you into the super-rich. Once you get there, maybe a year’s supreme sacrifice, and you can name your own price on anything you paint. At that stage, the output will be less of a problem. If you turn out less, the value of each painting goes up.”

  “I worry that I won’t have the fun I have now, more or less painting what I want to. Having less commitment and still getting enough income. But I won’t dismiss it out of hand. Let me ponder over it while I’m in Africa, and I promise I’ll let you have an answer when I get back.”

  “That’s fair enough. But remember it could put you up there with Turner, say.”

/>   That night McBride emailed Dusty Miller, told him that he was ready to visit South Africa as soon as he was required, but he would need to earn some money doing wildlife paintings in the safari parks.