V
The room was packed to the doors when the sale began. Those who expected to bid sat close under the auctioneer’s pulpit; he knew most of them and their ways, and required only the faintest sign from them. An attendant would set a painting upon a high easel; the auctioneer would give its catalogue number and say a few words about it; reserved English words, no circus-poster adjectives, no motion-picture language. This is the right little, tight little island, where we know our own minds and tolerate no nonsense. Give us the facts, name of the artist, his nationality and date, and perhaps what collection the work has come from; we know the fellow, and if we want the thing, we nod our head one-quarter of an inch, enough for the auctioneer and not enough for the chap alongside, for it’s none of his business whether we have bid or not.
But the dealers, of course, are different. Those fellows are out to make money; rather vulgar chaps, you know, full of gossip and gabble; they want to know whether Detaze is going to go, and they watch for the signs, and try to find out who is bidding, and whom he represents. They are all playing a game, each against the others, and they run here and there like a herd of stampeded animals—not physically, of course, but emotionally, in their judgments of art, and what will increase in value and what will not. They are playing a thousand little tricks upon one another; each having his favorite that he has stocked up on, or got options on, and is trying to promote. He can’t do it alone, of course; he has to persuade some of the others that here is the coming man; has to get him into the newspapers, and lure rich clients into thinking that he is tops, not merely for the moment but for the future. Buying a painting is one of civilization’s most fascinating lotteries.
Zoltan Kertezsi had done an excellent job with that Detaze. Somebody started off at twenty guineas, and then the bidding became picturesque: the American actress, the Pittsburgh plateglass man, the German chemicals man all mixing in. They bid it up to five hundred and seventy-five guineas, which was a terrific sum for a small work, the first of its creator’s ever to come on public sale. The wind-up was striking too, for an entirely unknown person stepped in at the last moment and said five hundred and eighty, and all the others quit. He was a quietly determined old gentleman with a neatly trimmed white beard and gold pince-nez; he gave the name of John Smith, which must have been a pseudonym; he counted out a stack of fresh crisp banknotes, got his bill of sale, tucked the painting under his arm and walked out to a taxicab, and that was the end of that particular Detaze. It just disappeared off the face of the earth and nobody ever heard of it again.
There were other consequences of this sensational sale. The German chemicals man decided that he wanted a Detaze, and would pay the price he had bid at the sale, five hundred and sixty guineas, if Kertezsi could find him one as good as the Sea and Rocks. Then Harry Murchison called up Lanny and swore him to secrecy, and said he wanted to have such a seascape hanging in his home when his wife entered it again. He too would pay what he had bid, five hundred and fifty guineas, and would trust Lanny to pick him out a good one. Lanny was embarrassed to sell to a friend, but Harry said nonsense, the paintings were for sale, weren’t they, and he wouldn’t have a fit of shyness if Lanny were trying to buy some plateglass.
Lanny wrote his mother about this good outcome; but before the letter arrived she sent him a telegram, saying that a man unknown to her had come to Bienvenu and asked to see samples of Marcel’s work; after seeing them, he had offered to buy everything they had, two hundred and seventeen paintings, for a flat price of two million francs, and he would have the money wired to Beauty’s bank in Cannes within a couple of hours if she accepted the offer. Lanny was in a panic for fear Beauty might be tempted and he sent her back a red-hot telegram: “For heaven’s sake no, we’ll get several times that before we are through. Answer immediately assurance.”
Lanny said that at Zoltan Kertezsi’s direction, and Beauty wired that she would comply, but it was the awfulest temptation. A few hours later she wired that the mysterious visitor was now offering three hundred thousand francs for the privilege of selecting twelve land and seascapes. Kertezsi said that was more like it, and he advised taking the offer. “Obviously some dealer thinks he can do business with them and that means he’ll be getting publicity for Detaze and building him up. He’ll be working for us, and it’s all right to pay him for it.”
So Lanny wired: “Accept offer but specify in writing no wartime pictures included.” At the same time he wired Jerry Pendleton to go at once to Bienvenu and see to the handling of the transaction. That readhead was a good fighting man, and wouldn’t be too polite to inspect what the mysterious stranger was carrying off the premises.
VI
Things went on happening. Next morning Mrs. Murchison telephoned, saying that her husband was lunching with a business associate, and wouldn’t Lanny come and lunch with her; she had something confidential to tell him. Lanny said: “Of course,” and hoped it wasn’t a flirtation; he had had that happen more than once, but he thought of the former secretary as a frank and sensible woman, and he himself was not available for an affair.
When they were settled in the hotel dining-room, she asked if she might tell him a little about life in Pittsburgh, and he was tempted to reply: “I once thought I was going to live there.” Instead, he answered discreetly that he’d be interested to know all about it.
She talked for a while about a city that had worked very hard, and now had more money than it knew what to do with; especially the women who had both time and money on their hands. She talked about a social set whose members were selected on the basis of their having about the same financial means. Adella Murchison’s dark eyes sparkled with mischief as she described “young matrons” who played golf and bridge, and gossiped about one another, and discussed their children and their servants and their ailments.
“It doesn’t sound so different from home,” said Lanny, and wondered what was coming out of this.
“I can’t afford to be upstage with my husband’s friends,” continued the woman. “They had him when I was just an employee. So I said to him: ‘We’re getting into a rut, Harry. Let’s break away for a while and see something of the world; let’s get some fun out of our money.’ So I got him over here, and I want to accomplish something before we go gack—already I know he’s getting restless.”
“What is it you want?” asked the young man, trying to be businesslike.
“I want some culture! I listened to you and Mr. Kertezsi talking, and it was like moving into a different world. Of course I know he was talking partly for my benefit—I’ve been in business offices and I know a line of sales talk when I hear it—but at the same time he does love beautiful things.”
“No doubt about that.”
“Do you remember his telling about the big sausage man from Kansas City who bought a Greco and took it home with him, and right away he became famous, and all the people who had never come near him now wanted to see his Greco? It isn’t that bad with us, but I thought, if we had something really first class of our own, interesting people might ask to see it, and they would talk about it, and that would be better than playing bridge, or dancing to jazz music over the radio—you know how ‘smart’ people pass their time.”
“I live on the Riviera,” said Lanny.
“I suppose that’s where the bored people in Europe go. Anyhow, I’ve decided to take Mr. Kertezsi’s suggestion and get a Greco. I’ll tell you frankly, I didn’t know what it was—if it hadn’t been that an art expert was talking I’d have thought it was a kind of lizard.”
“A gecko, I believe it is,” ventured the other, and they laughed.
“I’ve acquired a book on art,” continued the “young matron.” “I looked in the index, and now I know enough about El Greco for conversation. In the book there’s a painting of an old man, supposed to be El Greco himself.”
“I’m afraid you can’t get that. I saw it in the Metropolitan in New York.”
“There are others, I suppose?�
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“One might be found. But it would cost a lot.”
“About what do you think?”
“One or two million francs, for a really fine one.”
“I never can get this currency business straight.”
“Fifty or a hundred thousand dollars—maybe less, with the franc dropping as it is.”
“I think I could get Harry to spend that. He’s been impressed by the idea that paintings are an investment.”
“No doubt about that,” Lanny assured her. “Tell him about Yussupoff, the young cousin of the Tsar, the one who killed Rasputin. He barely escaped from the Bolsheviks with his life, but he managed to bring out his two Rembrandts, rolled up. He can live in luxury for the rest of his life on the sum that Joseph Widener paid him for them. If you should have a revolution in Pittsburgh, now—!” They laughed, as the rich always do at revolutions—beforehand.
VII
Adella Murchison talked some more about her culture aspirations, and then came to a part of the matter that she said was a bit delicate. “What does Mr. Kertezsi charge to buy a painting, or to advise in the buying?”
“Ten percent.”
“That’s a lot of money for what may be very little work.”
“What you pay for is his expert knowledge, which it took a long time to acquire. You have to be sure what you are buying.”
“What is on my mind is that he might be persuaded to divide the commission with you; because we should want your advice also.”
“Oh, but I’m not an expert, Mrs. Murchison!”
“I have listened to you two talking; and I said to myself: ‘There’s a young man who really loves art as I should like to love it.’ I want the painting I get to be one that you think is worth while. I want to hear you tell me why. I want you to show me the fine points—in short, give me a sales talk about that picture, so I can take it back to a smoky city where I have to change my window curtains twice every week and my husband has to keep a supply of clean shirts at the office.”
“You are paying me a compliment, Mrs. Murchison, and of course I’ll be glad to help you and Harry, and tell you everything I can. But you don’t need to pay me for it.”
“I knew you’d say that. But in Pittsburgh we think a young fellow ought to earn some money; indeed, we don’t think well of him if he doesn’t. I’m sure Harry feels that way. How is it with your father?”
She was smiling, and Lanny smiled at her. He understood that she was being extremely kind.
“Both Harry and I would feel badly if we had to pay Mr. Kertezsi five or ten thousand dollars while we knew that a friend of ours was doing half the work for nothing. I’d rather take a chance on your expertness, and employ you to find us a painting. There must be ways to find out if a Greco is really a Greco, without paying quite such a big fee.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Lanny, “I know where there’s an undoubtedly genuine one on the Riviera; it belongs to the Duquesa de San Angelo, who is a relation of King Alfonso, and it’s been in her family since it was painted.”
“Well, that makes it easy; I mean, if you know that she really is what she claims to be.”
“There’s no question about that; the family is well known.”
“Do you suppose she would sell it?”
“It wouldn’t do any harm to ask.”
“Have you seen it?”
“No, but I could see it, because our friend, Mrs. Emily Chattersworth, knows her.”
“Well, there you are. What do we need of an expert?”
“For one thing, you’ll pretty certainly get it cheaper if you call Kertezsi in. He knows how to buy, and I don’t.”
“Maybe so; but certainly he ought to divide the fee with you.”
“I’ll talk it over with him if you insist.”
“The main thing with Harry will be that the picture is genuine beyond question. As for me, I hope it will look like something I can recognize.”
“It will be a portrait, probably of one of the duquesa’s ancestors.”
“And I’ll be able to know it’s a human being? Some of the new art I’ve seen, it’s hard to tell!”
Lanny laughed. “El Greco was a representational painter, though he was one of the strangest. Tell me, are you absolutelly set on one of his?”
“I may change, after I’ve read some more in that book. But El Greco sounds romantic. If anybody said: ‘The Greek,’ I’d think it was a bootlegger, or maybe a fish-and-oyster stand across the way from our glass plant. But El Greco is a name one can imagine things about, and if I have an old master at the head of my staircase, I’ll find out all about the man it portrays, and I’ll read about his time, and the first thing you know, I’ll be an authority, and professors at the university will be asking to bring their classes to look at it and hear me tell about it.”
“If that’s what you want,” chuckled the other, “you can be sure a Greco would fetch them in swarms!”
VIII
Lanny Budd and Zoltan Kertezsi had become very friendly; they had played a lot of music together, and Lanny had listened for hours to Kertezsi’s stories of “old masters,” where they were, and how he had caused them to be in that place. Whatever Lanny knew ahout the art business he had got from his new friend, so he took the problem of Mrs. Murchison to him. Kertezsi listened, and said that the lady was right about the splitting of the commission; this was a common practice of dealers when somebody brought them a customer, or helped them to find or obtain a work which met some customer’s demands.
“But in this case,” added the Hungarian, “you have found both the customer and the work, so why do you need me at all?”
“But I’m not competent to handle it, Zoltan.”
“Listen,” said the other. “Don’t you ever expect to earn any money in your life?”
“I want to very much, but I’m not an art expert.”
“Why not consider becoming one? It’s along the line of your intesest, and there’s plenty of easy money in it.”
“But I don’t know enough!”
“Why not learn? Adopt the modern educational method and learn by doing. I’ll be delighted to help you.”
“Well, that’s awfully kind, but I couldn’t let you do it without your having a share.”
“Listen, my dear boy; I have made all the money I need if I live to be a hundred. I have made it by hard work, and close attention to the whims of the wealthy. Some time ago I said to myself that I could now afford to do what I please—which is in my opinion the greatest luxury a man can enjoy on this earth. I said to myself: ‘From now on the art lover is first and the art dealer is second. From now on I will say only what I think.’ To one of the richest men in America I recently said: ‘Your taste in art is very bad, and if you are determined to buy a thing like that, you will have to get someone else to do it for you. I am interested in helping your collection only provided that you permit me to point out to you the difference between great art and rubbish.’ It was a revolutionary uprising, akin to that of the Bolsheviks.”
“Has it succeeded?”
“So far, yes; but of course one cannot tell when counter-revolution may arrive.”
Lanny was amused, and thought it might be fun to deal in art on that basis. But Zoltan told him that he couldn’t expect to take such an attitude until his reputation was established. Moreover, he would find that some of the rich had real taste, and were making extraordinary collections which they intended to bequeath to posterity. Each person was an individual problem, and you had to study your patron, as well as those from whom you expected to buy. Whatever you did would be hard work if you wished to do it well. Zoltan narrated anecdotes, illustrating the patient siege which must be laid to collectors and would-be collectors, first to meet them and then to meet their desires.
What the dealer wanted out of this proposed transaction, he said, was a friend; he liked to meet the sort of people who appreciated what you did for them, and would make a return because they were built that wa
y. He wouldn’t bother about the money, because that was so easy when you knew the right people. The important thing was to have access to them, and this was equally true whether you wished to sell a picture to the wife of a Pittsburgh millionaire or to find out whether a Spanish duchess living in exile was in need of funds and might be persuaded to part with one of her family treasures.
“Perhaps,” said Zoltan, “you never stopped to figure out the effect of the war upon this business. Europe has had to turn over most of its gold to America, and still owes it God only knows how many billions. One way that debt is being paid is with old masters. American millionaires are coming over here in droves to buy art, and there are literally thousands of rascals and parasites working day and night to persuade them to accept trash. Don’t you see that here is a useful career for a man who has instinctive taste, and also the tact, or social prestige, or whatever you wish to call it, so that he knows how to convince others that he is honest?”
So Lanny paid another secret visit to the lady from Pittsburgh and told her that he would make an attempt to find her a Greco, or something as good. Zoltan Kertezsi was going to advise and guide him, and the two would spend a lot of time, each trying to persuade the other to receive the commission. Mrs. Murchison referred to this as an “Alphonse and Gaston act,” and then, discovering that Lanny had never read the American “funnies,” she explained that there were two Frenchmen who were always getting into trouble because in emergencies they stopped to bow to each other and say: “After you, my dear Alphonse.… No, after you, my dear Gaston.” Lanny promised that they would do their bowing alone, and not bother Mrs. Murchison with it.
IX
Rick’s play had its opening performance; and Lanny, on the strength of all the money he was going to make in his new profession, invited his friends to a dinner party de luxe before the show. It was a painful play, not made for the entertainment of the idle rich; it had to do with the psychology of a British flight officer at an air base who had to send mere boys out to their death, knowing that they had received only scant training. He was an unhappy officer, and all of them drank a great deal, and war appeared a hideous and filthy business, which everybody in England was solemnly resolved never to touch again. This play of Rick’s was the sort which stood no chance with the general public, but would have a critical success and be a very good start for so young a writer.
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