The Great California Game l-14

by Jonathan Gash

  “Thank you, Bethune,” I said. The pillock’s delivery had been putrid. Tye left with him.

  “Well, I’m very, very grateful, Lovejoy!” Bickmore said slowly. He waited, Prunella’s pen zoomed, I waited.

  He was a shrewd old administrator. He cleared his throat.

  “This makes a considerable difference to our finances this coming year, Lovejoy. I shall make out a report to the Trustees. The Board of Regulators will be eager to express…”

  His speech dried. I was shaking my head. “I, er, influenced Bethune to show my good intentions, Mr Bickmore. I’m eager to see your Gallery of Arts survive. I can’t have this lovely…” I coughed. There’s a limit to falsehood— “… this hotchpotch of a building damaged. Millions of customers come every year. Some might get injured.”

  He looked from me to Prunella. “But it is protection? You’re after money?”

  “No, Mr Bickmore. I’m after painless money.”

  There was a plan of the building, floor by floor, occupying one entire wall. I crossed to it, trying to seem sure of myself. I guessed Prunella was coming along from the crash of tumbling clipboards.

  “You’ve got the Rokeman Primitive Museum incorporated here, Mr Bickmore?” I nodded. “All those Benin heads, Nigerian sculptures, tribal items. Fantastic, eh?”

  “Lovejoy. If you’re making some sort of threat…”

  I turned away, knocking into Prunella who was just then rising from having picked up her things. What the hell had she brought all that stuff for, for God’s sake?

  “There are threats and threats, Mr Bickmore.” He was a secret smoker. I recognized his wandering hand, edging under stress towards his waistcoat pocket’s rectangular bulge. “Think of a threat that brings money in.”

  His hand halted. Maybe lessening tension.

  “A profitable, ah, threat?”

  “Plus a percentage of it to someone else.”

  He thought for quite a time. I looked at the plans, flicking idly through catalogues and year books.

  “Lovejoy,” he said finally, fingers tipping together. “This scheme, to increase our finances. Is it the sort of scheme that could be announced to the media?”

  “Media’s a must, Mr Bickmore,” I advised gravely, and his face wrinkled into a guarded smile.

  “Can you explain the details, please?” he asked. “Coffee?”

  THERE are skeletons in every cupboard. The Met Gallery of Arts has them a-plenty.

  Just like the British Museum—which has bought fakes, duds, phonys, wasting millions in its time—most museums have spent fortunes on fraud. I'm not condemning them, because crime’s as close to my heart as it is to museum curators’. The Met is a prime “lifter,” as the trade says— that is, a big official repository of antiques, any sort, which it will buy from illicit sources.

  I reminded Bickmore of this in detail, until he suggested we send Prunella out for a rest. I declined.

  “The Elgin Marbles were purchased in good faith, proper legitimate bills of sale and everything,” I continued earnestly.

  “True, true!” He was delighted to find common ground in international law.

  “So your Veracruz figures—especially that fifteenth-century Standard Bearer, and the one they call The Smiler—really should be here.” Pause. “I think, Mr Bickmore. And those Ecuador and Peru vessels too—incidentally, are they really Chavin period? Though I’ll bet your Peru gold mask’s really a Chimu, right?”

  “What are you saying, Lovejoy?” His voice had gone thick. Mine does that.

  I leaned forward confidentially. “Supposing one of those nations’ ambassadors started a row at the United Nations…”

  He bristled. “Lovejoy. I will not countenance any return of any of our legitimate —”

  “Or illegitimate? Like that Maya series of tomb artifacts you bought three years ago?” I wasn’t disclosing confidences. Every day brings fresh tales of important scams like the grave-robbers of Italy, the poor old Mayas, the threadbare Aztecs. Civilization spreads at exactly the pace of tomb-raiders.

  “I deny every insinuation, Lovejoy!”

  “Sit down, mate. Think a minute.” He subsided slowly. I could hear his grey cells starting up with a whirr. “A series of articles in some Latin American newspaper, raising all hell about the national treasures you’ve got here. Their national treasures. Or in an Accra daily, with African politicians complaining of neo-colonial exploitation. Get the idea?”

  “No.” He spoke only for Prunella’s pen.

  “Let me explain. World headlines yell: It’s those bad old Yanks again, nicking antiques. The world loves shouting this slogan.”

  “So?”

  “So you issue a denial— the same ones you used over the Tairona Columbia items, the Kwoma New Guinea ethnics. Isn’t it a bit odd, incidentally, to have those near the North America exhibits?” He didn’t answer. I smiled now, home and dry. “You raise the admission fee—okay, recommended donation—to that gallery. Cloak it in mystique. You have a special guard, get local volunteers on oh-so terribly vital vigilante duties, maybe even restrict the number of visitors.” I spoke over his shocked gasp. “You sell a certificate that they’ve seen it on the Great Dispute Day. Do I have to spell it all out?”

  He removed his glasses, possibly for the first time since birth. “Nothing creates interest like an argument.”

  “Wrong—like a patriotic argument.” I watched his smile begin, slowly extend, eliminating wrinkles. “You’re the patriot who takes on the might of… well, pick a country.”

  “There’s one thing, Lovejoy. No ambassador has criticized us to the United Nations, not for three years.”

  “Not for two years, six months and seventeen days, Mr Bickmore.” I smiled and stood, extending a hand. “I honestly do think another’s about due any day now.”

  He came with me to the door. “We haven’t cleared things up, Lovejoy.”

  “We have,” I said. “Six times what Bethune cancelled.”

  He spluttered, reeled. “Six times?”

  “It’s simple. You up your special ticket. Respond to the news splash, you’ll not know what to do with the money.”

  His only grief was the thought of a fraction of the income slipping through his sticky administrator’s fingers. “But that’s an impossible fee, Lovejoy!”

  “Not a fee, Mr Bickmore. Think of it as a suggested donation. Ready, Prunella?”

  BY the end of the day I was worn out. We’d done over half a dozen museums, all official places with superb antiques, paintings, furniture, stuff I’d have given my life to halt at and adore. But that was the point: my life was the stake.

  It’s called a “trilling” in the trade. That is, you introduce a kind of pressure from a third person— nation, ambassador, whatever you can think up— and shove it onto a second person. You yourself are the first person who makes up the prile. The problem is, you’re inextricably linked, bonded for life in a trilling. It’s not just a once-off, some deal you set up and close tomorrow and it’s goodnight dworlink at the door. Oh, no. A trilling’s everything but a marriage, though there’s even less love, would you believe. The one important factor different from all other con tricks is that big trillings need big organization. And even little ones sometimes do. Our UK trillings occur in London, Newcastle and Brighton. I’ve only been in two in my time, and was lucky to get out of both.

  We did trillings on the Brooklyn Galleries Centre (sorry, Brooklyn Center), the American Numismatists’ Society Museum, two Modern Art galleries where I drove a harsh bargain because I was feeling bolshie and Prunella and I’d had a row because by then she’d got the bit between her teeth and was geeing me along like a bloody tired nag. Plus the Museum and Gallery of Broadcasting Arts off Fifth Avenue at East 53rd Street where I drove one harder still on account of I blame them for time wasting. Oh, and the Natural History place. That was a particular difficulty I’ll tell you about, in case you ever do a trilling.

  You vary the trilling, of cours
e. The threat of an international lawsuit wouldn’t work with a Natural History place, at least not much. But I had little compunction, what with the Natural History Museum of the Americas standing on Columbus Avenue, Central Park West, and being the size of London. It chills my spine. I mean, stuffed animals are all very well, but the poor things should have been left alone, and I’m not big on dinosaurs even if 2.8 million New Yorkers see them every single year.

  It’s a question of tactics. I had to raise the great Disease Scare Tactic on this occasion, telling the gentle Mrs. Beekman after an hour’s jockeying that she would soon hear a clamour that would close her museum, possibly for good, if she didn’t accede to my humble request for a small fraction of the ticket takings. She was a harsh bargainer. I was practically wrung out by repeating my gilded threats under her vociferous cross-examination.

  I told her, “Our London churches are excavating their crypts all over the city. They have devoted doctors to check there’s no diseases itching to pop out and grapple with the populace. Understand?”

  “London had its problems in the seventeeth century,” she said primly. “So long ago, wasn’t it?”

  Okay, so she knew that diseases fade away. “The public doesn’t know that, lady. And what with AIDS, series of unknown viruses yet to be announced…”

  My clincher was promising to have specimen newspapers delivered to her next morning, carrying banner headlines announcing Contagious Disease Risks at Museum of Natural History, adding regretfully that it might be difficult to prevent them falling into the wrong hands. I also promised that she’d be saved the bother of legal claims filed against her museum. She tried the police threat. I asked her to phone Commissioner J.J. Kilmore and talk the matter over with him.

  She surrendered eventually, she guaranteeing a payment of fifty cents on the dollar. I guaranteed a bonus: her request for staff increases the following year would be given favourable mention in high places. I wouldn’t pass that on to Denzie Brandau, of course, because I was lying. She’d really put me through it. I’d tell Jennie to pay a fraction of each Natural History instalment into a numbered bank account in, say, Philadelphia. In Mrs. Beekman’s name, of course. Safety does no harm.

  Trilling ploys are not necessarily animose. You can have quite friendly gambits. Like the Bickmore one. I mean, that would bring money pouring in over the transom. We’d get a share, but so what? A plus is a plus is a plus. The Numismatists—loony obsessionals the world over—were a pleasure to deal with, because I could faithfully promise a major find of certain hammered silver coins, right here in New York State! The bloke was really delighted, because the carrot (there’s always got to be a carrot in a trilling) was that the hoard would be mainly the sort his main foe collected.

  “Fall in value of your pal’s collection?” I guessed.

  “He might be inclined to sell,” he replied evenly.

  “Good heavens,” I said just as evenly. “Whereupon you’d buy them, the day before the coins were revealed as counterfeit?”

  He fell about at that, me laughing with him.

  “I’ll see the publicity’s done right,” I promised. “Fancy some early English hammered silver coins, soon to be discovered at Roanoke? Only, I’ve got some maniacs back home who’d be really keen to have a regular thing going…”

  See what I mean? Some antiques people are a pleasure to do business with.

  THAT evening I totted up the sums fleecing in soon, and found I’d bettered Jim’s by a clear six-fold. It took me two hours on the phone with Prunella close by reading her notes in the hotel at Pennsylvania Station where Jennie had booked us in. I fixed all the frayed edges, the outstanding threats and promises, settled the transfers, formed up a method of checking on the payments with Gina’s accountants, and had the contributors listed at Jennie’s.

  Prunella was paid. She was flushed, exulting.

  “You know, Lovejoy,” she said, transported. “I’m on a high! I’m flying! The girls back at the agency would never believe me.”

  “Will never, Prunella,” I warned. “Confidentiality. Besides—”

  “Yes?” she breathed.

  I thought, what the hell. I might never get out of this. “Would you care to stay for supper, Prunella?”

  “Supper? Oh, yes!” It’s the one way to guarantee silence. As guarantees go.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  « ^ »

  FOUR o’clock in the morning I sent Prunella home—pedantically reporting the fact on the phone to a somnolent Tye, to show scrupulous observance of the syndicate’s rules. He was narked, but it gave me the chance to give Prunella instructions about collecting an envelope from a certain international airline. I gave her the flight number.

  “I’m depending on you, darling,” I told her wide eyes. “It’s life or death. Bring it when I send for you.”

  “Oh, Lovejoy! Nobody’s ever depended on me!”

  I tried to look disturbed, exalted. I was knackered. “I love you darling, okay?” But that didn’t sound quite right. There’s more to okays than meets the ear.

  That was two incoming envelopes, Prunella and Magda. I rang the syndicate number.

  “Morning, Gina. Lovejoy. I’m leaving New York this morning on the jet. What guards do I have?”

  She made the plumping noises of a woman rudely wakened, tried to unthicken her voice into day.

  “Tye’ll decide. Where to?”

  “I’ll be hacking the New York auction houses in a very few days from now. Meantime, I’m flying to six different states.”

  “You’ve already raised the necessary sum, Lovejoy?”

  “You might need an edge, love.” I left space for her to explain why now suddenly we needed less money, but she said nothing. Well, suffering women have a right to privacy. “My list’s at reception.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “Courier it to me. Now.”

  Christ, I thought. She’s in greater difficulties than I’d guessed. I streaked to my room, wrote out a list of addresses culled from the public library, and gave it to the motorcycle maniac. Ten minutes flat.

  A word about hotel night staff. They love things to do. I gave them five minutes to settle down, then remembered something very vital, and made them get a second courier. I sent him to the Benidormo with a note to Magda, to hurtle back with her signature as proof. I tipped them, said both couriers should go on the one bill, please, for simplicity’s sake. That way, I’d be the only person who knew about Magda and Zole tagging along. Then I roused Tye and told him we were moving.

  By nine o’clock we were in the air, heading south in slanting sunshine over the biggest, loveliest land God ever lowered to earth.

  THE entourage included Tye, two bulky goons called Al and Shelt who sat with knees apart and literally ate non-stop, peanuts, tiny savouries, crisps, popcorn. I’m making them sound friendly, but I’d never seen such menace in all my life. And a brisk stewardess, Ellie, all cold eyes and no repartee. The pilot Joker, his pal Smith, and that was us.

  Is America superb, or isn’t it? Its hotels can get couriers, any hour. A pilot, would you believe, accepts that business considerations are enough! It all seems so normal that you start wondering why the whole world can’t be just the same. On the Continent you get the exhausted glance at the watch, vague assurance that maybe sometime… In England the pilot—assuming you could speak to such a lordly technocrat—would ask what’s so special about your business that it can’t be changed to suit his convenience…

  The coffee was superb, drinks were there, and I could have had a film shown if I’d wanted. A suitcase of clothing was provided, I learned.

  So what was wrong?

  I concentrated. I’d sent out for two books and nine magazines before breakfast. And got them! I wasn’t sure how my plan would stand up to stress, but I was beginning to have an idea whose side I was on.

  “Tye?” I said about one o’clock. “Can I get a message sent to the ground?”

  “Anywhere, ten seconds.”

&
nbsp; “Time the US upped its performance,” I said. “Joke, joke.”

  The lassie swished up, poised for duty. I sighed. There’s only a limited amount of efficiency a bloke can take. I put a brave face on it, and asked her to get a print-out of Manhattan’s auction dates, and anything she could muster on George F. Mortdex.

  “And send word that we’re arriving for prospective interview with him or his deputy, from London, please.”

  “What name are you going under, Lovejoy?” Tye asked.

  “Mine,” I said. “But we may not become friends.”

  He said nothing, but passed his goons a slow glance. They nodded. I swallowed. Maybe I’m unused to allies.

  “IS this a ranch, Mr Verbane?”

  He beamed, walking ahead in his handmade tweeds, crocodile shoes. We followed his perfume trail.

  “We use domicile hereabouts, Lovejoy. Virginia thinks ranch infra dig, y’know?”

  He was effete, even bubbly.

  The estate—all right, domicile—was not vast, certainly not much bigger than Rutlandshire. Noble trees, vast undulating fields with white fences and pale roads curling into the distance. It was beautiful countryside, which always gets me down. The house was the size of a hamlet. Civilization lurked within.

  Swimming pool, tables on lawns, awning against the sunshine thank God, lovely white wood and orange tiles, ornate plasterwork in the porches. George F. Mortdex was worth a dollar or two.

  Mr Verbane offered me and Tye seats on a verandah where servants were waiting to fuss. He accepted a tartan shawl round his knees. I avoided Tye’s sardonic look, smiled and said I’d rough it without a blanket.

  “We don’t often get unexpected visitors,” Verbane said. “We’re so remote from civilization.”

  A couple of gorgeous figures splashed in a pool nearby. Gardeners were trimming beyond. Grooms led horses along the river which incised the spreading lawn.

  “I had hoped to see Mr Mortdex himself.”

  Verbane sighed, all apology. “That’s out of the question. He’s so old now, always works alone. I have to manage all his personal affairs.” He smiled, waved to the girls. “Though it’s an absolute slog. Racing’s such a terrible obligation. You’ve no idea.”