by Lyn Hamilton
On a more positive note, both Lake and de Medici, although separated by almost five hundred years, were significant patrons of the arts. Still, it was difficult to see where this conversation about art and empire was going. There was no way the Arezzo Chimera was up for sale, and I sincerely hoped he wasn't thinking I'd break into the archaeological museum in Florence to get it for him.
"It's so lifelike, isn't it?" he mused. "Even if it could never really exist. I mean, look at it. Doesn't it seem to be about to strike at something, a fight to the death?"
"Something or someone," I agreed. "Bellerophon, wasn't it, the hero who killed the chimera?"
"Brava," he said. "Again, you do live up to your advance billing, Ms. McClintoch. Bellerophon, indeed. Homer's Iliad, book six. The creature, a horrifying beast that breathed fire, was said to live in Lycia in Asia Minor, and yes, she—have you noticed how many of the monsters of ancient mythology were female?—was killed at last by the hero, Bellerophon. A Persian Saint George in some respects. I suppose the chimera could be an early version of a dragon myth. Do you recall how Bellerophon managed this rather daunting task his enemies had set for him?
"Didn't he fly over the creature on a winged horse and shoot an arrow with a plug of some kind on it that was melted by the chimera's breath? Something like that, anyway."
"That's correct. I see you know your mythology as well as your antiquities. Bellerophon was given the winged horse Pegasus by his father Poseidon, god of the sea, and flew over the chimera. He put a plug of lead on the tip of his arrow and shot it down her throat. It melted and seared the entrails of the chimera, killing her. She would have died in agony. Rather ingenious, wouldn't you say?"
"No doubt," I replied. There was something about his tone that bothered me, the rather gleeful spirit in which he recounted the tale, and his emphasis on the fact that the chimera was a she. Could it be that the billionaire had a misogynistic streak? "Look, this is all very interesting, Mr. Lake, but I still don't know what you want from me."
"Why, Bellerophon, of course," he said to me, placing a second photo in front of me. It showed a rearing winged horse with a man astride it, about to shoot an arrow. The photo was not as clear as the first, more of the home rather than the professional variety, but I could see it was an impressive piece of sculpture. Lake moved the two photos together, and it did, indeed, look as if the Arezzo Chimera was snarling up at the rearing horse and rider.
"What about the dimensions?" I said. "I can't tell from these photographs."
"Perfect," he replied. "The Arezzo Chimera is only about thirty-two inches high, rather small for a monumental sculpture, really. The Bellerophon is about six and a half feet. Towers over her."
"I don't recall any indication that there was a Bellerophon statue with the Chimera," I said rather dubiously, but I could feel myself getting excited.
"Ah, now this is where it gets interesting," Lake said. "I searched the city archives of Arezzo for that time period, the 1550s," he said, then paused abruptly as if he'd misspoken himself. "Rather, to be more accurate, I should say I had the archives searched for me. There is a reference to a large bronze like the Chimera being discovered outside the city gates on November 15, 1553, along with several smaller bronzes. There's a later notation to the effect that the tail was missing.
"Giorgio Vasari—Cosimo de Medici was his patron, and Vasari recorded many of his exploits—writing in 1568, says it was found in 1554, a year later than the archival records. He also mentions the missing tail. Some say Benvenuto Cellini replaced the tail—Cellini was an artist supported by de Medici—but I doubt that's true. In any event, the Chimera is not my interest. The Bellerophon is. I believe there are enough indications that there was more than one large bronze found in Arezzo, and given the legend and this photo, I think there's a good chance I've located it. I want this one, Ms. McClintoch, and I want you to get it for me. Are you up to the challenge?"
"Well, I. . . what would you want to do with it once you had it, Mr. Lake?" I asked.
"What would I do with it? Oh, I see what you mean. My intention is to turn it over to the museum in Florence. The Chimera, while magnificent, is not all that impressive by itself, I'm sure you'll agree. A question of scale, really. But with Bellerophon, the two pieces as they were meant to be will be truly astounding. They deserve to be together."
"That's a very generous gesture, Mr. Lake," I said. It was not unheard of, in Lake's case. I did recall he'd donated some very fine antiquities to various museums over the years, but still, I was on my guard.
"Yes and no," he said, with a rather disarming smile. "To be honest, I am launching a new high-tech fund here in Europe, and I want to make a positive impression, something that will make people sit up and notice, and then, of course, buy in. I think finding the Bellerophon and then donating it to the archaeological museum might do that for me. Wealthy philanthropist spends ten years tracking down missing Bellerophon, buys masterpiece for Italy, et cetera, et cetera. Then a couple of days later I launch the fund. Not entirely unselfish, of course, but still worth doing, I hope you agree." He spoke with the authority of someone who expects everyone to agree with him, and I found, somewhat to my surprise, that I did. Did it matter what motivated him? The important thing was that the Bellerophon be reunited with the Chimera and that everyone have an opportunity to appreciate them.
"I ask you again. Are you up to the challenge?" he said. "I'll pay you and pay you well. You'll get a commission on the purchase—we can discuss how much— and I will cover all your expenses. I have taken the liberty of opening a Swiss bank account for you, electronic, and my bank, of course, and if you agree, then ten thousand U.S. dollars will be deposited in it to defray expenses. Now," he said, naming a commission rate, "would that be worth your time?"
I've never actually figured out what my time is worth, believing that dividing the rather paltry profit McClintoch & Swain turns from time to time by the number of hours I put into the business would just depress me. However, while I prefer not to discuss money in general, and my commission in particular, I will say that there was no question that the sum would be more than my time would normally fetch.
Still, I hesitated, and he, poor man, took that to mean the amount wasn't enough. "If you can keep the selling price under two million, I'll up your commission another percentage point. Under a million and a half, one more."
"I'm sure that will be satisfactory, Mr. Lake," I replied in as neutral a tone as I could muster. My heart soared like a hawk, actually. Even if no one ever knew that I had been Lake's purchaser, this would be my entree into a level of the art world I'd never thought I'd see. And for a good cause, too: uniting the Chimera with the missing hero.
"Good," he said, handing me a piece of paper. "Anything else?"
"What if I can't get the Bellerophon, for whatever reason?"
. "I reward success, not failure, Ms. McClintoch. However, I do try to be fair. The ten thousand I will deposit in your account should more than cover your out-of-pocket expenses, and I will consider it nonrefundable, no matter how much or how little of it you spend. Is that satisfactory?" I nodded.
"Then, here is the account number and password. I suggest you memorize both and throw away the paper."
I looked at it. The bank was Marzocco Financial Online, and the account number was 14M24S—one for the money and two for the show. The password was easy, too. It was Chimera. I tore up the piece of paper and handed the scraps back to Lake. "Got it," I said. "Now, who has the Bellerophon?"
"I believe, on fairly good authority," he said, "that it's in the hands of a collector in France by the name of Robert Godard. I've never met the man, but I think he's had it for a few years now. It may even have been in his family for a generation or two. I'm not sure Godard knows what he's got, the missing half of the Arezzo bronzes, I mean. I'm sure he knows it's good. He's a collector, after all, but he may not have put two and two together, as it were. Probably thinks he has a rather unusual equestrian statue. I'
d like it to stay that way. It will keep the price down."
I nodded. "I'm not entirely sure myself that the two pieces go together," Lake went on, "but I believe they do, and when we see them side by side, I think it will be clear they do."
"You say Godard has had the bronze for a long time. What makes you think he'll sell it now?"
"My sources tell me he's ready to sell. Financial hardship, is, I think, the term that comes immediately to mind." He must have seen something in my face. "I've heard you have a somewhat suspicious nature," he said.
Who, I wondered, had he been talking to about me ? I wouldn't characterize myself as suspicious, just cautiously skeptical, that's all, what I'd call a healthy attitude in a business that occasionally appeals to people with baser motives and where the phrase caveat emptor, buyer beware, is a useful phrase to remember. What I'm trying to say is that fakes abound in the antique trade. I like to think I haven't been had very often.
"I had nothing to do with his current situation, I assure you," Lake said. "He brought it on himself. I merely hope to profit from it. Godard is a collector who doesn't know when to stop. I do." He looked about the room for a moment, at the jumble of art and artifacts, and then permitted himself a small laugh. "Although I'll grant you this may not be apparent at first glance." I laughed, too. I rather liked the man.
"Do you know where I can find him?"
"The best way to contact him is through a dealer, a freelance type—he doesn't have a retail operation—by the name of Yves Boucher. You can get in touch with Boucher in Paris. Antonio will give you his number," he added. I gathered Antonio was the rather pretty young man who'd accompanied me to the house. "I suggest you go to Paris right away, as early as tomorrow morning if possible. Antonio will give you some cash to cover your expenses until the money is transferred. It will be there this evening. You can check anytime tomorrow. Antonio will also give you a phone number where he can be reached. He'll be our go-between. When you've gotten in touch with Boucher and then Godard, and have some idea of the price range, you can call Antonio. Once we've agreed on the price, I'll transfer the money to your account. You understand I don't want my name associated with this in any way, do you not?"
"I do," I replied. "You have my word that your name will never be mentioned."
"Thank you," he said. "And you have mine in this matter." I'd heard that Lake was one of those people who closed multimillion-dollar deals on the strength of a handshake. I decided if it was good enough for him, it was good enough for me. Heaven knows I'd had occasion to discover from time to time how worthless signed contracts could be.
"You'll have to arrange the bank transfers," he went on. "It will all be in your name. But I'll ensure the money is there. Don't worry about that. You'll probably have to give them a deposit on it. Just let Antonio know. Now I must get back to work, although this is much more interesting, and I'm afraid you will have to submit to the rather theatrical device of the blindfold again. I do apologize for it," he said, extending his hand and smiling rather engagingly. "Anna will see you to the door."
"Do you mind if I use the facilities before I go?" I said, trying to look embarrassed. "All that tea ..."
"But of course," he said. "How thoughtless of me. Anna will show you the way."
He rang for the maid. "I will get it, by the way," he said, as we awaited Anna's arrival.
"The Bellerophon? Of course you will," I said.
"The Bellerophon, yes. But I meant the Apollo. Mar-iani finds himself in some financial difficulties. I confess this time I had a hand in some of them. He'll have to sell it any day now, at much less than he paid for it, and rather closer to what it's worth. It's a matter of time. I'll be there." The tone was mild, but there was no doubt in my mind that there was a ruthless mind behind it. I found myself feeling a little sorry for Mar-iani, and, for the first time, more than a little apprehensive about my own dealings with Lake. I didn't think he'd brook failure on my part. It also occurred to me that at least where Etruscan statuary was concerned, Lake, like Cosimo de Medici before him, rather aspired to the title of dux magnus Etruscus himself.
The feeling lasted for only a moment, however. "It's been a pleasure, Ms. McClintoch," he said. "I'm glad we'll be doing business together." He gave me another lovely smile, and despite my misgivings, for a fleeting second or two, I found myself hoping our relationship would be a long and mutually rewarding one. He nodded in my general direction, then disappeared down the hall.
Anna not only accompanied me along a rather gloomy hallway, the doors on either of it shut tight against prying eyes like mine, but also waited outside the door. The window was frosted glass on the bottom, but not on the top, and as quickly and quietly as I could, I stood on the toilet seat and peered out. I found myself looking out on to a rather spectacular rooftop garden, with cascading flowers and shrubs, a small table with two chairs, and off in one corner, the dominant feature, a statue of Michelangelo's David, life size. I smiled to myself. I was sure if I asked Lake about it— which I couldn't, of course, given my subterfuge— he'd tell me the David in the Accademia in Florence was the copy, the one on his roof the genuine article. Craning my neck, I could see down the street a little to some cafe umbrellas and the letters FECIT on the edge of a high building. I was almost certain I pretty much knew where I was.
I stepped down carefully, flushed the toilet and ran the water for Anna's benefit, then opened the door. It was time to check out of my hotel and get myself to Paris to pick up the trail of Bellerophon.
TWO
PARIS
I AM NOT A DISHONEST PERSON, NOR, IN spite of later events that might lead one to think otherwise, am I a fool. I've been in this business long enough to know that one has to be very careful when dealing in antiquities. Suspicious by nature of opportunities that look too good to be true, I put in a call to customs authorities in both France and Italy first thing the next morning, and then went on-line to check the various databases of stolen art. There were no reports of a missing bronze statue of Bellerophon nor anything remotely resembling it that I could find. I then did another on-line search of some of the major auction houses. Still nothing. Satisfied, I checked my new bank account, pretty much the best one I'd ever had. True to his word, Lake had seen to it that $10,000 was deposited in it.
I wasn't surprised. A great deal had been said about Lake's ruthlessness and drive, his obvious need to succeed at whatever he did. But I had never heard him described as disreputable in any way. If anything, even his rivals would grudgingly admit to his integrity.
Checks made to my satisfaction, I called Clive and told him I'd acquired the farm furniture and pottery from Tuscany we needed for the cottage we were doing north of Toronto, and that I was taking a short detour to Paris to do a sweep of the flea markets for old linens and such.
I toyed with the idea of telling Clive the truth, that we had an assignment from none other than Crawford Lake himself, but I'd given my word on it, and I was reasonably sure Lake would not entirely approve of taking Clive into my confidence. For all his faults, which I'm happy to tell anyone about any time they ask and sometimes even when they don't, it has to be said that Clive is a tireless promoter of our business. He also is a name-dropper of some distinction, believing as he does that the more famous our clients, the more famous we, too, will be. I didn't think he'd be able to contain himself if he knew that we now had a billionaire on our roster of customers.
"Some guy called," Clive said. "Antonio somebody or other. I think he works for D'Amato," he added, referring to our Italian shipper. "They seemed to have misplaced the name of your hotel in Rome, so I gave it to him."
So that was how Lake had tracked me down. I'd been wondering, although not that much. I figured anyone with the resources at his disposal that Lake had could do just about anything he put his mind to. I hadn't gone to Italy to see him; quite the contrary, in fact. I'd been on an annual buying trip in Europe to pick up some furniture for the store: Tuscany was particularly hot right
then—you know, rather worn wood furniture, tile floors, roughly finished ocher-colored walls, diaphanous curtains blowing in the breeze, that sort of thing—and we'd been asked to furnish a couple of places, one in the country, one in town, in Tuscan style. It looks easy, but it's not. It requires attention to detail and some really good pieces to pull it all off. Clive is the designer, I'm the antiques expert. He comes up with the ideas, and I go and find whatever it takes to make it happen. In many ways, we make an odd—I'd say any divorced couple in business together is by definition odd—but reasonably effective team. In addition to the Tuscan houses, I also had a buyer who was always interested in whatever Italian antiques I could find. Like Lake, he was an avowed collector of almost anything Italian, most particularly eighteenth-century Venetian glass. So I'd gone to Venice, swung through Florence and Siena, and ended up in Rome.
"Did he get hold of you all right?" Clive asked.
"Yes," I replied. "Everything's taken care of."
"Good," he said. "Well, have some fun in Paris while you're there. Sit in the sun at some Left Bank cafe, watch the world go by for awhile. Take a week, why don't you? We can afford it."
