Under the Hammer

by John Mortimer

  ‘I guess he’s not in a state to converse,’ a tall, lanky ambulance man told him, sadly chewing.

  ‘Where’re you taking him?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Lennox Hill. Mind yourself. He’s in a hurry.’

  The stretcher was carried out of the doors into the street. Peter Pollack stood in silence for a moment and then followed.

  The sale stopped at lunchtime. Chuck Whiteside had filled his pipe from a tobacco jar and was looking down from his office windows on to Sixth Avenue. Maggie told him it had been an exciting day.

  ‘So exciting,’ Ben added, ‘that some old buffer nearly passed out.’

  ‘So Gloria told me! I didn’t really notice.’ Chuck returned to his lazy mid-Atlantic accent.

  ‘Odd thing,’ Ben told him, ‘I’m sure I’ve seen him before.’

  ‘I expect you’ve met a good many old buffers in your time, Ben. All the same, you’re looking well.’ Chuck gave his visitor a friendly punch on the arm. ‘Keep yourself in good shape, do you? Jog, of course?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Ben was clear on the subject. ‘I’d put jogging high on the list of fatal diseases.’

  ‘Still the same old Ben, isn’t he, Maggie?’ Chuck smiled at her, exposing almost perfect teeth. ‘Never changes.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Not since the great days of our youth. Remember, Ben?’ Chuck put his smouldering pipe carefully in a deep glass ashtray and took a photograph in a frame off a shelf to show Maggie. A group of men in their twenties were in front of an Italian villa and among them stood a young Chuck and a young Ben. ‘Bright young things, we were,’ Chuck remembered. ‘Learning our trade, visiting Italy to pay homage to Bernard Berenson. It was a great summer. Then we went our separate ways and got older.’ He put the photograph back, a little sadly.

  ‘Older, not much wiser, perhaps.’ Ben was still looking at the photograph.

  ‘Great days. But let me tell you two. This is a terrific moment of time in the history of art!’ Chuck went to his desk and sat smoking with, his feet up. ‘You know what New York is? It has to have some religion. Once it was just God, I guess, and all the old money did charitable works. Then it was opera and they paid out millions to wear their diamonds at the Met. Then it was civil rights and they discovered they cared deeply about blacks on buses and sent donations. And now, thank heaven for it, it’s art. Forget God. Forget the Ring Cycle. To hell with the urban ghettos. They worship at the shrine of the Blessed Giovanni Bellini and Saint Picasso and All Angels. If you’re not on the Board of the Museum of Modern Art or the Lemberg, you’re a social pariah. And how do you get on the Board of the Lemberg, I hear you asking?’

  ‘As a matter of fact you don’t,’ Ben assured him.

  ‘I heard Mrs John T. Flecknow III ask it,’ Chuck went on. ‘From the depths of Cleveland, which isn’t exactly the address from which to start a brilliant career in the art world. The answer is that John T. Flecknow has done bloody well. Isn’t that what you English say? Bloody well?’

  ‘I really wouldn’t know,’ Ben said. ‘I’m not English.’

  ‘He’s going to put in the top bid for our Titian,’ Chuck told them proudly. ‘Then he’ll present it to the Lemberg, Mrs John T. will get her seat on the Board and they’ll be received into the Eternal Kingdom of Art and be sitting on the right hand of the Curator of the Getty Museum.’

  ‘I’ve got some clients in London to bid for,’ Maggie said. ‘John T. Whatsit’s not going to get an easy ride.’

  ‘All the better. The price will mount as-tro-nomically. But it depends on just one thing.’ Chuck blew out smoke and looked up to heaven as though in prayer.

  ‘On what?’ Ben asked.

  ‘On you! John T. Flecknow has got it into his head that you’re the greatest living expert on Old Master paintings. He’s only going to buy the Titian if you tell him it’s authentic.’

  ‘A man of great good sense and discrimination,’ Ben thought.

  ‘Of course, you’ll have to see the painting.’

  ‘It might be a help.’

  ‘They’re doing a bit of work on the frame,’ Chuck told him. ‘But Ben, you’re going to ...’ He sat up straight. ‘I mean, you’re certainly not going to have any doubts about it?’

  Ben said nothing, but Maggie asked, ‘How can you be sure of that?’ Before Chuck could answer, Gloria Shallum came in.

  ‘Oh, Gloria sweetheart,’ Chuck greeted her, ‘I seem to have misplaced that new tobacco pouch. Red and green, remember? From Dunhill’s. I was kind of proud of it.’

  ‘I’ll ask around,’ Gloria promised. ‘And, by the way, the ambulance took the old guy to Lennox Hill Emergency. That was all we could do.’

  Chuck said ‘Oh, sure. Thanks, Gloria.’

  And Ben asked her, ‘Have you any idea who he was?’

  ‘We checked his paddle number at the desk. He gave the name Don Duck. Sounded a bit curious to me.’

  ‘Sounds like someone’s last joke.’ Ben went to the photograph and looked at the picture again. He looked particularly at a young man with glasses and untidy hair, smiling uncertainly at the end of the row. ‘Was there any Don in our group of hopeful young art experts?’

  Chuck shook his head. ‘God, it’s so long ago. You and I were close, Ben. I can’t recall too much about the others.’

  ‘You don’t remember a Don?’

  ‘Not really,’ Chuck had to admit.

  ‘I’ve got a feeling.’ Ben started trying names, ‘Estmore. No. Estragon? That nervous little American? Wasn’t he Donald something?’

  When Ben got down to the entrance hall, the man with a pony-tail, a red baseball cap and Van Gogh’s earless portrait on his T-shirt, was saying to the receptionist in a slow voice, full of hatred, ‘In a meeting, is he? Mr Whiteside is in a meeting? Well, you let him know. Don’s dead. He died before they got him to the hospital.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ben had heard.

  ‘You work here?’ Peter Pollack turned, his eyes full of tears. ‘You work at Klinsky’s?’

  ‘At Klinsky’s, yes. But not here. I’m from London.’

  ‘OK, you tell them. Let them all know the good news. Don Estover’s dead and Klinsky’s got what it wanted.’ He turned then and walked quickly to the door. Ben followed, but when he got to the top of the steps Peter Pollack’s red cap was disappearing among the traffic. Ben was left alone, remembering Donald Estover.

  Chuck had taken Maggie to lunch at the Plaza Oyster Bar. They sat up on stools and drank Napa Valley Mumm, and ate Blue Point oysters, and she asked him if he always lunched in such style.

  ‘Only when we get beautiful visitors from England.’

  ‘I’m sorry Ben’s missing the oysters.’

  ‘I’ve loved Ben,’ Chuck said, ‘since we made our pilgrimage to Berenson, the great BB whose word on pictures was law, who lived like a king in his Italian villa, ruled his little court. You know the art world hasn’t been quite the same since BB died.’

  ‘Ben says Berenson sometimes adjusted his attributions to market forces?’

  Chuck didn’t answer that. He smiled and said, ‘Great to have you here. Maggie, I wish we saw more of you. And God, I miss London. The smoky little pubs. The old roast beef and two veg. The pints of beer and great theatre.’

  ‘It’s not exactly like that anymore.’

  ‘It’s not?’

  ‘Not really. The pubs are empty and everyone’s at home thawing out frozen lasagne and drinking New Zealand Sauvignon and watching soft porn videos.’

  ‘It’s not true!’ Chuck was appalled.

  ‘Not altogether true,’ Maggie agreed. Then there was a silence, he speared an oyster and said quietly, ‘Ben’s not going to be any trouble, is he?’

  ‘Well, he might be quite jealous when he finds out we were eating Blue Point oysters together.’

  ‘Jealous?’ Chuck was puzzled. ‘You two haven’t got something going, have you?’

  ‘Well, we’re great friends,’ she told him.
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  ‘Friends ... Is that all?’

  ‘It’s quite a bit.’

  ‘Of course. Friends.’ Chuck laughed. ‘That’s all it is. Ben’s a much, much older man.’

  ‘He’s not much older than you, in fact.’ Maggie looked him over.

  ‘But that’s entirely different.’ Chuck could hardly take her seriously. ‘I mean, I work out. I watch what I eat. I’ve been doing this relaxation technique. You kind of empty your mind, you know, and think young. Rediscover yourself. I go out with twenty-five-year-old dates.’

  ‘Do you really?’ Maggie asked. ‘I’d’ve thought you’d have more fun staying in with them.’

  Chuck ignored this for a more important matter. ‘What I meant, Ben’s not going to have any trouble attributing the Titian, is he?’

  ‘Not if it’s right.’

  ‘We just can’t afford any of his precious doubts over this one. Not “school of”, not “circle of”, not “after Titian”. Not any of that damned double-talk. “By Titian”! Straight down the line. That’s all he needs to say. He won’t have any trouble about that, will he?’

  ‘I’m afraid, you’ll have to wait until he sees the picture.’

  ‘Until then?’ Chuck frowned and then clinked his champagne glass on Maggie’s and smiled at her with great charm. ‘Yes, of course. We’ll just relax and leave it all to dear old Ben.’

  That afternoon, dear old Ben was holding transparencies to the light and giving his view on Titian’s later period to Maggie and Chuck. ‘He was an old man when he painted like that. A very old man. Vasari called on him when he was over eighty and found him still working hard, with brushes in his hand. We keep going, you know, we old war horses.’

  ‘Don’t show off, Ben. You’re really not that old.’

  ‘What’s old age? The period of liberation. The time when you don’t have to pretend to be grown up, or serious, or responsible in any way.’

  ‘Speak for yourself!’ Maggie told him.

  ‘Old Titian was liberated. He gave up the classical ideal. He painted like an Impressionist, splashes and dots of colour against a thunderous sky. Great figures looming up out of the night. Paint was hurried on with a smudged finger. Old age for Titian was a time for magic, and he still found women beautiful.’

  ‘What you’re saying is, it’s a late Titian?’ Chuck was reassured. ‘Well, that’s OK! So long as it’s a Titian, we don’t care how late.’

  “‘Naiad Bathing in a Stream”.’ Maggie took a transparency. ‘He was still painting nymphs when he was an old man.’

  ‘He couldn’t resist them. It’s hard to tell until you see the paint.’

  As if in answer to Ben’s request, Gloria opened the door to let in two porters with a big canvas in a heavy gold frame. ‘See the service you get at Klinsky’s?’ Chuck was delighted. ‘Let me introduce you to your Titian.’

  Ben stooped, tipped his glasses, looked into the deep-green glade in which a half-naked nymph was bathing under a stormy sky. ‘You know what the Romans thought about nymphs? If you were unfortunate enough to see one undressed, it led to madness. I can understand that.’

  ‘It’s perfectly right, isn’t it?’ Chuck wanted to be sure.

  ‘I don’t know yet. I’d have to spend some time alone with her.’

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘All sorts of things. Perhaps a smudged finger.’

  Chuck told Maggie they should leave Ben to his thoughts on Titian and suggested they go for a little exercise: ‘You go mad in this city if you don’t keep in shape.’ So he let Gloria know that they could be found in the New York Athletic Club, if anyone wanted them. He said they intended to play around a little, because he thought that was funny.

  Left alone, Ben ignored the Titian. He got hold of a New York telephone directory and found a number of Estovers, including one in Jackson Heights he thought might be possible. He sat down at Chuck’s desk, got a line and dialled a number.

  ‘What is it?’ The woman who answered didn’t sound entirely friendly.

  ‘Oh, hallo. Look, I’m sorry to disturb you. But does a Mr Donald ... Don Estover live there?’

  ‘Donald? I don’t know no Don. Donald’s out at work. Who are you, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘An old friend of his, actually. I just wondered if Mr Donald Estover ... had, well ... He hasn’t died, has he ... in any way?’

  ‘Who are you?’ The woman’s voice rose in fury. ‘Funeral business, is it? Hustling work? We don’t want you! You hear me? We don’t need you. We’re in beautiful health. Every one of us. Donald checks up regular. Heart, lungs, everything. You hustle business for dead people someplace else!’ The telephone buzzed angrily and Ben put it down. He went back to the directory, found a D. Estover in Greene Street and dialled.

  The phone rang in the living area of a shabby and old-fashioned apartment. Half of the room was tidy, with some carefully arranged art books, a well-organized desk and a neatly arranged collection of tapes and records. The other half was a tip, with a chaotic paint table, heaps of scrumpled newspaper and an easel on which stood an abstract painting, consisting only of strips of colour. In his half of the room, Peter Pollack sat, still wearing his baseball cap, grief-stricken and inert. He let the phone ring, but finally picked it up and heard Ben say, ‘Oh, could I speak to Mr Donald Estover, please?’

  ‘Don won’t be back. Never! Never! Never be back.’ And then Peter Pollack put down the phone.

  In the Athletic Club Maggie and Chuck were playing squash, whooping, shouting, bumping into walls and into each other. Then Maggie glanced up to the gallery over the court and saw Ben looking down on them. They finished their game quietly, in a most restrained fashion, and then Chuck invited Ben for a decaf.

  ‘What’s the point of coffee, if there’s no coffee in it?’ Ben asked and got no answer but allowed himself to be led to the health bar, which contained a number of obese people in lurid anoraks, as well as slimmer and more athletic members.

  ‘It seems an odd way to spend the afternoon, breathing in the delightful smell of ageing gym shoes.’ Ben looked at the passing scene with deep disapproval.

  ‘He means trainers,’ Maggie translated for Chuck.

  ‘I know. I’ve made a close study of the English language. OK, Ben. So is it a great Titian? A one hundred per cent, straight up, genuine masterpiece? Of the final period? Like you said, when he was a great old man but still with a fine taste in nymphs?’

  ‘Oh, you’re talking about the picture!’ Ben raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Of course, I am.’

  ‘I haven’t really had time to think about it. I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Busy?’ Chuck was puzzled.

  ‘I remember a rather shy young American. He asked an awkward question. Something like, “Mr Berenson, when you make an attribution, who are you trying to please? The dead artist or the living dealer?”’

  ‘I don’t remember.’ Chuck smiled and shook his head. ‘I know you and I were there, of course. And Ed Bachman, he was there. But none of the others come back to mind.’

  ‘Wasn’t there an evening’ – Ben pushed away his decaf – ‘when we all went to a local trattoria and got shamelessly drunk on Italian brandy? Don didn’t say much. He was probably the one who staggered out and vomited in the olive grove.’

  ‘Don?’ Chuck frowned.

  ‘Don Estover. He was with our group. I saw him yesterday.’

  ‘Can’t say I recall.’ Chuck smiled at Maggie, as though he was thinking of other things.

  ‘He was taken ill in the Sale Room while you were auctioning. It seems he died on his way to the Lennox Hill Hospital.’

  ‘That’s terrible!’ Maggie put a hand on Ben’s arm.

  ‘Sure. I’m sorry.’ Chuck sounded suitably concerned. ‘I just can’t remember the guy. Of course, you may be right. But has it got anything to do with the attribution of a Titian?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know the answer to that,’ Ben told him. ‘I’m trying to f
ind out. If you’re not too exhausted, Maggie, we might go and hear a little jazz later. I thought perhaps a trip to SoHo and the Village? You wouldn’t enjoy that, would you, Chuck? It’s so terribly un-English.’

  That evening Maggie and Ben visited the Village and were walking south from Bleecker Street Station to Greene Street in SoHo. There they saw a young man in a business suit, who was leading, with a chain attached to a dog-collar, another young man on all fours wearing a singlet and Y-fronts. Maggie was unused to such a spectacle. ‘Strange things people do,’ she said, ‘in search of pleasure.’

  ‘Oh, I know.’ Ben was unforgiving. ‘They knock small rubber balls against a wall in the company of men in smelly gym shoes.’

  ‘They weren’t noticeably smelly.’

  ‘Elderly men. Trying to sweat away the years with unnecessary exercise.’

  ‘Chuck looks good on it.’

  ‘Good? You think he looks good?’ Ben over-reacted. ‘Shining with purity. Saint Chuck of the art world.’

  ‘All of which means you don’t like him.’

  ‘Not all that much,’ Ben had to admit.

  ‘He’s been very kind to us in New York.’

  ‘He’s been very kind to you.’

  ‘Is that the trouble?’ she asked, and, when she got no answer said, ‘He desperately wants the Titian to be right.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Ben asked her.

  ‘It looked fine to me.’

  ‘So he’s got your vote at least. I told him I want to find out more.’

  ‘You said you wanted to find out about this man who died.’

  ‘Don Estover? I met his friend. His boyfriend, I suppose. I think that’s what he was. Anyway, he said that Klinsky’s had got what it wanted because Don was quiet for good now.’

  ‘What did that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. Have you got any ideas?’ Ben asked her. ‘Here we are.’ They went up the front steps of a dilapidated townhouse. A couple, entwined, were coming out of the front door and left it open for them to walk into the dingy, unswept hallway. There was a row of letterboxes. Ben found the one on which was written Estover/ Pollack, Apartment 3B. He led Maggie up the dark stairs. They rang and waited.