The Rich And The Profane Page 25

  Doc Lancaster in our village once gave a talk on gambling. You can get treatment, from psychiatrists to drugs. He said six out of ten respond. Obsessive compulsions are to do with part of your brain being smaller. So?

  I dozed off, as I’d dozed back then in the village hall, this time from the catamaran’s humming and the sea rocking. I hoped the captain knew about the dangerous channel called The Swinge.

  Even half awake I get narked. People get things wrong. We create legends, and confuse ourselves. Not long since, a bloke investigated piracy. He turned up odd statistics. Like, how many pirates’ captives in all those centuries were made to walk the plank? Answer: one. Only one prisoner went in with a splash from a piece of four-by-two. The pirate’s average life expectancy? Not even two years. And so on. We create myths, when we ought to know better. I had a responsibility to Mondrian if Dove had got it right. No myths allowed.

  Sometimes, we do know better. Editorials trumpet our scandals, despite libel laws. How, for instance, Peter Wilson, founder of the modern Sotheby’s, was the notorious ‘Fifth Man’ of our famous spy shock-horror-gasper, and that his secret nook for meeting the spy Sir Anthony Blunt (yes, that antiques expert) was that oh-so-secret house in Chelsea. The trade also whispers about Christie’s links with Rome’s famous Red Brigade and all that jazz. Gamblers, in antiques and elsewhere, strut a very shifting sand.

  Yet you can be lucky. This is the dangling carrot. The richly beautiful Levens Hall at Kendal in Cumbria recently snatched the ‘Garden of the Year’ title from weedier rivals, yet three centuries ago Colonel Grahame won that lovely mansion on the turn of a card (the Ace of Hearts, incidentally). If it’s different risks you want, go diving in the Kyle of Tongue in Sutherland, and bring up the 50,000 Louis d’or and English gold coins submerged there. Local people will even sell you a treasure map showing you exactly where the French war sloop Hazard, hunted down by the English frigate Sheemess in 1746, was wrecked when frantically trying to escape. They’ll even prove where the invaders sank the gold - it’s only two miles from the shipwreck -when attacked by ‘Brave Captain Hugh MacKay’. You can bring up enough gold to rock the world’s bullion markets. Just don’t call me. If you’re taking that particular risk deep in those dark waters, you’re on your own.

  You can be lucky too in theft, like in love. Dig anywhere in the Holy Land, you’re bound to tumble into a Byzantine tomb sooner or later. Even one clay artefact can net you a cool two million, for a night’s scratching. Myself, I’d chosen paintings. Or rather paintings had chosen me.

  Tell you a story. Big John Sheehan back in Suffolk once ran a book, on a single bet. We all took part, being too scared to decline. His bet was this: name the six most wanted Old Masters - ‘wanted’ officially by Scotland Yard’s Art and Antiques Squad and unofficially by the rest of us. None of us won. Know what they were? Titian’s Flight to Egypt, stolen from Longleat; Rembrandt’s mother, nicked from Wilton House, Salisbury; Turner’s Light and Colour... , owffed in Frankfurt; a group of seven Picassos, whipped from Switzerland; Friedrich’s Wafting Mist, also good old Frankfurt; and The White Duck, Oudry’s masterpiece, lifted from the Marquess of Cholmondeley’s Norfolk pile. It was the last that threw us. We’d been thinking of major thefts on the Continent, see? Two of the lads had just come back from a steal and grew very narked. While everybody argued, I rang the Art Squad’s deathly secret special London number - 230 4974, but don’t tell anybody. We shut up then. Also, Big John can get very nasty. But it was The White Duck threw us. See? We imagined we knew everything.

  It’s the age-old problem of who wants what. There’s danger in buying an antique when it’s been nicked. I don’t mean because of the police. You might be buying a pig in a poke. Jelly Gosham - his real surname, incidentally - paid every penny his rich wife possessed for the stolen Goya portrait of the Duke of Wellington. It turned out that he’d bought a fake. He dared not go to the police, because they’d ask why he’d bought a stolen masterpiece. He went bankrupt. His wife left him for a window cleaner, taking the forgery. I saw it in a Brighton junk shop two years later, bought it for eighty quid, and exchanged it for a Roman amphora. The lesson: you can also lose.

  Proof is vital, whatever proof means in antiques. Some methods aren’t bad, like Turner’s fingerprints I mentioned. Now, a US firm will do an artist’s DNA profile for a groat - well, $3,000. Fine, if the artist is still alive, donating a hair, spitting his DNA into their saliva pot. They sell you ink containing the artist’s DNA, with which he signs canvas, watercolour, contract, whatever. The trouble is, what if the canvas is by Constable, Da Vinci? Or Monet? Or, nearer my heart for the moment, Mondrian?

  Which was my problem. And Jonno Rant’s. And Florida’s. And the evil murderer Prior Metivier’s, and those other gamblers who’d be attracted like flies.

  Which brought me to what I’d been avoiding all this time, the terrible, truly terrible, story of the incalculable zillions in antiques waiting for somebody lucky enough. The story is loot. It happens in wartime, on a massive scale. It was especially huge in the Thirties and Forties, when nations got swallowed up and their antiques with them.

  Every country’s done it. But we only now realize the scale of looted antiques. Never mind Catherine the Great’s throne and Napoleon’s sledge being lifted from Lvov, or the 1,700 priceless paintings ‘moved for protection’ from Minsk. The Eastern part of Germany wants 6,500 masterworks back. Budapest wants its 10,000 antiques of astronomical value, please, and kindly send along the entire Hungarian Jewish Library that, in truly impenetrable secrecy, is hidden in Nizhniy Novgorod. I could go on. Antique dealers’ eyes are all on Russia. It’s because of the famed - and aptly named - Grabar Plan. Igor Grabar in 1943 planned to acquire - for that word read loot - antiques from enemy countries. The idea was that loot would be assembled willy nilly and housed in a huge complex next to the Pushkin in Moscow. Grand, eh?

  ‘Trophy Bridges’ were set up, with transport, art experts, antiquarians, to collar precious objects. A looter’s dream. I mean, whole units, armed, to snatch antiques, and you got medals for it? It’s as close to paradise as antique dealers can dream. The Ukraine alone says please can it have its 25,000 missing paintings, no hard feelings - one is definitely a Frans Hals, another Correggio’s Madonna -with Saint Sebastian. So what are the other 24,998? The scale defies belief. Of course, some confiscated antiques have gone back home.

  Dresden got some in 1957. Italy’s Ministry for Cultural Heritage calls for 2,000 masterpieces - by mere beginners like Michelangelo, Tintoretto, Canaletto and suchlike - to be returned from Berlin, Hanover, Belgrade, God knows where. Some modern heroes plough a lone furrow, like the brave Rodolfo Siviero, who painstakingly slogged through the undergrowth and identified hundreds. But politics is ticklish. A nation doesn’t want to annoy another more powerful than itself. And the victor one minute, who loots Michelangelo’s Mask of a Faun, might easily become the vanquished, whereupon its loot gets looted in turn. So the priceless Mask, which started its journey from Florence’s Bargello museum, travels on and on like Babushka.

  The Pushkin Museum disarmingly put on a show called ‘Twice Saved’, of art brought from Germany. It did another soon after, ‘Hidden Treasures Revealed’. It was then that realization hit the fan, for on show were Gaugin, Van Gogh, Renoir, Degas, Matisse ...

  It isn’t always entire nations. Individuals are in it. Lone squaddies lift an ikon from a shelled church. A soldier dosses until daybreak and, waking in the rubble, nicks some trifle that takes his fancy. Or some gent offers money to some tomb robbers in the Middle East, maybe thinks nothing more about the old rolls of papyrus until they shazam into the Dead Sea Scrolls.

  And don’t say, ‘How awful’. We’d all be at it if we could get away with it.

  ‘Sir?’ Somebody was shaking me. ‘Braye Harbour, in Alderney.’ I was asked if I wanted to join the island walk with a team of ramblers. I said ta, no.

  Distances shrink in daylight. I went confidently up the slope from
the harbour towards St Anne’s. Hikers accompanied me, telling me there were some good restaurants. The population is only 2,100 or so. It has thirteen good hotels. I said excellent. And was glad when they went on and I turned right towards the sound of waves on the shingle.

  My cardboard tube was a nuisance. I carried it under my arm, cursing when it caught on foliage. I scrabbled down to the sea, directly below where I’d been with Gussy in the night, where she, a little girl, had painted La Grosse. Bloody great rock it was too, looming away like that. Not a white bull to be seen. I clambered along the shore - definitely not rambling territory, this - and came on the cave. At least, I supposed it was hers. Its mouth was wet, as if it had just been fed. I closed my mind to that vision, and went in. Pencil torch, poor light but enough.

  Its floor rose a little. I came on a drier area, just made out the occasional initials carved on the wall. Nothing. A discarded oilskin, some driftwood - this far in? - and old tins from beer, fishing tackle. No colours staining the wall. I looked especially for horizontal lines - oil paintings leant against any support leave a straight mark of colour. None.

  No zinc nails, for tacking canvas. No discarded tubes, no broken brushes flung in a temper. No linseed oil bottle. Nothing in fact to suggest that a painter had ever painted here.

  That didn’t mean that older, famous, works hadn’t been stashed here, brought in years later by somebody who’d once slaved over building fortifications. Who, when nations crumbled, had returned to hide loot. I searched for an hour. It was empty, clean as a whistle. I emerged into the sea light empty-handed, looked up at the sky, and said, ‘Ta, God.’

  I really was glad that I hadn’t found a cache of Old Masters. If they’d been there, they’d have been guarded, and Gesso already knew what happened to nosey intruders who got caught. It could go ahead.

  ihe leisure centre was bedlam, with at least three competing TV crews. I narrowly escaped being interviewed.

  There’s no such thing as reporters, journalists, critics - they are all merely newsagents, impure and simple, and that’s a fact.

  I burnt my empty cardboard cylinder in the incinerator, after making sure that no Old Master had nigged inside while I was in the sea cave. I got nabbed by Victoria, looking bonnier and more harassed than ever. She had a message: Jimmy reported two betting syndicates were due in today. Another group from Atlantic City had cabled a bid to preempt the competition, buy the genuine antique sight unseen. Jimmy was on the ramparts defying untold hordes, loving every minute.

  ‘Seventeen faxes? Now?’ I wanted out.

  ‘Jonno,’ she breathed his name like a saint’s, ‘said you must handle them.’

  ‘Right, love. Where are they?’

  ‘Our production office.’

  Production office? I didn’t know we had one. ‘There in twenty minutes, Victoria, you’re doing brilliantly.’ Praise helps lies.

  She coloured. ‘Thank you, Lovejoy.’ I cut through a crowd of holidayers heading for the swimming and walked into St Peter Port.

  Luck brings luck. I saw a novelty teapot in the same shop I’d sold the cresset, right there in the window. Its purple bonnet caught my eye. I ambled in, a gormless grockle.

  ‘What’ve you got for three quid?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ A sour, craggy bloke was in charge today. Obviously a minder, no idea. ‘It’s all prime stuff.’

  ‘Give me any old pot.’ I hawked out my money. I drifted, pointed to a piece of Doulton. He exploded with laughter, shaking his head.

  ‘That saucer?’ An exquisite Japanese kakeimon, precise colours hatched over the surface. I got derision. That Lowestoft jug, then? I was asked to leave.

  ‘Anything,’ I suggested. ‘My missus is fuming. I broke a pot last night. She said I’ve got to get something for the landlady. That thing?’

  He hefted it, saw it had no price ticket. ‘She’s not costed it yet. Four quid?’

  ‘Leave off, mate.’ But he wouldn’t budge, so I put the money down. ‘You’ll have me begging in the gutter. Is there a lid?’

  We studied it for a while, saw nothing but the name budge underneath. Budge made cheapo fairings, pot novelties you won at fairground coconut shies. The teapot depicted a pansy-looking man wearing a purplish bonnet. One hand was the spout, very limp of wrist. The other was akimbo, very camp, for the handle. Turn it round, and the figure was now a lady wearing the same purple bonnet, but with a lily on her breast. The bonnet was the lid. I left rejoicing, with the teapot. God help him when his boss returned.

  It would buy a decent second-hand car. Lily Langtry, the famed Jersey Lily, friend - more than friend - of kings and princes, was connected with Oscar Wilde. It’s among the costliest of novelty teapots. Because it looks so daft, you can get it for a kopek, unless the dealer’s done his reading, which isn’t often. The minder, sadly, had just lost his job, and I’d made a mint.

  Hurtling out in joy, I almost knocked this bloke down on the pavement.

  ‘Sorry, wack,’ I said.

  ‘Not at all, Lovejoy,’ said Michaelis Singleton. He looked bleary. ‘Got you, you rotten sod. Can we get a drink?’

  Just when things were looking up. I turned gladness on. ‘Michaelis! What’re you doing here? Thought you’d be getting sloshed in your cellar.’

  ‘Delivering a writ, Lovejoy. You’re for it. So am I.’ He croaked the words. ‘I’ve been driving about antique shops for three hours. I knew I’d catch you.’

  We entered a respectable hotel near the waterfront, to watch the boats. I was getting sick of sea. The teapot warmed my pocket. Michaelis named a bottle of rare wine. The waiters loved him, hated me for wanting lime juice.

  ‘Nothing wrong, Michaelis, is there?’ The hotel was brimful. I liked Guernsey, but had to watch out for my night visitors. I didn’t want chucking on to the ferry, alive or dead, now that I was so near Gesso’s killer, my scam looming.

  ‘Wrong, Lovejoy? Not unless you count me going bankrupt. I’m dunned for everything I own.’ He sent back the glasses, chose new ones. The wine waiter was ecstatic. Michaelis sniffed the cork, dirty devil. Can you believe it?

  I was really embarrassed. Pouring the wine took a year. He sipped, sat with eyes closed, finally nodded. Ecstasy spread, and the universe - Samuel Butler’s crack - was saved. ‘Where is Irma, Michaelis?’

  ‘Here. I traced her.’

  This didn’t make sense. ‘You sure? Then where’s she hiding? I’d have heard. Mrs Crucifex and I are ...’ Careful. I couldn’t say we were in this together. Guernsey had ears.

  ‘You think I wouldn’t check, Lovejoy?’ He raised a hand. Competing waiters sprinted to decant. I thought, For God’s sake. Wine’s only fluid, not a religion. ‘Miss I. Dominick travelled via Weymouth. She’s here, all right.’

  We paused. My thoughts were that maybe a little betrayal had crept in here. But by whom? Michaelis thought I’d betrayed him.

  ‘Lovejoy,’ he said bitterly. ‘You and I go back a bit. I trusted you. You get me to represent your trainee shoplifter. Then you scarper with her. I’m her bail guarantor. I’m close to getting disbarred.’

  History’s fine, even when it intrudes into real life, as now with Gussy’s Mondrian mock-ups and my scam that depended on everybody’s knowledge of war loot. But Michaelis meant friendship. I sighed. History costs.

  ‘I told you everything, Michaelis. And I didn’t know she was here.’

  A long beat, another bottle ordered with a flick of an eyelash, then, ‘Very well, Lovejoy. I need a fee, though.’ ‘Agreed!’ I cried with relief. Delaying payment’s my thing. I sent for another lime juice. Hang the expense.

  ‘My fee is winning tomorrow’s bet.’ In soft tones he gave the rapturous wine waiter commands about some mystique. They did the sacramental decanting. My lime was flung at me.

  ‘Winning?’ Not good. ‘Syndicates are already here to bet fortunes.’

  ‘My syndicate will also bid high, Lovejoy. They’re on their way now from the North.’ I remembered his fam
ily of Geordie hardliners, a real mafia. ‘You’ll have to take the cost of the bet out of the winnings, me being bankrupt.’ ‘Great idea,’ I croaked. ‘Any chance of a drink?’ Michaelis shook his head. ‘Not this, Lovejoy. Your palate’s like tarmac.’ He sent the sneering waiter for a glass of house white. It did me no good.

  For the next hour I chased Victoria demented, telling her to locate Irma Dominick. I got wild when she drew blanks. I went to watch the rehearsals, astonishingly good. It was a real mixture. Nightmarish, the pop group with Vesta’s brother Mike, was tolerable, in a back-to-the-sixties way. I caught myself laughing at the comedian, then remembered I was in serious trouble. I’d promised to make sure Florida won the Gamble of the Century, Jimmy’s name for my exhibition. I’d also promised Mrs Crucifex - and she controlled the night visitors who’d kaylied me at Rosa Vidamour’s. Now I’d finally promised Michaelis and his Northern mob the same thing. Was there a way to kid all three syndicates that they’d won one and same bet? Wth a serious headache I watched the dancers at their glittering drill, Jonno exhorting, threatening, cajoling. He was a genius, right enough. The more I saw of him the more I saw, if you follow. I went backstage to find Mike. He’s a long-haired earringed six-footer who pretends he’s from Liverpool and wears a black eye patch and no shoes, very piratical. I reminded him who I was.

  ‘We last met when you were on your way to burgle Rotherham’s great porcelain museum, Mike. How’re plans going?’

  ‘Pretty good, Lovejoy. You want in?’

  ‘Give me a call,’ I said grandly. ‘Oh, your sister Vesta sends her regards.’

  Alarm leapt. ‘She’s not here, the cow, is she?’ He was with a lovely girl dressed like a navvy in clogs. She was practising her fingering on a solid gold flute, but it was modern rubbish. Vesta would go berserk. The bonny girl wasn’t Irma.

  ‘Keep your hair on, Mike. No. You’re safe.’ Somebody called for stage action. ‘Oh, Mike. Seen anything of that Irma lately?’