“Sir James, if you want me to pursue this crime after two decades and a world war, I don’t offer much encouragement. But we do have an excellent art affairs department here at the Yard. I’ll introduce you to its head and you can tell him what you have in mind. I’m sure we’d all like to know how these came to be in the possession of … who was it?… Mr. J. J. McKinley. Never heard of him. Christie’s are meticulous on verifying ownership and provenance. They wouldn’t knowingly be involved with stolen goods.”
“Not what I want at all! I’m not interested in unravelling the past. I live in the here and now, Sandilands. No, I just want your discreet self, Commissioner, for an hour or so on Wednesday to slip along to Christie’s and put in a bid on my behalf. These are mine! I want them back, and I’m prepared to pay whatever it takes. I have a particular purpose for them. They couldn’t have surfaced at a better time, in fact!”
Joe paused for a moment to consider the man’s deeper motives. He could have chosen anyone as his agent in the matter. His lawyer, his secretary, a trusted colleague—there must have been dozens of men whose names came to mind before that of Sandilands. So what special trick could he possibly bring to the party? Joe thought he knew and the thought didn’t please him.
“Not sure who you think might be bidding against you, but I’m guessing that the mere presence of a top policeman sniffing about and showing a warm interest might well scare off any opposition? Is that what you’re calculating?”
The man didn’t deny it. In fact, he hurried with disarming relief to confess to manipulation. “Exactly that! The man I fear may turn up and bid against me is an international art expert and purveyor of dubious goodies to rich collectors. Almost certainly known to you. Name of: Despond. Guy Despond! He pronounces his Christian name the French way—‘Guee.’ Despond as in ‘slough of.’ He’s in town with his family. This includes a pretty daughter and two brattish sons. The father is of Eastern European origin, I believe. He speaks English with an American accent. His children speak in any language you care to name. They are all much travelled. Do you have anything on him?”
Joe pretended to consider this. “Your plan would be for me to feel his collar and heave him along to the clink to cool his heels until the sale is safely over? Sorry, can’t oblige.”
“I say—could you really do that? I must admit I hadn’t thought that far but—yes—it sounds like a corking idea to me!” Joe was surprised to hear Truelove chortle with boyish glee. “Shove him in the Bow Street nick for an hour or two! Sure you couldn’t …? Oh, well. Pity! You must be aware of his reputation?”
“I know what the world knows from the newspapers and society reviews,” Joe said, noncommittal. “Tough opposition in a sale-room. He just has to show his face and people tear up their bidding cards and withdraw. Bottomless purse and a queue of rich customers on both sides of the Atlantic. He buys in Rome and sells to New York. Then he buys back in New York and ships the goods over the Atlantic again to London or Paris … The hold of the Berengaria is stuffed with goodies on almost any trip, I hear. A sort of floating Tate Gallery. I don’t like to imagine what would happen if she ever sank!”
“He’d make another fortune from the insurance companies. He’s careful. He’s very influential too. A self-promoting former of taste. Whatever Despond decides will be the next craze becomes exactly that—with inevitability.” Truelove was amused, if not admiring. “He’s not a man to just happen on clients. He seeks out rich men—women, too—and he cultivates them with the care of an obsessed grower of rare orchids. He educates them in his own tastes, he instils in them a thirst for a particular art form or artist, then dangles the very objects they now desire in front of their eyes. With a hefty price tag attached. I’ve seen less professional acts on stage at Wilton’s Music Hall,” he finished with bitterness.
From his tone, Joe wondered whether Truelove might be speaking from personal experience of Despond’s machinations.
“You’ll just have to hope he isn’t planning that this shall be the Year of the Miniature, sir,” he said lightly.
“I never place much store by ‘hope,’ Sandilands. Crossing fingers, pestering saints, tying ribbons around trees—not my style. I plan for what I want. That’s why I’m sending you in. I think you know what must be done. Will you do it?”
Joe had no intention of becoming the minister’s minion. He should have sent the upper-class chancer shirtily on his way, muttering darkly of the dangers of abuse of authority; should have delivered a flea in his ear, a kick up the derrière. Why wasn’t he showing him the door? He recognised that he’d been captivated by a mystery, charmed by an ancient beauty and caught once again on the hook of the man’s ambition. All that, he could have resisted. No—more important—he was unable to turn down the chance of digging up more information on this unknown who threatened so much that was dear to him. Information Joe might store away and use to his advantage, should it ever become necessary. The more scurrilous, the better. Would that amount to blackmail? He rather thought it would. Perhaps, after all these years and all the bad examples, he was learning a lesson from Dorcas. She would have called it “taking sensible precautions against disappointment.”