“Unattributed, I see.” Joe changed tack.
“There’s nothing on the front, but so often there isn’t. It takes a complete egotist or an exceptional talent to clutter up the tiny space available with his own name, I’ve always thought. Would you scrawl your name across that glorious bosom? I wouldn’t!” He shook his head and sighed his admiration. “In any case, I think I know the artist responsible for these. Beauties, aren’t they? Wish I could afford them.” The man held out his hand. “Adam Hunnyton, impecunious art-lover. How do you do?”
“Joseph Sandilands, similarly handicapped. Are you thinking of at least making a starting bid for them tomorrow?”
“It’s not done to ask, Commissioner, and you know it. But I’ll tell you anyway. Sadly—no. They will go for vastly more than I can afford. Though I did take the precaution of leaving a modest reserve bid with the auctioneer, in case by some chance they were to escape the notice of the public. Late in the day and unattributed—it was worth a punt. But I see from the presence of various luminaries of the art world, to say nothing of the presence of the Law, all poking their noses in, my plans have come to nothing. I just wanted to take one last look. I can only hope they will go to someone who will truly appreciate them and not be stuck away in a bank vault for years waiting to increase in value.”
“Ah, yes. I understand there may well be a certain international dealer of repute ready to scoop them up.”
Adam Hunnyton’s face flushed with a dark emotion but his voice was level as he spoke: “This young couple lived but sixty miles from here. They’ve been away in Italy for a quarter of a century. Time to come home. I don’t like to think of them crossing the Atlantic but I fear that will be their fate. Unless … unless you’re prepared to take steps, Commissioner? Does the Yard have any information on them? Anything that might scare off the bidders?”
He fell silent abruptly at the approach of the director on duty.
Joe smiled to see they were wheeling out their biggest gun. Clarence Audley came shimmering towards them in a pale grey morning suit and old-fashioned stiff collar, arm outstretched in greeting, a beaming smile lighting his way.
“Commissioner Sandilands! Welcome! My goodness, you’re looking quite splendid today! We all risk being dazzled by the sun glinting off your frogging! We catch you between parades, I hear? Not come to arrest me, I hope!” he said archly. “It must be three years since we sold you the Italian primitive. I thought we’d got away with it! Is she still giving satisfaction, your Madonna? Glad to hear it! You got her for a snip!” He lowered his voice to justaudible and added, “Now we all know the painting to be Quattrocento … a Filippo Lippi? Can I have that right?”
“A lucky find,” Joe said modestly. “The Madonna and Four Children all showed happy, smiling faces when I scrubbed them up.”
Professional concern won out over the director’s social preoccupations. He actually clutched his heart to convey sudden distress. “My dear fellow! I do hope you employed the very best—”
“Oh, a bit of spit on a hanky usually does the trick, I find.” Joe relished the crumpling of Audley’s puffy features before putting him swiftly out of his misery by adding, “Though in this case I took advice and used Malleson to undo the dirty work.”
Audley began to breathe again and recovered sufficiently to grit out a playful, “No better spit and polish merchant in the business, we’d say. A good choice of restorer. Now, Commissioner, if you should care to offer up your Madonna again, I think you would be surprised to find how much she would realise in today’s market. Fra Filippo Lippi? A native of Florence, I believe. I’m sure the Ufizzi would be interested. Do give it your consideration.” Mr. Audley’s voice was a loud, warm purr. It announced to the room that all was well. Joe was a valued and knowledgeable client—on teasing terms—and perfectly at home here. No threat to anyone, least of all the auction house.
First round to Audley, Joe thought, admiring the man’s skill and regretting what he was about to do. Time for a bit of by-play. He took Audley by his lustrous sleeve and urged him closer to the portraits. He looked over his shoulder, checking that no one was within earshot then lowered his voice. The audience shuffled closer, straining even harder to follow the action. The policeman could just be made out asking police-style questions regarding the authentication process by which these lots had come into the gallery. Joe listened carefully to Audley’s earnest and—from his previous enquiries at the Yard, he knew—honest answers. Audley opened the catalogue, pointed to the description of the pictures, and held out his hands clearly in protest of some sort of accusation. His replies were growing more concerned, more flustered by the minute. At one of Joe’s comments he stamped his foot in rage.