“The Bellotto is quite fine.”
“How much should I pay for it?”
“Twelve million. Not a pound more.”
The chime sounded a second time, and the pretty girls from Bonhams began prodding the crowd toward the great hall, which had been transformed into a replica of the auction house’s New Bond Street salesroom, complete with a rostrum, a video wall, cameras, and a bank of phones for remote bids. Edward Knight sat down in the first row, with Christopher on one side and Nigel Whitcombe on the other. Gabriel and Chiara settled into their reserved seats in the fourth row. Sarah and Ingrid joined them a moment later.
“You might have warned me,” said Ingrid.
“About Oliver?” asked Gabriel. “He’s really quite harmless.”
“But I’m not,” she replied, and handed over a gold Longines wristwatch. Gabriel in turn gave the timepiece to Chiara, who slipped it into her handbag.
“We can’t take her anywhere,” she said.
The first painting to go under the gavel was the luminous landscape by Claude Lorrain that for many years had hung in the exhibition room of Isherwood Fine Arts. Jeremy Crabbe, a mere art world bureaucrat, conducted the proceedings with a matador-like flair that impressed even Simon Mendenhall, universally regarded as the most dashing auctioneer in the business. Oliver Dimbleby put a toe in the water at three and a half million but appeared to develop a sudden case of paralysis in his right arm when a telephone bidder went to four. Nicky Lovegrove, bidding on behalf of one of his clients, pushed the price to four and a quarter but retreated to safer ground when the supermarket heiress tossed her hat into the ring. She went three rounds with the telephone bidder before throwing in the towel.
“The bid is now six point two with Clarissa on the telephone. Fair warning now. Last chance.” Jeremy cast his eyes around the room, then brought down the gavel for the first time. “Sold to Clarissa’s bidder for six point two million pounds, which represents a record price for Claude at auction.”
It was, everyone agreed, a fine start to the evening.
The next painting was another landscape, this one by Rubens. As two Bonhams employees placed it upon the display pedestal, a dozen or so late arrivals, none of whom looked to Gabriel like a Russianassassin, took their seats in the makeshift salesroom. And ten minutes later, after Nicky Lovegrove bagged the Rubens for one of his clients, four additional attendees were granted admission. One was a bespectacled man with a full head of gray hair and a neatly trimmed gray beard. He was six feet tall at least, wore a three-piece bespoke suit, and walked with the aid of an ebony cane, which he held in his right hand. The seat into which he lowered himself with some difficulty gave him an unobstructed view of Edward Knight. He cast a glance around the room, then watched as the next painting, a portrait by Frans Hals, was placed on the display pedestal.
“What do you think?” asked Ingrid.
“It could go for as much as two and a half,” replied Gabriel.
“I was talking about the chap who just arrived.”
“I have a feeling he doesn’t need that cane.”
“Oldest trick in the book,” she agreed.
Gabriel pointed out the man to Christopher via text message as Jeremy Crabbe opened the bidding for the Frans Hals. Christopher phoned Gabriel five minutes later, after the Hals had fetched two point seven in the room.
“He showed up without an invitation. The Bonhams girls, as instructed, welcomed him with open arms.”
“Did they happen to get a name?”
“Walter Klein.”
“Accent?”
“Maybe German.”
“He had a good long look at your client after taking his seat.”
“Trust me, it didn’t go unnoticed.”
“He’s not carrying a gun, is he?”
“Only that walking stick.”
“I’m not crazy about it.”
“That makes two of us.”
The fourth painting of the auction was now on the display pedestal. “An absolutely stunning portrait of Princess Mary by Sir Anthony van Dyck,” purred Jeremy Crabbe. “Do I have one million?”
