The first bidder signaled his intentions by holding aloft a handsome ebony cane.
“One million with the gentleman to my right. Do I have any interest at one and a quarter?”
He bowed out when the bidding shot past two million, then waged a valiant campaign for the Bronzino, only to step from the field of play late in the contest. After sitting out the Cavallino, he fought tooth and nail for a striking Roman tavern scene by Valentin de Boulogne, once again in a losing effort.
“Are you sensing a pattern?” asked Ingrid.
Gabriel nodded. “He’s a bidder, not a buyer.”
“I wonder why.”
“Perhaps he came here for another reason.”
The final lot of the auction was the Bellotto. During his introduction, Jeremy Crabbe made certain to mention the name of the conservator who had carried out the painting’s recent restoration. The gray-haired man used his handsome ebony cane to cast three bids but once again capitulated as the contest grew heated and the price soared beyond expectations. In the end it went to the supermarket heiress for fourteen million pounds.
“I know, I know,” she told Gabriel in the excited scrum that follows any auction, large or small. “But when I heard that you were the one who restored it, I couldn’t let it slip through my fingers.”
“I’m honored,” he replied, one eye on the well-turned-out man with the ebony walking stick. He was having a word with Niles Dunham. Edward Knight, flanked by bodyguards, was granting a post-auction interview to the crew from CNN. Julian Isherwood, a hopeless romantic, was flirting with Clarissa the telephone girl.
“Who do you suppose he is?” asked the heiress.
“I’m sorry?”
“The one who made a vast show of bidding, only to get a case of cold feet at the altar.”
“I haven’t the foggiest.”
“Whoever he is, he’s definitely disreputable.”
“Isn’t everyone in the art world?”
“Everyone but you, Mr. Allon.”
The CNN crew now had its lights and cameras trained on Olivia Watson. Clarissa the telephone girl was laughing at something Julian had said, and Simon Mendenhall was graciously congratulating Jeremy Crabbe on a job well done. Gabriel, after bidding the heiress a pleasant evening, rejoined Chiara and Ingrid. Together they watched the gray-haired man advancing laboriously across the room toward Edward Knight, each step an effort, or so it appeared.
“Spare me,” said Ingrid.
“He could be disabled, you know.”
“Have I ever been wrong about anything?”
Gabriel nodded toward Oliver Dimbleby, who was staring mystified at his left wrist. The gray-haired man was making slow but steady progress toward Edward Knight, who was accepting the condolences of the well-preserved countess from Kent.
“Do you remember the Georgi Markov case?” asked Gabriel.
“Can’t say that I do,” replied Ingrid.
It was Chiara who explained. “Markov was a dissident Bulgarianplaywright who worked for the BBC in London. He was waiting for a bus near the Waterloo Bridge one morning when he felt a sharp sting in his right thigh. Four days later he was dead.”
“Of what?”
“The sting,” said Gabriel, “was a small pellet of ricin entering his leg. It was no larger than the head of a pin.”
“How was it administered?”
“An umbrella.”
They all three stared at the man with the ebony walking stick. “Perhaps Edward should take his leave now,” suggested Chiara.
