Elizabeth Peters - Laughter of Dead Kings

“This isn’t Marks and Sparks, duckie. We aren’t trying to attract the sort of people who shop at Alfie’s.”

There was that sneer again. Personally, I am very fond of Alfie’s, which is an antiques market just up (or down, depending on which way you are going) the street. However, many of the dealers focus on twentieth-century stuff and what is known in the trade as collectibles. Known to John as junk.

“It takes time to build the kind of clientele we want,” Alan went on. “Museums, serious collectors, specialists. We notify them when we acquire a piece we believe will be of interest to them, and if the object is valuable enough, we’ll deliver it for inspection.”

I was familiar with the process, since I am sometimes called in to evaluate and authenticate an object that’s being considered for the museum. I nodded. “Are you still accepting bank transfers and checks?”

Alan gave me a wry smile. “Oh, you heard about that little scam.”

“I’ve heard of several.” The most outrageous, which had happened only a few years earlier, involved a gang that had rented a chic apartment near the Grand Canal in Venice. Dealers from London, Frankfurt, and Amsterdam had delivered paintings worth more than a million pounds to a charming, elegantly dressed gentleman in exchange for a receipt and the promise of a bank transfer next day. The bank transfer never arrived, and (I like this touch) the check for the apartment bounced.

“It served the suckers right,” I said.

“That sort of transaction used to be standard practice, Vicky. In part it’s because people in this business like to think of themselves as gentlemen, dealing with gentlemen.” Alan shook his head. “Unbelievably naive. Fine art and rare antiquities have become big business. Paintings are selling for incredible sums at auction galleries, and the black market is flourishing. I might accept a wire transfer from the Metropolitan Museum, but not from anyone or anything less well known.”

“Interesting. Well, thanks for the lecture.”

“I didn’t mean to sound patronizing.”

“That’s okay. Art scams aren’t my field.”

Which was not strictly true. My long association with John in his Mr. Hyde (i.e., Sir John Smythe) persona had taught me more than I really wanted to know about the illegal aspects of the trade. Take forgeries, for instance. Laymen innocently assume that any museum curator knows how to spot a fake, but I wouldn’t swear to anything unless it was in my own limited field, and sometimes not even then. So-called critics talk learnedly about brushstrokes and technique, but the only sure way of detecting a fraud is through scientific analysis—such as the use of pigments which weren’t known before the twentieth century in a purportedly sixteenth-century painting. As for flat-out theft, the security systems in many museums can be circumvented by anybody with a pair of pliers or a nail file—or enough money to bribe a guard. As John had once remarked, the fancier a gadget, the greater the likelihood it will break down at the wrong time. He preferred to deal directly with venal human beings.

It was all very depressing.

I said, “I’m going out for a breath of air.”

I wandered slowly along the street, looking in windows and thinking vaguely about lunch. There was an open-air market not far away; I decided to check it out and maybe pick up a few healthful fruits and vegetables for the flat. I hadn’t gone far when a car pulled to the curb and a voice called, “Miss? Excuse me, miss?” At the window I made out a large piece of paper that appeared to be a map, with the top of a bald head visible over it. Some poor lost soul wanting directions, I assumed.

The sun was bright, the pavement (as they call it in England) was busy with pedestrians. Helpful little me, I was within a few feet of the car when an arm went round me and pulled me back. The car took off with a screech of rubber, barely missing a taxi.

FOUR

Goddamn it,” said John. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I was just…Ow. That hurts. What do you think you’re doing?”

His grip relaxed. I rubbed my ribs.

“Saving you from a fate worse than death. Again. Have you no sense of self-preservation?”

The suspect vehicle had vanished. “I don’t suppose you got the license number,” I said, trying to catch my breath. It was beginning to dawn on me that I had just had a narrow escape.

“I was otherwise occupied. A futile procedure in any case; the vehicle was probably hired, and tracing a license number isn’t easy unless you’re a copper. Did you get a look at him?”

“No,” I said, resisting his attempt to lead me back to the shop. “He was hiding behind a map. Naturally I assumed…Give me a break, John, I had no reason to suppose anybody was after me. What made you suppose that?”

“My general operating principle—always expect the worst. Hasn’t it dawned on you that you are my weak point?”

He paid me the compliment of not spelling it out in detail. The attempt had been so blatant that it might well have succeeded by virtue of its sheer unexpectedness. A few seconds of shock and confusion on the part of bystanders, and they’d have had me inside the vehicle and away. And once they, whoever the hell they were, had a hostage, they could get anything they wanted from John. I remembered seeing someone in the backseat. Maybe more than one.

A few passersby had stopped to stare. John kept tugging at me and I kept resisting. One Good Samaritan, a little man with a brushy mustache and horn-rimmed glasses, cleared his throat. “Miss, is this person annoying you?”

John turned to give him a furious look. I was tempted to say yes, but his nobility demanded a kinder response. “No, we’re just having a little domestic disagreement,” I said. “He wants to go one way and I want to go another. But it’s very kind of you to ask. You are the sort of citizen who makes this country great.”

The little man marched off, preening himself, and John said under his breath, “Come back inside.”

“I was going to the market,” I explained. “Which is where I’m going now. With you by my side, my hero, who would dare interfere with me? Stop glowering before some other chivalrous soul decides to come to my rescue.”

The corners of John’s mouth twitched. “You win, as usual. I doubt they’ll try it again so soon. Give me your word, for what that’s worth, that you won’t venture out alone from now on.”

I love street markets. I still retain the delusion that produce is fresh from the local farm, even though I know most of it is imported from faraway places with strange-sounding names. Some of the stalls had lovely veggies, lettuce and tomatoes and bananas and artichokes, some sold baked goods and bottled fruit juices, coffee, chocolate, and so on. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to be allowed out for a while, so I loaded up as for a siege. “We need butter for the artichokes,” I remarked.

“I’ve got all I can carry,” said John. One hand was empty, but I saw his point.

When we got back to the shop, Alan was lounging in the doorway. “Everything okay?” he asked.

“Why should you suppose otherwise?” I inquired.

“No reason.” Alan gave John an odd look. “Do you want me to stick around? I have a date, but I can cancel it.”

“Take the rest of the day off,” John said. “And don’t forget your hat.”

After Alan had stalked out we retired to the office, and I spread out a few edibles on the desk. John condescended to accept an apple.

“Spare me the lecture,” I said. “I realize I have to alter my behavior. I just wish I knew what the hell is going on. Is everybody after us?”