‘Not many have, Trumpy. Quite minor. School of Middleburg, Holland, mid-seventeenth century. But a tiny life’s work, barely more than sixty pictures worldwide. So . . . rare. Always painted the same sort of stuff. Strawberries, raspberries, asparagus and sometimes seashells. Boring as hell, but he has his fans. Look at the estimated price.’
The catalogue suggested £120,000 to £150,000.
‘So why Coorte?’ asked Suzie.
‘Because there is a Dutch lager billionaire who is obsessed by Coorte. Been trying for years to corner the world market in his fellow countryman. He won’t be there, but his representative will. Holding a blank cheque.’
On the morning of 20 May the House of Darcy was humming with activity. Peregrine Slade was again taking the sale personally and had gone down to the auction hall when Miss Bates noted that he had incoming mail. It was nine a.m. The sale started at ten. She read the message for her employer and, suspecting from what it said that it might be important, she used the laser-jet printer to run off a copy. With this in her hand she locked the office and scurried after him.
Slade was checking the position and function of his microphone on the podium when she found him. He thanked her and scanned the letter. It was from Charlie Dawson and could be exceedingly helpful.
‘Dear Perry, I heard over dinner last night that a certain Martin Getty blew into town. He is staying with friends and hopes to remain incognito.
‘You probably know he has one of the leading thoroughbred studs in Kentucky. He also has a very private, never seen, art collection. It occurred to me he might be in town for that reason.
‘Cheers, Charlie.’
Slade stuffed the letter in his pocket and walked outside to the table of paddle girls in the lobby. Unless a bidder at one of these auctions is well known to the auctioneer, it is customary to fill out a form as an intending bidder and be issued with a ‘paddle’, a plastic card with a number on it.
This can be raised to signify a bid, but more importantly to identify a winning bidder, who will hold it up for the clerk to note the number. That gives name, address and bank.
It was still early, nine fifteen. There were only ten filled-out forms so far, and none mentioned a Martin Getty. But the name alone was enough to set Slade’s tastebuds watering. He had a quick word with the three lovely girls behind the table and went back to the hall.
It was a quarter to ten when a shortish man, not particularly smart, approached the table.
‘You would like to bid, sir?’ said one of the girls, drawing a form towards her.
‘I surely would, young lady.’
The Southern drawl was lazy as molasses.
‘Name, sir?’
‘Martin Getty.’
‘And address?’
‘Over here or back home?’
‘Full residential, if you please.’
‘The Beecham Stud, Louisville, Kentucky.’
When the details were complete the American took his paddle and wandered into the saleroom. Peregrine Slade was about to mount the podium. As he reached the bottom step there was a deferential tug at his elbow. He looked down. Her bright eyes were alight.
‘Martin Getty. Shortish, grey hair, goatee, shabby coat, dressed down.’ She glanced around. ‘Third row from back, on the centre aisle, sir.’
Slade beamed his pleasure and continued his climb to his own Olympus. The auction began. The Klaes Molenaer at Lot 18 went for a tidy sum and the clerk below him noted all the details. The porters brought the masterpieces, major and minor, to the easel beside and below the podium one after the other. The American failed to bid.
Two Thomas Heeremans went under the hammer and a fiercely contested Cornelis de Heem fetched double the estimate, but still the American failed to bid. Slade knew at least two-thirds of those present and he had spotted the young dealer from Amsterdam, Jan de Hooft. But what was the mega-rich American there for? Dressing down in a shabby coat, indeed. Did he think he could fool the ace he faced, the supreme Peregrine Slade? The Adriaen Coorte was Lot 102. It came up just after eleven fifteen.
At the outset there were seven bidders. Five had gone by £100,000. Then the Dutchman raised his hand. Slade glowed. He knew exactly whom de Hooft represented. Those hundreds of millions made from foaming lager beer. At £120,000 one of the bidders dropped out. The remaining one, a London agent, contested with the impassive Dutchman. But de Hooft saw him off. He had the bigger cheque book and he knew it.
‘At one hundred and fifty thousand, any advance on one hundred and fifty thousand?’
The American raised his head and his paddle. Slade stared. He wanted the Coorte for his Kentucky collection. Oh joy. Oh unbridled lust. A Getty versus Van Den Bosch. He turned to the Dutchman.
‘Against you, sir. I have one hundred and sixty thousand on the aisle.’