Slade had asked the venerable head porter Bertram to be in early and had briefed him to the last detail. In his years of service with the House of Darcy, Bertram had seen five changes of ownership. As a young man, just back from military service, following in his father’s footsteps, he had been at the retirement party of old Mr Darcy, the last of the line. A real gent, he was; even the newest porter was invited to his party. They did not make them like that any more.
He was the last man in the building to wear a bowler hat to work; he had in his time carried masterpieces collectively worth billions up and down the corridors and never once put his foot through one.
Nowadays he sat in his tiny office, straining endless cups of tea through his walrus moustache. His orders were simple. He would sit at the back in his blue serge suit, armed with a bidding paddle, and he would bid for only one work. Just so that he would not mistake it for any other still life, he had been shown the two bedraggled partridge hanging from their hook. He had been told to memorize the title The Game Bag which Mr Slade would announce in clear tones from the podium.
Finally, just to make sure, he had been told by Slade to watch his face. If Slade wanted him to bid, and there was any hesitation, he would give a quick wink of his left eye. That was the signal for the old retainer to raise his paddle. Bertram went off for a cup of tea and to empty his bladder for the fourth time. The last thing Slade needed was to see his stooge shuffling off to the loo at the crucial moment.
Alan Leigh-Travers had selected a worthy menu of pictures. Stars of the show were two Pre-Raphaelites, a Millais from the estate of a recently deceased collector and a Holman Hunt that had not been seen in public for years. Close behind them were two equine paintings by John Frederick Herring and a sailing ship in stormy weather from the brush of James Carmichael.
The sale started on the dot of ten o’clock. Bidding was brisk and the hall full; there were even some against the back wall. Slade had three still-life oils involving game and shotguns, and he decided to bring in the Scottish work as an unlisted fourth to this batch. No-one would be surprised, and the matter would be over in minutes. When he greeted the assembled throng he was at his most genial.
Everything went well. At the back Bertram sat and stared ahead, paddle in lap.
On the podium Peregrine Slade exuded good humour, even joviality, as the lots went for close to, or above, the upper estimate. He could recognize most of the bidders by sight but there were a dozen he did not know. Occasionally one of the overhead lights flashed off the pebble glasses of a dark-suited man three rows from the back.
During a brief pause as one picture was carried out and another placed on the easel, he beckoned one of the attendant girls to his side. Leaning down from the podium, he muttered: ‘Who’s the Jap three rows from the back, left-hand side?’ The girl slipped away.
At the next picture-change she was back and put a small slip of paper into his hand. He nodded his thanks. Opening it on the podium he saw:
‘Mr Yosuhiro Yamamoto, the Osaka Gallery, Tokyo and Osaka. He has presented a letter of credit drawn on the Bank of Tokyo for one billion yen.’
Slade beamed. About £2,000,000 to spend. Not a problem. He was certain he had heard or read the name Yamamoto before. He was right. That was the admiral who bombed Pearl Harbor. He was not to know that a namesake was back in Knightsbridge on a similar mission, or that the letter from the Bank of Tokyo was one of Suzie Day’s computer creations.
Mr Yamamoto bid several times for offerings in the early part of the sale but never pursued, and withdrew in favour of others before the canvas was fina
lly sold. Still, behind his impenetrable pebble lenses, he had established his bona fides as a genuine bidder.
The first of the four still lifes arrived. The three listed ones were all by relatively minor artists and went for between £5,000 and £10,000. As the third was removed Slade said with roguish humour: ‘There is a fourth still life, not in your catalogues. A late arrival. A charming little piece by the Highland artist Collum McFee.’
Colley Burnside had not been able to resist the temptation to put at least part of his first name into the title of the artist. It was the only recognition he was ever going to get.
‘Entitled The Game Bag,’ Slade said clearly. ‘What am I bid? Do I hear a thousand?’
Bertram raised his paddle.
‘A thousand at the back. Do I have an advance on a thousand?’
Another paddle went up. The man must have been short-sighted. The rest of the bidders, dealers, collectors, agents and gallery owners were staring in something close to disbelief.
‘It’s against you, sir, at two thousand pounds,’ said Slade, looking fixedly at Bertram. He lowered his left eyelid a fraction. Bertram raised his paddle.
‘Three thousand pounds,’ said Slade. ‘Do I hear four?’
There was silence. Then the Japanese nodded. Slade was confused. He could see the thick black hair flecked with grey, but the almond eyes were masked by the bottle-thick lenses.
‘Was that a bid, sir?’ he asked.
‘Hai,’ said Mr Yamamoto and nodded again. He sounded like Toshiro Mifune in Shogun.
‘If you would be kind enough to raise your paddle, sir,’ said Slade. The man from Tokyo said clearly, ‘Ah, so,’ and raised his paddle.
‘Four thousand pounds,’ said Slade. His composure was still intact though he had never expected anyone to want to outbid the stolid Bertram. On cue, Bertram raised his paddle again.
The bemusement in the hall was nothing to that felt by Alan Leigh-Travers, who was leaning against the back wall. He had never seen or heard of The Game Bag, and if he had it would have been on its way home to Suffolk in the next van. If Slade wanted to introduce an extra lot into his sale, wildly post-catalogue, he might have mentioned it. And who was McFee? He had never heard of him. The ancestor of some shooting pal of Slade, perhaps. Still, it had already made £5,000, God knew how, so no matter. A respectable price for anything and a miracle for this daub. The commission fee would keep the directors in decent claret for a while.
In the next thirty minutes the composure of Leigh-Travers was knocked sideways. The Japanese gallery-owner, the back of whose head he could see, kept nodding and saying ‘Hai’ while someone out of sight behind a pillar further up the back wall kept raising him. What the hell did they think they were doing? It was a wretched daub of a painting, anyone could see that. The room had lapsed into utter silence. The price went through £50,000.
Leigh-Travers shuffled and jostled his way down the back wall until he came to the pillar and had a look round it. He almost sustained a heart attack. The mystery bidder was Bertram, for Pete’s sake. That could only mean Slade was buying in, for the House.