“I’ll pick him up as he comes into Berkeley Square, Stephen. Robin, can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I spot him. You stay put at the Royal Academy.”
“Right you are,” said Robin.
Harvey strolled around Berkeley Square, down into Piccadilly and through the Palladian arches of Burlington House. With a bad grace, he stood and queued with the assorted humanity in the forecourt, shuffling past the Astronomical Society and the Society of Antiquaries. He did not see another young man opposite standing in the entrance of the Chemical Society, deep in a copy of Chemistry in Britain. Finally, Harvey made it up the red-carpeted ramp into the Royal Academy itself. He handed the cashier £5.00 for a season ticket, realizing that he would probably want to return at least three or four times. He spent the rest of the morning studying the 1,182 pictures, none of which had been exhibited anywhere else in the world before the opening day, in accordance with the stringent rules of the Academy. Despite that ruling, the Hanging Committee had still had over 5,000 pictures to choose from.
On the opening day of the exhibition the month before, Harvey had acquired, through his agent, a watercolor by Alfred Daniels of the House of Commons for £350 and two oils by Bernard Dunstan of English provincial scenes for £125 each. The Summer Exhibition was still, in Harvey’s estimation, the best value in the world. Even if he did not want to keep all the pictures himself, they made wonderful presents when he returned to the States. The Daniels reminded him of a Lowry he had bought some twenty years before at the Academy for £80: that had turned out to be another shrewd investment.
Harvey made a special point of looking at the Bernard Dunstans in the Exhibition. Of course, they were all sold. Dunstan was one of the artists whose pictures always sold in the first minutes of the opening day. Although Harvey had not been in London on that day, he had had no difficulty in buying what he wanted. He had planted a man at the front of the queue, who had obtained a catalog and marked those artists he knew Harvey could resell easily if he made a mistake and keep if his judgment were right. When the Exhibition opened on the dot of 10 A.M., the agent had gone straight to the purchasing desk and acquired the five or six pictures he had marked in the catalog before he or anyone other than the Academicians had seen them. Harvey studied his vicarious purchases with care. On this occasion he was happy to keep them all. If there had been one that did not quite fit in with his collection, he would have returned the picture for resale, undertaking to purchase it if nobody else showed any interest. In twenty years he had acquired over a hundred pictures by this method and returned a mere dozen, never once failing to secure a resale. Harvey had a system for everything.
At 1 P.M., after a thoroughly satisfactory morning, he left the Royal Academy. The white Rolls Royce was waiting for him in the forecourt.
“Wimbledon.”
“Shit.”
“What did you say?” queried Stephen.
“S.H.I.T. He’s gone to Wimbledon, so today’s down the drain,” said Robin.
That meant Harvey would not return to Claridge’s until at least seven or eight that evening. A rota had been fixed for watching him, and Robin accordingly picked up his Rover 3500 V8 from a parking meter in St. James’s Square and headed off to Wimbledon. James had obtained two tickets for every day of the Championships opposite Harvey Metcalfe’s debenture box.
Robin arrived at Wimbledon a few minutes after Harvey and took his seat in the Centre Court, far enough back in the sea of faces to remain inconspicuous. The atmosphere was already building up for the opening match. Wimbledon seemed to be getting more popular every year and the Centre Court was packed to capacity. Princess Alexandra and the Prime Minister were in the Royal Box awaiting the entrance of the gladiators. The little green scoreboards at the southern end of the court were flashing up the names of Kodeš and Stewart as the umpire took his seat on the high chair in the middle of the court directly overlooking the net. The crowd began to applaud as the two athletes, both dressed in white, entered the court carrying four rackets each. Wimbledon does not allow its competitors to dress in any color other than white, although they had relaxed a little by permitting the trimming of the ladies’ dresses to be colored.
Robin enjoyed the opening match between Kodeš and an unseeded player from the United States, who gave the champion a hard time before losing to the Czech 6–3, 6–4, 9–7. Robin was sorry when Harvey decided to leave in the middle of an exciting doubles match. Back to duty, he told himself, and followed the white Rolls at a safe distance to Claridge’s. On arriving, he telephoned James’s flat, which was being used as the Team’s headquarters in London, and briefed Stephen.
“May as well call it a day,” said Stephen. “We’ll try again tomorrow. Poor old Jean-Pierre’s heartbeat reached 150 this morning. He may not last many days of false alarms.”
When Harvey left Claridge’s the following morning he went through Berkeley Square into Bruton Street and then on into Bond Street, stopping only 50 yards from Jean-Pierre’s gallery. But he turned east instead of west and slipped into Agnew’s, where he had an appointment with Sir Geoffrey Agnew, the head of the family firm, for news of Impressionist pictures on the market. Sir Geoffrey was anxious to get away to another meeting and could only spend a few minutes with Harvey. He had nothing worthwhile to offer him.
Harvey left Agnew’s soon afterward clutching a small consolation prize of a maquette by Rodin, a mere bagatelle at £800.
“He’s coming out,” said Robin, “and heading in the right direction.” Jean-Pierre held his breath, but Harvey stopped once again, this time at the Marlborough Gallery to study their latest exhibition of Barbara Hepworth. He spent over an hour appreciating her beautiful work, but decided the prices were now outrageous. He had bought two Hepworths only ten years before for £800. The Marlborough was now asking between £7,000 and £10,000 for her work. So he left and continued up Bond Street.
“Jean-Pierre?”
“Yes,” replied a nervous voice.
“He’s reached the corner of Conduit Street and he’s about 50 yards away from your front door.”
Jean-Pierre prepared his window, removing the Graham Sutherland watercolor of the Thames and the Boatman.
“He’s turned left, the bastard,” said James, who was stationed opposite the gallery. “He’s walking down Bruton Street on the right-hand side.”
Jean-Pierre put the Sutherland back on the easel in the window and retired to the lavatory, muttering to himself:
“I can’t cope with two shits at once.”
Harvey meanwhile stepped into an inconspicuous entrance on Bruton Street and climbed the stairs to Tooths, more hopeful of finding something in a gallery which had become famous for its Impressionists. A Klee, a Picasso and two Salvador Dalis—not what Harvey was looking for. Though very well executed, the Klee was not as good as the one in his dining room in Lincoln, Massachusetts. Besides, it might not fit in with any of Arlene’s decorative schemes. Nicholas Tooth, the managing director, promised to keep his eyes open and ring Harvey at Claridge’s should anything of interest turn up.
“He’s on the move again, but I think he’s heading back to Claridge’s.”
James willed him to turn around and return in the direction of Jean-Pierre’s gallery, but Harvey strode purposefully toward Berkeley Square, only making a detour to the O’Hana Gallery. Albert, the head doorman, had told him there was a Renoir in the window, and indeed there was. But it was only a half-finished canvas which Renoir had obviously used for a practice run or had disliked enough to leave unfinished. Harvey was curious as to the price and entered the gallery.
“£30,000,” said the assistant, as if it was $10 and a snip at that.