by Morris West
Miss Loredon might consider feeding a single picture into the market just before the show was announced, perhaps even having her father or one of his colleagues talking it up to an auction audience. Sometimes this worked, sometimes not. Apropos, what were Mr Bayard’s intentions? To disperse the whole collection or hold back certain pieces? Would it be possible to arrange a preview for certain Lebrun clients? One understood the value of a little favoured-nation treatment…
Anne-Marie understood very well. She neither understood, nor asked about the precise meaning of Bayard’s repressive character or his jealousy of his wife’s talent. She called her father and repeated the little Frenchman’s suggestion about the introduction of a Bayard piece at auction. She was surprised at his emphatic negative. ‘No way, no way in the world! It’s a dangerous distraction. Makes you vulnerable to all the gallery gossips. Go for the gold ring, girl! One leap, win or lose. Pricing? Get your client involved. Let him tell you what he’ll take. Bayard’s got his own access to market information. Good luck.’
Bayard was happy to be involved but he was busy all day at the office, so what better excuse for a quiet dinner à deux and a promenade among the pictures afterwards? This time it was impossible to refuse, so punctually at eight she presented herself at his apartment.
They ate in the big dining room surrounded by all Madeleine’s pictures. But this time there was no sense of oppression. Bayard was relaxed. The meal was impeccably cooked and served by the Filipino couple. The wines were excellent. Talk was wide-ranging and casual. He had a fund of lighthearted stories about the art world and its more eccentric denizens. Anne-Marie was coaxed into reminiscence of her life in Italy. It was not until the coffee was served that they addressed themselves to the pricing of the pictures. Bayard opened with a bald announcement.
‘I’ve decided on a complete sell-out of Madeleine’s works…it’s the last cathartic act.’
‘That’s your privilege, of course.’ Anne-Marie was carefully neutral. ‘However, I should point out that from an investment point of view you could be making a mistake. If I establish a good market for Madeleine’s works, you could lose a great deal of money because you hold no reserves.’
Bayard smiled tolerantly. ‘How may canvases do we have altogether?’
‘Fifty-five. Plus, of course, some seventy-odd sketches and studies of various sizes.’
‘So we exhibit twenty major pieces and a couple of dozen minor to catch the lower spenders. The rest we hold back and feed into the market.’
She told him of her visit to Lebrun. He nodded approval.
‘By all means let him bring his buyers to a preview. They’re a faithful bunch and they trust his advice.’
‘I also asked my father whether we might test one piece at auction. He was dead against it.’
‘So am I.’ Bayard was suddenly tense. ‘Your relations with your father are your own affair. But you are my sole representative; I will deal with no other. Understand that?’
‘I do, of course.’ She was taken aback by his vehemence. ‘But I’m very new. I need advice. I seek it where I can and my father is one of the best in the business.’
‘I’m not bad myself.’ Bayard smiled and patted her hand. ‘I’ve bought a lot of pictures on my own account. So you and I decide together, eh? If we’re wrong, so be it. We’ll make it up on the next round. Now, grab your notebook and we’ll walk round the whole collection. Let’s get our individual estimates down first; we’ll compare them afterwards. Remember that this first exhibition has to bear an extra loading. You’ve got to amortise some of your renovations; your advertising bill will be almost double a normal one…and what you don’t sell becomes dead stock eating up storage space. Now, which do you think is the best picture in the room?’
‘There’s never been any question in my mind. I want to make “The Bag-Lady” the centrepiece of the exhibition.’
‘Very well. How much?’
‘Fifty thousand.’
‘Is that what it’s worth?’
‘It ought to bring much more.’
‘Then put seventy-five on it. If it doesn’t move, we give it a red sticker and in effect buy it back into stock.…So we’ve started at seventy-five. What’s our bottom price for a finished canvas?’
‘It can’t be less than twenty-five.’
‘The sketches and studies?’
‘Start at fifteen, go down to two thousand.’
‘Fine. I’ll make my list and you make yours. Then we’ll compare the figures.’
The challenge excited her. Her professional judgment was on full test against the knowledge of an attorney who advised the dealers of America, who had himself been buying pictures for more than a quarter of a century. She knew, too, that he was courting her – not in the gauche, uncertain fashion of their first encounter, but quietly, knowingly, drawing her step by step into the charmed circle of his private life.
The decision to sell all Madeleine’s pictures was a piece of stagecraft contrived to show her he was exorcising Madeleine from his memory and placing her pictures under the trusteeship of Anne-Marie Loredon – and forty per cent of the proceeds in her pocket.
She could feel his eyes upon her as they moved in opposite directions around the room. She saw the mockery in his smile, but read it as the affectionate teasing mockery of a would-be lover.
There was a small heady triumph when they compared notes and she found that her estimates were only five per cent lower than Bayard’s and that their notion of the relative values of the canvases corresponded almost exactly.
‘So you’re the seller,’ she told him with a smile. ‘We take your valuation.’
‘Now let’s do some arithmetic.’ Bayard was agreeable but businesslike. ‘We have a total of a hundred and thirty pieces of which we’re putting one third on exhibition. The face value of that catalogue is one million two hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Let’s take a reasonable estimate and say we sell half. That’s six hundred thousand. Your gross is a quarter of a million. How much of that would you estimate for advertising and publicity? Remember, of course, that you have to pay the bills if you don’t sell a single damned picture.’
‘I’ve budgeted fifty thousand,’ she told him, ‘and it puts my teeth on edge every time I think of it. I’m desperately trying to work out how I can pick up freebies. Max Mather has promised to try to get me a notice in Belvedere; he’s a consulting editor there now. My father’s giving me some valuable lists for direct mail. Wally Brent has promised to photograph all the canvases for minimum-scale payment and material costs…that’s something I’ve got to arrange with you. Can he work here? There won’t be time if we leave it till the studio’s ready.’
‘Of course. And talking of freebies, I have my own contacts in the press and magazine area. I thought of giving a dinner party here before we move the pictures out. Would you be willing to hostess for me?’
And there it was, the master’s move – beautifully prepared, inevitable as death and taxes. She thought for a moment and agreed.
‘Subject always to what I said at the beginning of this venture. I have to be seen to be independent. Neither of us can afford gossip, rumours of patronage or romantic interest between you and me.’
‘There will be none, I promise you.’
‘Then I’ll be happy to do as you ask.’
‘Good. It will be a very special occasion. We’ll work out the guest list together – and remember, our guests will be seeing the pictures as you saw them that very first time. I remember how strongly they impressed you.’
‘Even tonight I got the same jolt of emotion. Of course it has something to do with this room, with your personal hand in the display. I hope we can achieve the same thing in the gallery – or at least not lose too much…which brings me to a couple of other matters. The catalogue is in hand. Artgravure have given me a good price for the production. What I do need, however, is biographical and personal material on Madeleine herself. If we want to play down the mur
der story, I must have other material to give to the press. Also Madeleine’s personality is so strongly imprinted on her works that buyers and the public will demand to know as much about her as possible.’
Bayard frowned and shifted uneasily in his chair. He poured more wine for himself and drank it at a gulp.
‘What the press wants and what I want are two different things.’
Anne-Marie tried to calm him.
‘Look, I know this is probably the most painful aspect of the whole project. If you feel you can talk to me, we can work here quietly with a tape-recorder. If that’s too difficult, perhaps there are notes, diaries, even published material I can use? But you do see my problem.’
‘I see it.’ Bayard was recovering his composure. ‘I’m ashamed of my fragility, believe me; but I simply could not face a question and answer session – even with you, my dear. What I’d really like is a brief, sparse biography. I’ll prepare it for you. My view is that Madeleine’s works will say everything that she would wish to be known about herself. Trust me in this, please?’
‘As you wish, of course. But I need the answer to one question because the press are going to ask me. Why did Madeleine not exhibit in her lifetime?’
‘She never trusted her talent enough.’
‘And you, her husband?’
‘Could never persuade her otherwise.’
‘That’s very sad.’
‘Sadder than you know.’ There was a winter chill in Bayard’s voice. ‘We hadn’t been happy for a long time. We were both robbed of the chance to…to reconstruct our relationship. But that’s all water over the dam. What I hope for now is a new beginning.’
This was dangerous ground. Anne-Marie dared not linger on it and a melancholy Bayard was more than she could cope with. She stood up.
‘Let’s leave it at that, then. Thanks for a splendid dinner and for your help on the valuations. I’ll print the biography exactly as you send it to me. I’ll let you have the catalogue copy for approval – and we still have to fix a time for the photographer. I’ll come with him, of course.’
‘You’re always welcome here, my dear. You know that.’
‘Thank you, Edmund. Would you call me a taxi, please?’
‘Miguel will drive you.’ It was the old imperious Bayard who answered her. ‘I hate long goodbyes – I hope the day will come when I won’t have to say them.’
He took her in his arms and kissed her on the lips. She did not resist, but her response was cool and passionless. Bayard said nothing. He rang for Miguel, who rode down with her in the elevator and drove her home in silence.
Back in her apartment, she lay for an hour in a hot bath trying to soak the tension out of her muscles; but she could not shake off the notion that clung to her like a burr: either Lebrun or Bayard had lied to her. Lebrun was a fussy little man, piqued that he had not been given the opportunity to continue dealing in Madeleine’s work. On the other hand, he was an enthusiast who loved pictures, respected talent and had obviously enjoyed the trust of Madeleine Bayard.
Her husband was a damaged man tortured by guilt, bent rather on expunging his wife’s memory than on perpetuating it. And there was the real rub: slowly and carefully he was moving Anne-Marie Loredon into Madeleine’s place. The first simple commercial contact was now turning into something else – a trusteeship, a personal responsibility to the living and the dead.
For all the fragility of his emotions, Bayard was a very calculating manager of people and situations and there was an anger smouldering inside him like a smithy fire, damped down but waiting only for the first blast of the bellows to burst into flame. There were faint bruises where he had grasped her arms. Her lips still prickled from the stubble round his mouth. Even so, she could not swear that she disliked him or that she would always reject him.
Max Mather had decided to spend his evening at home assessing what he had so far accomplished, laying out his strategy for the future. First and most important, he was now ‘in the business’. He had a clearly defined identity. He had background. He had capital and income. He had friends and peers to vouch for him. He had legal representation on both sides of the Atlantic. He was conducting himself with appropriate humility as the new boy in town. He was free of emotional entanglements – an unfamiliar and occasionally disturbing experience, since he was beginning to understand how quickly greed and ambition could damp down sexual passion. They left so little time for pillow talk, so little inclination to cultivate new company.
As to the future, the priorities were plain. First he must authenticate the Raphaels. He was counting on the publication in Belvedere and on Harmon Seldes’ researches to flush out whatever copies existed. His whole aim in bringing Tolentino to New York was to have him examine the pieces and deliver his own expert verdict. But before this – long before – he must establish a presence in Europe as he had done in New York. He must make friends, allies, connections in different tribal areas. He was working on a list of Swiss dealers and auctioneers when the telephone rang.
‘Mr Mather? Danny Danziger. I have your gift and your note. I’m calling to thank you. Both were unnecessary; it was I who behaved badly. The cameo is beautiful, but I really don’t feel I can keep it.’
‘Please, you’ll embarrass me if you don’t. It’s an agreeable trifle – a modern reproduction of an antique piece in the Florence museum. It’s called “The two courtesans”.’
‘Do you collect such things?’
‘No, I’m a jackdaw buyer with an eye for exotica. I’d like you to keep it. Call it a seal on our truce. We’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other. I’m sure we’d both enjoy a quiet professional relationship.’
‘Whatever you are, Mr Mather, some woman taught you very graceful manners. Thank you again and good night.’
He went back to his work amused and satisfied. It was another small victory – a potential enemy turned into an ally. On the solitary road he had chosen to walk, even a stranger passing him the time of day was a fortunate encounter. Now he had a tap into Harmon Seldes’ network of collaborators and informants.
Shortly afterwards the doorman called up from the foyer. A chauffeur from Carey Cadillac had an urgent delivery for him which must be made hand to hand. It consisted of a note and a locked briefcase consigned from Mr Hugh Loredon, who had left that evening from Kennedy airport on a flight to Europe.
The note was very brief:
Dear Max,
The combination of the lock is 6543. Read what you find inside, then make up your mind how much Anne-Marie should know. You’ll have to tell her, I can’t. I’ll be in touch from Europe. This is an important trip for me.
Best,
Hugh.
His first reaction was rage against Loredon. The man was a shabby trickster waltzing away from the most primitive responsibilities. What more he might be was something Mather did not choose to find out…at least not yet. He replaced the note in its envelope and pinned it in his diary. Then he locked the briefcase in his hall cupboard, tidied his papers and began to make ready for bed. He was cleaning his teeth when the telephone rang again. Anne-Marie was on the line; she sounded frightened and distressed.
‘Max, there’s something strange going on. I got back an hour ago from dinner with Ed Bayard. His chauffeur drove me home. A little later a beat-up green Ford pulled into the street and parked almost opposite my apartment. It’s still there, with the driver sitting in the car. The same car has been there on other nights when I’ve come home late. Tonight especially I’m scared.’
‘Why tonight?’
‘I’m rattled, I guess. Ed Bayard made a real pass – he’s getting serious.’
‘For Christ’s sake, sweetheart! You’re a big girl. You know enough to stay out of the rain. What the hell were you doing at his house?’
‘We were pricing the pictures. He works during the day, so it was an evening job. I couldn’t refuse. I didn’t want to disturb you, but I had to talk to someone. Do you think I should call the police?�
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‘Not yet. Sit tight. Turn on the late show – I’ll be round in a few minutes. I’ll give two double rings. Don’t let anyone else in.’
‘Max, you’re an angel.’
‘I’m tired and I’m twitchy. Be nice to me when I get there. See you!’
Ten minutes later he was in the street dressed in a tracksuit, jogging down from the Madison Avenue end. He identified the Ford, jogged past it to the Park and then doubled back and tapped on the window. The man slumped behind the wheel straightened up and stared at him, startled and hostile. When Mather gestured to him to open the window, he let it down a fraction of an inch and demanded, ‘What do you want?’
Mather gave him a wide and friendly smile. ‘Are you Mr Bayard’s man?’
‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’
‘In that case I’m sorry to disturb you. I have a message for an investigator employed by Mr Edmund Bayard, the attorney. I was told he was on a surveillance job in this street and he was driving a green Ford.’
‘You’ve found him. So what’s the message?’
‘I was told to ask for your card before delivering it.’
Reluctantly the driver fished in his pocket and brought out a grubby card. Mather studied it a moment and then handed it back.
‘Thank you. The message is that you break off surveillance now and call Mr Bayard at his office in the morning for fresh instructions.’
‘Fine by me. I could use an early night.’
Mather waited until the car pulled out from the curb and headed towards Madison. Then he crossed the street and gave two double rings on Anne-Marie’s doorbell. He wasted no time in preliminaries, but demanded a full account of her evening with Bayard.
She told him of her visit to Lebrun, of his claim that Bayard had prevented Madeleine from exhibiting her work. Then she gave him Bayard’s version – that he had never been able to inject enough confidence into his wife.
‘And all the time, Max, it’s as if he’s moving me like a chess piece in his own game plan. He took me in his arms and kissed me good night. I felt like a block of ice, but it didn’t matter to him. He was in command. He let me go without a word. That scared me so much I had to call you. And now I find he’s had me under observation like…like a criminal or a wandering wife. I can’t take that.’