Under the Hammer

by John Mortimer

  ‘Oh, yes, I have! I’ve got a great deal to complain of. I don’t know why I’m still speaking to you.’

  ‘Come off it. You called in to the Wine department. Entirely of your own free will.’

  ‘It’s contemptible. I mean, I gave up smoking, for God’s sake. How can I be so entirely weak-willed as to want to light you up again? You ought to have a government health warning on you.’

  ‘Should I really?’ Nick felt deeply flattered. ‘That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me.’

  ‘Don’t let it go to your head.’

  ‘I mean, you don’t have to give me up entirely. You could just cut me down to a couple after dinner.’

  ‘You’re ridiculous!’ But she was laughing in spite of herself.

  ‘Or even one before lunch?’ At which he put his arm round her shoulder and they were kissing as Ben burst into the room, full of bad news. ‘For heaven’s sake! It’s going on everywhere. Except on the walls of the gallery.’ He looked at Maggie with deep disapproval as she separated herself from Nick. ‘I thought you were here. Miss Annabelle Snotty-Smith said you were “in a meeting”. I thought you’d be meeting someone in the Wine department.’

  ‘I was showing Maggie our wonderful haul of Chateau Petrus ’61. You interested, Ben? It’s a snip at around eight hundred and fifty quid a bottle. No? You’re sticking to Scotch ale. How sad.’

  Ben ignored him, and spoke to Maggie as though she were alone, ‘I came to tell you. We’ve been taken over by the Puritans!’

  ‘Ben, what are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much. Only the Lord Chairman’s censored the Carracci “Satyr Frolicking”. Or rather, his wife has. Bloody woman in a hat who thought I came with the catering. Last time she had lunch she met me on the stairs and complained about the vichyssoise.’

  ‘What’s he done with the Carracci?’ Maggie was puzzled.

  ‘Oh, the satyr’s still having it off with the young nymph. Now he’s doing it in the Chairman’s bog. The Puritans have taken over. From, now on, it seems, in Klinsky’s art house pleasure is out!’

  ‘Not for all of us?’ Nick looked at Maggie.

  ‘You be careful, Nick Roper.’ Ben was still angry. ‘Our good Lord Chairman might censor you. Even if you do keep your goats legs neatly tucked away in your Savile Row trousers.’

  Anyone wandering through Wedensbury Park that night might have seen an unusual activity at the side of the lake. Three frogmen, with lights on their belts, climbed out of a parked van and waded into the dark water. Then they disappeared under it, leaving only a small ripple on the still surface.

  Ben Glazier and Maggie Perowne were making a final check on the Old Masters drawings in the long gallery at Klinsky’s, when he raised the question that was uppermost in his mind. ‘It’s not really all on, is it? You and the noissome Nick. Don’t tell me you’re an item all over again?’

  ‘I suppose it’s on the cards.’ Maggie admitted.

  ‘What’s on the cards? A warning of forthcoming disaster.’

  ‘You do exaggerate sometimes, Ben.’

  ‘Exaggerate? After that exhibition you made of yourselves in the wine department! Absolutely disgusting!’

  ‘You’re an extraordinary chap.’

  ‘You noticed that?’

  ‘You rail at the Chairman for hiding the “Satyr Frolicking”. You think the walls here should be covered with full-frontal drawings of satyrs and female fauns, and then you see me and Nick in a modest clinch and you behave like Queen Victoria confronted by a male stripper performing in the Albert Hall.’

  ‘It’s not because you were kissing, it’s because you were kissing a cad. That satyr may have had a high degree of testosterone, but he wasn’t necessarily a cad.’

  ‘Neither’s Nick,’ she told him. ‘Necessarily.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Maggie. Pull the other one.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s changed. You believe people can change, don’t you?’

  ‘Not really. They just grow older – and more irresponsible.’

  ‘Speak for yourself.’ She hung the drawing she’d selected in the empty space.

  ‘St Anthony in His Cell,’ Ben looked at the title and said, gloomily, ‘Struggling against Temptation.’

  ‘Where’re you going?’ Maggie asked as he left her. ‘Back to my cell.’ He went on his way to his small, lonely and quite disorderly office, where he might comfort himself with, perhaps, Ella singing ‘Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off’. He was going through a gallery showing a collection of French posters and, among the can-can girls, singers, dancers, jockeys and cyclists, a small, slightly grubby man with powerful glasses importuned him. ‘Mr Glazier. You don’t know me, sir. But I know you, of course and your article on “Old Gods and New: The pagan content in the religious art of the Italian Renaissance”.’

  ‘That goes back a few years.’ Ben was puzzled, but flattered to be recognized.

  ‘Been my constant bedtime reading. I go back a few years too. I’m not a renowned expert like yourself, Mr Glazier. A humble dealer, sir. In a very small way of business. But we have something in common, I believe. A love of beauty. The name’s Johnson. Christened Oscar William Leonard and therefore known as Owly in the profession. A play on my initials, you see, but I take it in good heart, most of the time.’

  ‘Very amusing. What can I do for you, Mr Johnson?’

  There was a short silence and then Owly came out with one word, mysteriously emphasized, ‘Condiments’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You don’t know what I’m talking about?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have no idea.’

  ‘Pepper, salt and mustard! You think I’m mad, don’t you, Mr Glazier? You think I’m eccentric. But didn’t a certain great sculptor make a salt cellar for the King of France?’

  ‘Cellini?’ Ben didn’t know why he bothered to answer the question.

  ‘None other than that famous rogue, womanizer and sword-fighter Benvenuto Cellini? You know your Italian Renaissance inside out. No one better.’

  ‘You mean the salt cellar in Vienna?’ Ben couldn’t imagine what this well-known masterpiece had to do with the obsequious Owly.

  ‘There’s one there, of course,’ Owly agreed. ‘But why don’t you call at my business address? At your own convenience, Mr Glazier. Entirely at your convenience, and satisfy your curiosity.’ Owly produced a battered business card held delicately between a black-nailed finger and thumb.

  Another salt cellar? Ben didn’t believe it possible but, to escape the dealer, he took it.

  Maggie had gone to dinner at Nick’s flat and, without any further discussion, without terms agreed or treaty, stayed the night. She was woken up by the telephone ringing at his bedside. Nick picked it up, muttered, ‘Nick Roper.’ and then became monosyllabic. ‘More of the same? Fine ... Good ... Well, round to the vaults, of course. We should meet ... The club ...? That’s fine. Oh, well done.’ As he put down the phone, Maggie asked, ‘You up to something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You?’ He rolled towards her, and took her in his arms. ‘I very much hope.’

  Peter Pomfret’s picture restorers had, since the unexpected death of Sarah Napper, been sold and boarded up, to re-open shortly as a video store. Next door to it, in the street full of fairly unsuccessful shops off the Portobello Road, was O.W.L. Johnson’s antiques and, on the other side of Owly, an equally dingy premises entitled Print-U-Like. The proprietor of this concern: HAND BILLS AND POSTERS PRINTED, PAMPHLETS, BUSINESS CARDS AND LEAFLETS OUR SPECIALITY was Lenny Lockyer, a tall and cadaverous man, whose pronounced nose and sunken cheeks twitched nervously at moments of bewilderment or distress. He was enjoying a mug of tea with his next-door neighbour and mentor Owly Johnson when Ben came roaring along the street on his motor bike, parked and pushed open Owly’s shop door.

  For a moment he stood, surveying the chaos in Owly’s shop, and then the proprietor emerged from the back room where he had been entertain
ing Lenny. ‘Welcome, Mr Glazier. You’re very welcome, sir. Come in here, won’t you? Where we can talk private.’ And he led Ben into the inner office, where a bulky ginger cat nestled on the top of the safe and Lenny was smiling and twitching energetically. ‘I’m sorry, this is Lenny from next door,’ Owly apologized for his visitor. ‘I have an interest in his little printing business. You might not think it to look at him, but Lenny knows his printing. This is a famous art expert from Klinsky’s great auction house, Lenny. Knows all there is to know about works of art.’

  ‘Klinsky’s? Isn’t that where that job -’ Lenny began but Owly stopped him briskly. ‘Oh, no, I don’t think so, Lenny. I think you’re confused with all the work we get in. Mr Glazier’s here for something a good deal more interesting than having a few business cards run off. Lenny’s thick as two short planks on the subject of art, but he knows his printing. Say good day to Mr Glazier, Lenny, and clear off out of here.’

  ‘Good day, Mr Glazier.’ The obedient Lenny was on his way.

  ‘Oh, yes. Pleased to meet you.’

  As Lenny went, Ben wondered why the hell he’d come. Was he simply bored in the office, where nothing much was happening, and the sight of Maggie made him think, with some pain, of her renewed friendship with the ghastly Roper? Was he really interested in what Owly had to show him, or was he trying to escape for a moment from the devout and rarefied atmosphere of a ‘high art’ house. His thoughts were interrupted by Owly congratulating him on his politeness to Lenny, the printer.

  ‘That was good of you, Mr Glazier. That ‘pleased to meet you’. Not meant, of course. There’s not much pleasure for an expert of your standing meeting a person as thick as Lenny. But he’s a good boy in many ways. Yes, I depend on Lenny. He can print up anything. And he minds the shop for me when I’m out on a sweep. Now, then, I’ll introduce you to the object in question.’

  As he opened the safe, the cat awoke and leapt to the ground. Owly brought out something wrapped in newspaper. Unwrapped, this proved to be a lead box with the lock broken. ‘Only once in a lifetime,’ Owly was saying, once or twice, perhaps, does something nice cross my path. I remember when I picked up that picture down in the Caledonian. Sir Joshua Reynolds, but no one else could see it. As for this particular treasure trove, quite honestly, there can be no doubt about it.’

  He had lifted out the glittering silver object which might have once been used for the mundane business of passing the salt. On its lid, a silver Neptune lolled, naked, supported by sea horses, pointing his trident and his solemn, purposeful gaze at a naked nymph who, thoughtfully fingering one nipple, staring back at him with equal concentration. Below her, on a triumphal archway, another nymph sprawled with her breasts erect. There were also silver waves, a turtle, and further nymphs prone around the rim. ‘Amazing preservation of a beautiful work of art, wouldn’t you say, Mr Glazier?’ Owly put it on the table.

  ‘Silver?’ Ben looked at it doubtfully. ‘The King of France’s salt cellar was gold.’

  ‘This one was made by Cellini for another customer. A dummy run, that’s what it was.’

  ‘Is that your story?’

  ‘I’ve read a bit about Benvenuto,’ Owly told him. ‘Nothing to match your expertise, of course, sir. But from what I get from his writing, he made a wax model of this particular condiment and flogged versions around.’

  ‘That’s what you’d’ve done in his position?’

  ‘Come on, Mr Glazier, confess you’re interested.’

  ‘Which lorry did it drop off?’

  ‘You’re not suggesting that a work of art of this distinction is going to be carried about on lorries?’ Owly looked hurt.

  ‘Then who did you get it from?’

  ‘Silence on that subject, as you well know, Mr Glazier, is as sacred to me as the secrets of the confessional.’

  ‘Sorry, your Reverence. But you’ll have to tell us sooner or later.’

  ‘It’s old, isn’t it? Anyone can see that.’

  ‘So far as the period goes, I could take it for an opinion from our silver lady. We’d keep it safe for you.’

  ‘A silver lady? You’ve got one of those, have you?’ Owly picked up the salt cellar. ‘Like this little bird on here?’

  ‘Not much. Her name’s Dorothy Entwhistle and her husband’s a judge, so you’d better watch your step. She’ll want to know where you got this desirable object.’

  ‘It’s part, sir, of the collection of a gentleman,’ Owly said with dignity.

  ‘Is it really? And how did the gentleman collect it? By climbing up a drainpipe of some stately home in the South of England?’

  Maggie was spending another night with Nick in Pimlico. They thought of dinner at his local bistro, Les Deux Amants, an invariably overcrowded Sloane version of a French café, decorated with brass cooking utensils, dried flowers and blown-up photographs of sunny Provence. The waitresses, who wore blue shirts and jeans with striped aprons, looked very like some of the girls who worked at Klinsky’s and were inclined to treat their clientele with similar, icy contempt. Nick was trying to thaw out their leader with a nicely judged mixture of anger and charm, ‘We booked a table for nine o’clock. It’s just not bloody good enough.’

  ‘There are other people waiting, sir!’ The head waitress was not yet charmed.

  ‘But we’re not other people, are we? We’re us.’

  ‘Oh, Nick. For God’s sake!’ Maggie couldn’t stand scenes in restaurants.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling. She’s going to help us.’ It was then he decided to fall back on flagrant charm.

  ‘You know I only come here because you’re so gorgeous. Love the new hairdo.’ This produced a slight thaw and, ‘The couple in the corner got their bill ages ago. You can have their table.’

  ‘All right, Mags. Forward march!’

  Nick set off, squeezing his way between tables, to the corner, with Maggie following, protesting. Then she saw the back of an older man with a pink, bald head and a younger brunette at whom Nick shouted, ‘I say. Are you planning to spend the night here?’

  The man looked round, revealing himself as Bernard Holloway, the Lord Chairman, about to panic. Camilla, who was with him, smiled a welcome. She had drunk most of the wine and spoke loudly enough to make her lover look about him in a hunted fashion. ‘Hallo, you two! Lovely to see you. We were just off, but why don’t you let us buy you a drink? We’d love that, wouldn’t we, Bernard?’

  Bernard, who obviously wouldn’t, said, ‘I expect they’d rather be on their own.’

  ‘Oh, no, they wouldn’t!’ Camilla disagreed. ‘They see each other all day, anyway. Just as we do, don’t we, darling? Pull up a couple of chairs. Lovely jacket that, Maggie. They put really good things in Selfridge’s sale now, don’t they? This isn’t your local, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s mine.’ Nick had gathered two chairs from other tables and Holloway was looking increasingly wretched.

  ‘If Bernard had known that, he’d never have brought me here!’ Camilla laughed. ‘He only wants to take me out to places where I’ll never be spotted by another human being, don’t you, darling?’

  ‘I read a write-up about this little spot in one of the Sundays.’ Lord Holloway was, at least, trying. ‘I thought it sounded fun.’

  ‘No, you didn’t, Bernard,’ Camilla contradicted him. ‘You thought it sounded like the sort of place none of your wife’s friends would ever come to.’ At which, Camilla grabbed a passing waitress, intent on not having her eye caught, by the wrist. ‘This girl speaks French. Rather appropriate, isn’t it? What’s it to be? Pastis? Très Provençal. Quatre pastis, s’il vous plaît, cherie. Big ones.’

  ‘I hope you’ll excuse us.’ Holloway looked at his watch. ‘I don’t really think we’ve got time.’

  ‘Oh, yes, we have, Bernard. The night is young. Enjoy yourself for once in a while. Bernard’s still jumpy in case we run into Muriel,’ Camilla told Maggie in a penetrating whisper. ‘That’s the story of my life, isn’t it, darling?’ She
put her hand on Holloway’s, who moved his away rapidly and tried to sound businesslike, ‘Well, Roper.’

  ‘Nick, darling. His name’s Nick,’ Camilla told him. ‘You know what this little bistro’s called? Les Deux Amants. Well, now we’re les quatre amants, aren’t we, Bernard darling?’

  ‘Well, Nick, how are things in the Wine department?’

  ‘Very good, thank you, Lord ...’

  ‘Thank you, Bernard,’ Camilla insisted. ‘Forget the handle to his name.’

  ‘Just laid hands on some Petrus ’61,’ Nick told the Chairman. ‘Estimated ten thou a case.’

  ‘Petrus? I don’t think we did that at Come into the Garden Foods when I was Managing Director.’

  ‘Oh, Bernard, darling. Do shut up about Come into the Garden Foods,’ Camilla purred, ‘it’s not really a romantic subject.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I have to tell you young people, it’s where I made my money.’ At which the Chairman stood up with as much dignity and determination as he could muster. ‘Are you coming, Camilla? I mean, can I drop you off somewhere?’

  ‘No, Bernard. Much as you’d like to, I’m afraid you can’t drop me off. Ever!’ And, as she explained to Maggie and Nick, ‘I’m sticking to Bernard and there’s not a thing he can do about it.’

  ‘I can’t give either of you a lift?’ Holloway looked pleadingly at Maggie.

  ‘Actually we haven’t had dinner yet.’

  ‘No. No, of course not. Well. It’s a pleasure to see you both. Oh, by the way, there’s no need to mention the fact we bumped into each other.’

  ‘Poor old Lord Chairman!’ Nick said when they were alone.

  ‘What a ghastly fate! Torn between Lady Holloway and Camilla. Makes my problems with you seem almost bearable.’

  ‘What problems are they?’ Nick was studying the menu.

  ‘Too many to remember.’

  ‘You mean, you’ve forgotten?’

  ‘Perhaps. For this evening,’ she told him.