He drummed his fingers on the desk. This news of Pruitt’s was a company triumph, but something of a personal failure for him. He just hadn’t been working at it hard enough, he realized. His personal life and its problems were taking up too much time. If only Melissa had been more tractable. If only he hadn’t met Irene…
He got up and looked at the crammed shelves of heavy art books, thumbed catalogues, sale-room records. He wandered through into Kimberly’s tiny office. She was typing, her gleaming nails snicking off the typewriter keys. Did they ever chip, he wondered? Did she ever get worried, break into a sweat? He ran his fingers through his thick hair and hitched up his trousers. He smiled aimlessly at Kimberly’s curious glance. He really should go and find out about this sale, otherwise people would think he was sulking.
A head came round the door.
“Good Lord, I thought you were in Boston.”
It was Thomas Beeby, his boss. Beeby was very tall and thin and would have looked like a classically distinguished English gentleman had it not been for his surprisingly plump rosy cheeks, which gave him the disconcerting look of a superannuated cherub.
“Postponed, Tom,” Henderson said. “Seems the man’s sick.” Kimberly’s nails rattled on without a pause.
“But that’s wonderful. You’ve heard the news?”
“About the sale? Yes, I was on my way—”
“Seems we may have the Gage Collection.”
“Oh?” Gage, Gage. The name rang no bells as a patron of the arts. “Gage.”
“Come along, I’ll tell you all about it. Thank God you’re not in Boston.”
He followed Beeby along the corridor to his office. From the floor below came the sound of the sale-room filling up. Porcelain today. A deferential Toothe eased by to take it.
“It’s all right, Ian,” Beeby said. “Henderson’s not in Boston. He can go now.”
Go where? Henderson thought.
“Oh. Right you are,” Toothe said, failing to keep the disappointment out of his voice. Henderson felt a brief elation. The little swine, he thought, never told me about this Gage collection, wanted to sneak off and keep it for himself.
Beeby put his hand on Henderson’s shoulder.
“This is it, Henderson,” he said. “This is what we’ve been waiting for.”
They entered Beeby’s office, slightly larger than Henderson’s but no less functional. It had a better view of Central Park, however. The sun still shone on the trees, a distant honking rose up from Madison Avenue. Beeby lit a cigarette. Henderson could sense his excitement and he felt a sudden generous warmth towards the tall man. It was Beeby who had brought him to America, who had pulled the strings and created the job, and for that Henderson would be forever grateful.
“Loomis Gage,” Beeby began. “Reclusive, Southern millionaire. An old man with a small but very select collection. Some seventeenth-century Dutch—‘school of’ stuff — rather dull, nothing significant. But. But. Two! fine Sisleys—‘72 he says — two van Dongens, a big Derain, a Utrillo, a small Braque and two Vuillards.”
“Well!”
“I want you to get down there, Henderson. Check it out and then get it for us. Go straight for no seller’s commission. Promise him a full colour catalogue. Exhibition in London if he wants it. Anything.”
“Right.” Henderson began to share Beeby’s excitement. He started adding up rough sums in his head, computing the ten per cent buyer’s commission Mulholland, Melhuish would charge. They would do very nicely, thank you. More importantly it would signal their arrival in the New York auction house world…However, one aspect of this miraculous opportunity perplexed him.
“I hope you don’t mind my asking, Tom, but — purely personal curiosity this — what made him bring the paintings to us?”
“Sheer good fortune. He claims to have known old man Mulholland in the twenties. Asked to speak to him. When I told him he was dead he almost hung up. Then I said I was Archie Melhuish’s son-in-law and he cheered up again. Stroke of luck, that’s all,” Beeby smiled joyfully. “Trumps came up;”
Henderson smiled with him. Good old Tom, he thought, nice to see him looking happy for a change.
“I want you to get down there by Monday.”
“Monday?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.” Henderson kept smiling. “Where is it? Exactly.”
“He lives in a place called Luxora Beach.”
“Qne of those purpose-built condominium things?”
“Actually I’m not all that sure.” Beeby frowned. “It’s in Georgia, I think. Or Alabama. Somewhere like that. All I know at the moment is you’ve got to be in Atlanta on Monday.”
“Bit vague, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But deliberately. He’s concerned about his ‘pryvacy’. Hasn’t even given me his phone number yet. He’s calling back this afternoon with the details. Anyway, sew it all up as quickly as possible.”
“Right you are.” He had an idea. “Wonderful news, Tom,” he said to the beaming Beeby. “Very pleased. Congratulations.” Impulsively — unusually — they shook hands.
Back in his office Henderson got Kimberly to phone Irene.
“Ms Dusseldorf?”
“OK, Henderson, what is it?”
“Do you fancy a few days’ holiday? Starting tomorrow?”
“I don’t know. Where are we going?”
“The South.”
Chapter Two
He was still feeling pleased with himself an hour later when Pruitt Halfacre came into his office.
“Free for lunch?” Halfacre asked. Today Henderson’s benevolence knew no bounds.
“Grand news about this Gage collection,” he said as they walked down Madison.
“Oh yes. Yes,” Halfacre agreed. He seemed a bit woebegone.
“Anything wrong?”
“We need to talk, Henderson.”
“Well, sure. What about?”
“Can we save it till lunch? I’d like that.”
They walked down some steps into a pale honey and lime-green restaurant. The bar area at the front was full of brilliant women and tall, broad-shouldered men. Everyone spoke in loud firm voices and seemed laughingly at ease. Sadly, as he knew it would, Henderson felt his own confidence begin to ebb away. There must be some law of Newtonian physics to explain this phenomenon, he considered; something about the power of a superior force to sap and drain energy from an inferior one of the same type. He looked about him at the fabulous lunchers. Pruitt shouted clear strong welcomes to people he knew. I want to be like you lot, Henderson thought, as he felt his shoulders round and his chest concave; I want your confidence and purpose, I want your teeth and tans, he pleaded, stepping out of the way and apologizing to a waiter. It’s not fair.
They shouldered their way to the bar, Henderson slipstreaming Halfacre. He caught gusts of a dozen different scents. Jasmine, rose, nectarine, musk, civet. Gems flashed demurely, expensively.
“Henderson, may I be totally honest with you?” Halfacre said in a deep voice at his ear. Henderson looked round in astonishment. “Can’t we get a drink first?”
A film-star barman approached.
“Morning, gentlemen. What is your need?”
“Dewars on the rocks,” Halfacre said. “With a twist. Henderson?”
“I’ll have a Budweiser, please,” Henderson said. “Straight up.”
The barman was not amused. He dipped a glass in a crunching, glistening coffer of ice and filled it to the brim. He sloshed copious amounts of whisky into it, pinched a twist of lime and dropped it in. How can they do that to perfectly good whisky, Henderson thought? Ice and limes in everything. A profligacy of ice in this country. Immense wealth of ice. He drank some of his beer.