Secondly, most of it was what people in my line of business rather condescendingly call stuff, which is to say that there were no really exceptional—by which we normally mean breathtakingly expensive pieces.
There was a painting over the mantelpiece that was clearly a copy—the original was well-known and in an art museum. The other pieces were good, but there were few that would have cost him much over $25,000, not one that would have cost him over $75,000. I'd have been happy to sell Lake just about anything in the room, but there was nothing there that would indicate the kind of financial resources a man like Lake would have, and not the collector that I knew Lake to be. He regularly made the news in collector's magazines and was clearly prepared to pay millions if he had to for something he wanted. None of it was in evidence here.
As I struggled to take it all in, a handsome man of about fifty, with a nice head of dark hair sprinkled with gray and the kind of perfect tan that makes you think tanning beds or extended holidays on a private yacht briskly entered the room. I searched in vain for vestiges of the rather retiring young man of the yearbook photo. Lake's self-confidence had evidently soared in the intervening thirty years or so. No doubt acquiring a net worth of six billion dollars will do that for you. He also looked young for a man who'd come of age in the sixties, but I put that down to the fact that he had the resources to take good care of himself.
"Lara McClintoch," he said, extending his hand. He was standing in the shaft of sunlight, which gave a kind of halolike quality to him, which I found amusing. "I'm Crawford Lake. Thank you for coming. I apologize for all the drama and for keeping you waiting. I hope you will forgive me. Unfortunately, I find such secrecy necessary. I was attending to some business when you arrived, and given I am so rarely here in Rome, I needed to get it done. Now, tea? Or perhaps something stronger?"
"Tea would be lovely," I replied, thinking that the fact that Lake used the apartment so infrequently explained both the art and the rather airless quality the place had. He rang a bell, and a maid appeared instantly, as if she'd been hovering in the hall, awaiting a summons.
"Tea, please, Anna," he said. "And some of that lovely lemon cake of yours."
"Right away, Mr. Lake," the woman said, inclining her head slightly, as if bowing to lesser royalty.
"Well, what do you think?" he said, waving his arm around the room. "Do you see anything you like?"
"The alabaster vases are exquisite," I said carefully.
"Fourteenth century," he said. "Not very old, but yes, lovely, aren't they? What do you think of the paintings?"
"The frescoes are superb," I said. "I have been admiring the oil over the mantelpiece," I added, choosing my words carefully. "I'm wondering where I've seen the original. The Louvre, perhaps?" It had surprised me, indeed, to see what was obviously a copy among all this exceptional art, and I wanted Lake to know I knew a copy when I saw it.
He frowned. "This is the original," he said. "But you are correct in one respect. The copy is in the Louvre."
"Oh," was the best I could muster. To my relief, tea arrived in a stunning silver tea service and, as promised, slices of lemon cake on a Sevres porcelain plate.
We engaged in small talk for awhile, he pointing out a number of objects in the room and telling me how he'd acquired them, while I made appreciative sounds.
I knew that Lake was South African originally, but his accent was what I think is called mid-Atlantic, a slightly British, slightly American sound that he must have worked hard to acquire. Everything about him was very polished, in fact, which came as something of a relief, given my sleepless hours of the night before when I'd imagined a cross between a Howard Hughes-type recluse, with long hair and toenails, and a pathologically shy computer nerd of some kind.
"Now to business," he said at last, struggling for a moment to find an empty place on which to set down his teacup. "No doubt you're wondering why I asked you here."
I nodded. I was delighted to be invited, to be sure, but perplexed as to why.
"I need you to purchase something for me," he said. "A work of art. Very old. From someone in France. You'll get a commission, of course, and I'll cover all your expenses. Will you do it?"
"I'm flattered to be asked," I said cautiously. "But if you will forgive me for being so blunt, why me? Why not send a member of your staff?"
"They don't know antiquities," he said with a dismissive wave. "I'm told you do."
"Mondragon, then," I said, referring to a well-known art dealer. "He often buys for you, does he not? And he knows antiquities rather well."
Lake looked impatient. "You will no doubt understand that when my name is associated with an important purchase, the price invariably rises," he said slowly. "Way beyond its true value."
"The Apollo," I said.
"The Apollo," he agreed. "Aplu or Apulu to the Etruscans. Regrettably, yes. I see you do your homework, Ms. McClintoch."
I did my homework, all right, mildly patronizing though his comment might be. Not that research on Lake was difficult to do. His financial escapades were regularly featured in just about any newspaper you'd care to mention, as were some rather aggressive art purchases. There was no question he was very rich. But he couldn't buy everything. He'd gone after a 2,300-year-old statue of Apollo, a gorgeous piece of work, Etruscan as he'd indicated, and he'd lost to a Texas collector who probably didn't have Lake's resources but who had proved adept at outflanking him on this particular acquisition. Before that, Lake had been on just about every art magazine's one hundred top collectors list on an annual basis. Post-Apollo,, however, he seemed to pretty much have abandoned the field to others.
"It wasn't worth half what Mariani paid for it," Lake said, referring to the proud owner of the Apollo. "I still have regrets. Having said that, you will understand, I think, that I did not reach this rather enviable financial position by paying more than anything is worth, even for something as wonderful as that. I need someone who will not be linked to me in any way to purchase the object I wish."
"Which is?"
"We'll discuss that in a moment."
"You've explained why you want to deal with someone new, but not, I think, why you chose me."
He shrugged ever so slightly. "I do my research. You've just demonstrated you do yours. I'm told you're honest, know your stuff, and that you're persistent, if not stubborn. I admire persistence. It is a quality we may share. Furthermore—I hope I do not offend you in saying this—your business is not well-known internationally. McClintoch Swain is not"— he hesitated—"the kind of firm with which I would normally do business."
I could hardly disagree, being reasonably certain that McClintoch Swain, the shop I co-own with my ex-husband Clive Swain, was pretty much unknown beyond a two-block radius of the store, let alone internationally.
"Do you know what a chimera is?" he asked abruptly.
"A mythological creature, isn't it? Part lion, part snake, part something else."
"Goat." He nodded.
"Goat," I agreed.
"You do not disappoint me, Ms. McClintoch," Lake said. "You could have said it was a term used by scientists for any hybrid, plant or animal, or you could have said it was a name for a creature that changes its appearance at will. But you picked the right one, as far as I'm concerned. Now, do you know the Chimera of Arezzo?"
"The bronze chimera in the archaeological museum in Florence, you mean? The one found in Arezzo in Tuscany?"
"Yes," he said, reaching for a large envelope on the table beside him and then placing a photograph in front of me. "Lovely, isn't it? Bronze, late fifth or early fourth century B.C. One of the truly great pieces of Etruscan art. We owe its discovery to Cosimo de Medici. He rather fancied himself as an archaeologist. It is said that he cleaned the finds himself, a painstaking bit of work. He found the chimera in 1553, and also the Arringatore, the Orator, in 1566, both Etruscan. I expect he undertook the work because he loved it. But it also suited his political aspirations. His successor was declared dux magnus Etruscus, great Etruscan leader, did you know that? Not enough that Cosimo was declared grand duke of Tuscany in 1569. Silly really, the dux magnus Etruscus business, given that the Etruscans had been defeated by the Romans more than two thousand years earlier, but I suppose it speaks to the power the glorious past has over us. Magnificent work of art, is it not? Look at the power in the head and haunches of the lion, the menace in the serpent tail, and the intractable nature of the goat, so evident."