Tye walked him out, returned. Bethune stood outside staring in, kid at a toffee shop window perishing of neglect.
“Right, team. Prunella, you come with me. Tye, you also, but act like a chauffeur or a private assistant, okay? Jim’s to be brought in once I’ve got going.”
“We need him?” Tye asked, surprised.
“Essential. Let’s go.”
On the way to the street I told Prunella to phone Bickmore and get an immediate appointment; subject: security.
THE Metropolitan Gallery of Arts claims to be the largest in the western hemisphere. It’s right, but I’m not too sure about the arts bit. Don’t misunderstand me. It’s got tons of genuine art. It’s also got tons of stuff that is hard to classify. I can’t come to grips with a massive cube with a grandiose title. I allow that it’s art, but not my sort. I need this big stone block to tell me something about the bloke whose name’s on the caption, and it doesn’t. That off my chest, I admit that any place with 3.3 million works of art truly is a wonder.
Bethune waited nervously by the information desk while Prunella scurried on ahead, Tye patiently scooping up her dropped papers. I spoke harshly with Jim. It was difficult moving, because of the Madonna and Child. The terracotta was set in a nook by the stairs at the end of the enormous hall. Blue and white glaze is often a giveaway, as here. It bonged like a cathedral bell into me. I believed the Andrea della Robbia label—it was his uncle Luca who enamelled glazes this colour onto terracotta. I’d seen pictures of it, loved it for years. Who hasn’t? But to see it in the flesh —
“Lovejoy? Mr Bickmore’s waiting.”
Prunella scampered alongside, shoes clacking. “Are you all right, Lovejoy? You look —”
“Never heard of hay fever?” I told the silly cow, then felt sorry when she fumbled in her handbag for medicaments—
The office was grand. Bickmore was a tall, arid man of the old school. He had a knack of being willowy, so he could peer over his bifocals. I’m used to the worm’s eye view. And I’ve been put down by every trick in the book. I smiled, shook his hand, sat as Prunella’s files cascaded around.
“Prunella’s been with me a long time, Mr Bickmore,” I said. “The only polymath in my corporation.”
“You’re not American.” He was broad smiles. “What museum is your favourite back home?”
We chatted awhile about the British Museum, a few others, just enough to prove I was on intimate terms with their layout. I supplied him with a card citing me at Nicko’s office address, and was in no doubt he’d checked before letting us in.
“It’s a matter of security, Mr Bickmore,” I said pleasantly. “Yours, not mine.”
His split-level specs sloped disapproval. “You’re not selling, Lovejoy?”
“I’m not. You are. We bought tickets,” I added, smiling to show no hard feelings.
“Think of it as a suggested donation, Lovejoy.”
“Always makes fees seem easier, Mr Bickmore.”
“Security,” Bickmore said coldly. “If it’s a matter of—”
“Of the protection money you were going to pay.” I let the silence solidify. I’d warned Prunella not to be shocked. She was scribbling it all down, pen flying.
Bickmore gave orders to an intercom, rose and closed an intervening door.
“Protection money?”
“Prunella? Get Mr Dee in, please. And Mr Bethune.”
Bickmore watched Tye and the dealer enter.
“Mr Bethune? Tell Mr Bickmore, please.”
Fatty spoke, face wooden. “It came to my notice that the Met Gallery was being oppressed by the protection racketeers. I’ve paid for you, and will continue to do so.”
“For the foreseeable future,” I finished for him irritably. Give me strength. The silly sod had only two lines to learn, and he’d ballsed them up.
“Why would you do that, Mr Bethune?”
“Lovejoy persuaded me by his reputation, Mr Bickmore.”
“Thank you, Bethune,” I said. The pillock’s delivery had been putrid. Tye left with him.
“Well, I’m very, very grateful, Lovejoy!” Bickmore said slowly. He waited, Prunella’s pen zoomed, I waited.
He was a shrewd old administrator. He cleared his throat.
“This makes a considerable difference to our finances this coming year, Lovejoy. I shall make out a report to the Trustees. The Board of Regulators will be eager to express…”
His speech dried. I was shaking my head. “I, er, influenced Bethune to show my good intentions, Mr Bickmore. I’m eager to see your Gallery of Arts survive. I can’t have this lovely…” I coughed. There’s a limit to falsehood— “… this hotchpotch of a building damaged. Millions of customers come every year. Some might get injured.”
He looked from me to Prunella. “But it is protection? You’re after money?”
“No, Mr Bickmore. I’m after painless money.”
There was a plan of the building, floor by floor, occupying one entire wall. I crossed to it, trying to seem sure of myself. I guessed Prunella was coming along from the crash of tumbling clipboards.
“You’ve got the Rokeman Primitive Museum incorporated here, Mr Bickmore?” I nodded. “All those Benin heads, Nigerian sculptures, tribal items. Fantastic, eh?”
“Lovejoy. If you’re making some sort of threat…”
I turned away, knocking into Prunella who was just then rising from having picked up her things. What the hell had she brought all that stuff for, for God’s sake?
“There are threats and threats, Mr Bickmore.” He was a secret smoker. I recognized his wandering hand, edging under stress towards his waistcoat pocket’s rectangular bulge. “Think of a threat that brings money in.”
His hand halted. Maybe lessening tension.
“A profitable, ah, threat?”
“Plus a percentage of it to someone else.”
He thought for quite a time. I looked at the plans, flicking idly through catalogues and year books.
“Lovejoy,” he said finally, fingers tipping together. “This scheme, to increase our finances. Is it the sort of scheme that could be announced to the media?”
“Media’s a must, Mr Bickmore,” I advised gravely, and his face wrinkled into a guarded smile.
“Can you explain the details, please?” he asked. “Coffee?”
THERE are skeletons in every cupboard. The Met Gallery of Arts has them a-plenty.
Just like the British Museum—which has bought fakes, duds, phonys, wasting millions in its time—most museums have spent fortunes on fraud. I'm not condemning them, because crime’s as close to my heart as it is to museum curators’. The Met is a prime “lifter,” as the trade says— that is, a big official repository of antiques, any sort, which it will buy from illicit sources.
I reminded Bickmore of this in detail, until he suggested we send Prunella out for a rest. I declined.
“The Elgin Marbles were purchased in good faith, proper legitimate bills of sale and everything,” I continued earnestly.
“True, true!” He was delighted to find common ground in international law.
“So your Veracruz figures—especially that fifteenth-century Standard Bearer, and the one they call The Smiler—really should be here.” Pause. “I think, Mr Bickmore. And those Ecuador and Peru vessels too—incidentally, are they really Chavin period? Though I’ll bet your Peru gold mask’s really a Chimu, right?”
“What are you saying, Lovejoy?” His voice had gone thick. Mine does that.
I leaned forward confidentially. “Supposing one of those nations’ ambassadors started a row at the United Nations…”
He bristled. “Lovejoy. I will not countenance any return of any of our legitimate —”
“Or illegitimate? Like that Maya series of tomb artifacts you bought three years ago?” I wasn’t disclosing confidences. Every day brings fresh tales of important scams like the grave-robbers of Italy, the poor old Mayas, the threadbare Aztecs. Civilization spreads at exactly the pace of tomb-raiders.