Florian's Gate (11 page)

Once Jeffrey returned home for Ling and arrived at the shop, he barely had time to settle in before the electronic chime announced his first visitor of the day. From the safety of his office alcove Jeffrey glanced up, smiled, tucked the little bird into its new bedding, put on his professional face, and walked forward.

He swung the door wide with a flourish. “Good morning, Mr. Greenfield. Morning, Ty.”

“Hullo, lad,” Sydney Greenfield said. “I've always wanted to be your height when I walk into a bar. Isn't that right, Ty.”

“Gets him proper switched on, it does.”

“Come in, gentlemen. Come in.”

Sydney Greenfield, purveyor to the would-be's and has-been's of London's Green Belt, entered with his normal theatrics. Behind him walked Ty, his shadowy parrot. Jeffrey did not know him by any other name, did not even know if he had one. Ty he had been introduced as, and Ty he had remained. Jeffrey truly liked the pair. They were a part of what made the London antiques trade unique in all the world.

The Green Belt was an almost-circle of suburbs and swallowed villages that stretched through four counties. They were linked to central London by an extended train service and road system, allowing those who could afford it to live
surrounded by a semblance of green and still make it to work more or less on time.

Sydney Greenfield described himself as a contact broker extraordinaire, and survived from the hand-to-mouth trade of bringing buyer and seller together. He had somehow attached himself to Jeffrey and the shop during Jeffrey's early days. They had actually brought him one sale, albeit for the cheapest article in the shop at the time. Nonetheless, following that maneuver Sydney Greenfield had treated Jeffrey and the shop with a proprietary interest, as though their own success were now inexorably linked with his.

Sydney Greenfield was a florid man with thin strands of gray-black hair plastered haphazardly across an enormous central bald spot. Even at ten in the morning his cheeks and nose positively glowed from the effects of too many three-hour pub lunches and liquid dinners—an integral part of the finder's trade. He wore a tailored pin-stripe three-piece suit made from a broadcloth Jeffrey had long since decided came from the inside of a Sainsbury's chocolate box, it was so shiny. Beneath it bunched a wilted white starched shirt and an over-loud tie. A large belly strained against his waistcoat.

“With regard to the cabinet,” Sydney Greenfield said. “We've been broaching the subject with Her Royal Highness the Princess Walrus. How long has it been now, Ty.”

“Nigh on seven weeks, it is.”

“Yes. Long time to be weathering Her Royal Highness' storm, seven weeks is. And I must tell you, your asking price for that cabinet has created quite a storm, hasn't it, Ty.”

“Right stood my hair on end, she did.”

Jeffrey fished out the key ring for the glass display case. “I think you'd better sit down,” he said.

Sydney Greenfield clutched at his heart. “You're not meaning it.”

Jeffrey raised up a crystal decanter, asked, “Perhaps a little brandy?”

Greenfield sat with a low moan. “You promised me first call. Didn't he, Ty.”

“Stood right there and gave his solemn word, he did.”

Jeffrey handed over a crystal snifter holding an ample portion, replied, “I told you I'd hold it for seven days. Which I did. And that was almost two months ago.”

Greenfield downed the snifter with one gulp, breathed, “Details, lad. Mere details.”

“I had a buyer who waited through that seven-day period, then paid the price I asked.”

“Seventeen thousand quid?” Greenfield waved the goblet for a refill. “Paid up without a quibble?”

“Didn't even blink an eye.”

“Tell me who it is, lad. There's a couple of little items I'd like to show a gentleman of means.”

Jeffrey shook his head. “Seventeen thousand pounds buys a lot of confidentiality in this shop.”

Greenfield drained the second glass, smacked his lips. “Well, it's water under the bridge then, right, Ty.”

“No use crying over milk the cat's already drunk.”

“Did I ever tell you why I call him Ty, lad?”

“Only every time you come in.”

Greenfield ignored him. “It's after the
Titanic
, because the fellow goes down like a bolt at the first sniff of the stuff. Never seen the like, not in this trade.”

Sydney Greenfield recovered with the speed of one accustomed to such disappointments. He pointed an overly casual hand toward one of the few English pieces that Jeffrey had kept for their own shop, said, “We've done quite a bit of analyzing the market for that other little item.”

It was a chest of drawers made in the William and Mary period, and was constructed in laburnum wood, a tree whose seeds were deadly poisonous. The wood had been cut transversely across the branch, creating a swirl effect in the grain which reminded Jeffrey of the inside of oyster shells. The inlay was of darker holly, which traced its way around the
outer edges of each drawer; the carpenter had used the inlay to frame the wood's pattern, rather than smother it. The piece was probably constructed somewhere around 1685, given its similarities to other antiques that Jeffrey had been able to identify and which had more established provenances.

Establishing an antique's provenance—its previous record of ownership—added significantly to an article's price, especially if there were either royalty or unique stories attached. One part of the mysteries attached to Alexander's antiques was that they almost never had any provenance whatsoever. They were therefore sold on the basis of their beauty, condition, and evident age. Jeffrey's own education had shown that the more valuable the antique, the more often there was a fairly clear indication of lineage. To have no provenance whatsoever with antiques of this quality suggested that Alexander was intentionally hiding the records in order to protect his sources.

The cost of the chest of drawers was twenty-six thousand pounds, or about forty-five thousand dollars.

“We are on the verge,” Sydney Greenfield announced. “Yes, lad, we might actually be pouncing on that one tomorrow. We don't have her signed, mind you. I'd be lying if I said that, and as you know I'm a man of my word. But we're close enough to see the whites of her eyes, aren't we, Ty.”

“Close enough to steal a kiss and bolt.”

“Yes, that is, if anyone could actually bring themselves to kiss the old walrus. Mind you, I'd probably take the plunge myself if I thought it'd get the old dear to part with her brass.”

Katya chose that moment to arrive at the front door. She leaned up close enough to see through the outside reflection, tapped her fingernails on the glass and waved at him.

At first sight of her, Greenfield sprang from the chair as though electrocuted. “Who's that, lad? Not a customer. Life's unfair, I've known that for years, but it'd be stepping out of bounds to hand money to looks like that.”

“My new assistant,” Jeffrey replied, opening the door and
ushering her in. “Katya Nichols, may I present Sydney Greenfield and his assistant Ty. I'm sorry, Ty, I don't believe I've ever learned your last name.”

Sydney Greenfield displayed a massive grace as he sidled up and bowed over Katya's hand. “My dear, if this were my shop, I'd have raised the prices ten percent the instant I signed you on.”

Katya had compromised over taking salary from Jeffrey in a way that was uniquely her own; she spent it all on clothes that she wore when she was working at the shop. Today she had on one of his favorite items, a high-collared blouse in gray-violet silk the shade of her eyes. It had little cloth buttons and an Oriental design sewn across the left breast and up both sleeves. It was gathered at the waist with a leather belt of almost the same shade, and worn out and draped over a knee-length skirt of midnight blue. Jeffrey thought the color of the blouse made her eyes look positively enormous.

Katya responded to Sydney's compliment with her unshakable poise. “It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Greenfield, Ty. Has Jeffrey offered you gentlemen coffee?”

“He was obviously waiting for you to arrive, my dear. Knowing as he would that it'll taste twice as good coming from your hand, won't it, Ty.”

“Like nectar, it will.”

“How do you gentlemen like it?”

“Ty likes his straight up, seeing as how it's the only drink on earth he can stomach in pure form. I'll have mine with a touch more of the amber, if your boss here will relax his death's grip on the bottle.”

Sydney watched Katya vanish into the alcove, murmured to Jeffrey, “ ‘Truth, lad. I wouldn't get a dollop of work done with that in the shop.”

“I have the same trouble,” Jeffrey replied.

“Where on earth did you find her?”

“In the London University library.”

Sydney made round mocking eyes. “You mean she can read, too?”

“She's an honor student in Eastern European studies.”

Greenfield rolled his eyes. “Oh, you wouldn't catch me studying them places. Or going there, for that matter. Would you, Ty.”

“Rather marry Her Royal Walrus, I would.”

“What do you mean?”

“Communists, lad. Communists. Stands to reason, doesn't it. What, you think all them card-carryin' pinkos just up and vanished, poof, in the blink of an eye and all that?”

“From what I've read, the Communist parties have either been banned in those countries or have lost so much support they're not really a factor anymore.”

“Wrong, lad. Dead wrong you are.” Sydney lowered his voice to a brandy-soaked whisper. “There's Commies everywhere, and this time they're mad.”

“I rather doubt that.”

“Out for blood, aren't they, Ty.”

“Worse than Dracula coming off a diet, far as I see it.”

“ 'Course they are. Been in power for donkey's years, and all of a sudden they're out on the street, nowhere to go, nothing to do but find a capitalist pig and roast him.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Not to worry, lad. There's always more where that came from.” He leaned closer, said, “And here's another morsel for good measure. Latch onto that one, lad. She's one of a kind.”

Jeffrey bit off the thought that came to mind and said as Katya came back into view, “I've got to be getting over to the Grosvenor House. You gentlemen will be all right here with Katya, I take it.”

“Right you are, lad.” Greenfield performed another little bow as he took the proffered cup. “Run along and see to your business. We'll suffer on here without you.”

CHAPTER 5

The Grosvenor House Hotel dominated the stretch of Park Lane approaching Marble Arch and Oxford Street. Originally built as the city palace for Sir Richard Grosvenor, the then owner of all West Mayfair, it was a modest red-brick affair of two wings and four hundred rooms.

In 1920, when the palace became a hotel, its downstairs ballroom was converted into an indoor skating rink that could accommodate as many as five hundred people at a time. Those days were long gone, however, and now it was home to some of the largest events of London's social season, including the most exclusive antique show in all England.

Jeffrey entered through the hotel's back doors, passing as he did a taxi rank filled to overflowing with Bentleys and Jaguars and Rolls Royces and stretch Mercedes and several dozen bored drivers. He circled the lobby, showed his dealer's pass to the uniformed attendants, and joined the flow entering the double doors.

There were a number of dealers with whom the Priceless, Ltd antique shop placed pieces. Part of the reason was simply volume—when a major shipment arrived, which took place as often as four or five times a year, there was no way they could stock all the items, much less market them properly. Moreover, there was also the issue of quality and style. They did not handle much English furniture, for example, and did not seek to build a reputation in that area. They turned most such items over to dealers who had made it their life's work—as was the case today.

Visiting the fair was a daunting experience for Jeffrey, though nothing like the year before. He was beginning to know his way around, and did not feel like such a silent idiot when talk turned to pieces and dealers.

A hodgepodge of languages greeted him as he stepped
into the fair proper. Around him he saw elegant women kissing cheeks and laughing over snide asides, languidly flickering jeweled wrists to accent their own verbal thrusts. Jeffrey skirted around them, extremely grateful that his own shop had never become a gathering place for the overly rich and overly bored.

“Hello, hello, what do we have here?” A dealer named Andrew stepped back from a clubbish circle of dealers and waved Jeffrey over.

“Not half bad, that.” This voice belonged to a dealer named Jackie, a short feisty man with a reputation for provoking fights and accepting goods no one else would touch. “Take a stroll from the shop, whisper a word in the right ear, steal an honest bloke's customer, sneak on back, pick up a few bob. All right for some, I suppose.”

“Shut up, Jackie,” Andrew said, his gaze still on Jeffrey. “How are you then, lad? All right?”

“Yes, thanks. I was just—”

“Oh, we know all about that. Never a minute free for a bit of idle chatter, our lad. What's brought you over, then?”

Trying to match his casual tone, Jeffrey repeated a remark often heard among dealers: “Just wanted to see if you had anything I could use to dress up the shop.”

Andrew shook his head. He was a cheerful, solidly built man who had worked his way up from extremely poor beginnings to the management of a very successful Kensington High Street antiques shop. Jeffrey had placed pieces with him on several occasions, and found him to be both honest and shrewd. “No, nothing for you at the moment. Stop back in a couple of days, though. I'll let you have whatever's left for a song, long as you haul it away and save my aching back the trouble.”