Judith Ivory (28 page)

“It sounds illegal,” Stuart said.

“Well, it is,” she admitted readily, then smiled again, full-blown. “But it shouldn’t be,” she said charmingly. Then added, “My point is, I have a third buyer I didn’t expect for these.” She indicated the three fake Rembrandts as she set the third back on the writing desk. “My fellow happened to do three, while I only had two provenances done; I only had two buyers. But now another source has wired me that he’s changed his mind. Let me take the money I offered you, the two fifty-pound notes—and have another set of bills of sale made. Then we’ll sell the third, and you two get the profit. On me. My pleasure.”

Leonard’s eyes grew wide. “What kind of profit are we talking about?”

“Two thousand—a thousand pounds for each of you.” She apologized with a shrug. “These little things are nothing. Tiny. You should have seen that one.” She pointed, then shook an irritable finger at the newspaper clipping on the liquor cabinet, the one showing her trying to shield herself from a camera, while a very large Rubens stood behind—the one her photographer friend had taken, then superimposed over another he had, putting Emma in Paris via his darkroom. Stuart and Emma had had a grainy newspaper photo made of it as part of their setup.

She shook her head. “I must say, these newspaper fellows are ruining my business. I have to lie low, do small paintings
now that don’t make the news, till they ease up.” Then she smiled and sloughed the matter off. “Hardly a problem, though. I still get my insurance commissions.” Her smile grew sly. “And the side commissions off the small things.”

Leonard looked at Stuart as if to say,
Small things. Her small “side commissions” netted two thousand pounds a pop, six thousand for all three pictures.

“Actually, when you look at it correctly,” she said, pouring them all a second brandy, “it’s harmless. The museum loses no work of art. The insurance company loses no money, in fact they look smart, competent at their job. Meanwhile, art collectors get the secret joy of owning an original. Never mind it isn’t; their joy is authentic. And we make a tidy bundle. It’s a sure deal, where everyone has a stake, and everyone wins.

“So how’s that?” she asked, blinking, fluttering her long eyelashes. “May I use what you won’t take to make this third buyer happy? Get a good set of provenances done quickly, then hand you the profit? It costs me nothing more than what I’d have cheerfully given you anyway, while I get to extend my gratitude more substantially: A thousand pounds should cover a nice stay in London for you fellows, first-class all the way. What do you say? Let’s do it. It would make me happy.”

Lord, not a man in England would want anything more at that moment than to make Emma Hotchkiss happy.

At which point, she held up her hands and said, “No. Say nothing.” She went to the door and in a very friendly manner, opened it, lifting her hand outward. “Just go, then tomorrow morning check at the front desk. If you take the envelopes waiting for you, I’ll know I’ve pleased you. If you don’t, no hard feelings. I understand, and thank you again.”

And, like that, Emma had both out the door, their hats in their hands.

Stuart was left breathless. His dear, sweet Em was a first-rate hustler, if he’d ever met one—far better than he’d ever realized.

The next morning, uncle and nephew met for breakfast. Stuart had never seen his damned relative so much, yet more was to come if all went well.

The concierge in his morning suit, striped tie, dove gray coat, smiled at them from the front desk on their way to their table upstairs. He called to them before they even asked. “Gentlemen, these were left for you.” Envelopes. They each contained ten hundred-pound notes. A thousand pounds.

“How did she do it so quickly?” Leonard asked.

Stuart—for this was his job now—relieved his concerns. “Her buyers must be in London, all of them waiting. I suppose there is an advantage in doing something like this fast and in person.”

Leonard nodded and examined the inside of his envelope again, counting, amazed. “I think she’s crazy,” he said.

Stuart laughed. “Without doubt. The smartest crazy woman I have ever met.”

Both men nodded.

Leonard added, “I like her.” He couldn’t quit looking in his envelope. He sat down for breakfast, then counted the money again.

Stuart waited till their tea came, then said, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

Leonard glanced up.

Stuart continued. “The statue. I don’t know if she can do sculpture or artifacts, but we can ask. She has a lot of art world contacts. So I supply the provenance, you, the statue itself. All you wanted was to sell it for the money, so we get three copies made, complete with three forged sets of provenances. We sell the copies. I get the real statue and the money from one fake, you get twice that—the money from the other two. We can cut her in in some way, if she likes.”

Leonard rolled his lips together, reluctant to make his ad
mission. Then, “Y-y-y-yes,” Leonard said, dragging the word out with dawning understanding. “It could be done.”

Their first inch of success: Leonard had admitted possession of the statue.

Stuart smiled. “Shall we go see her?”

Leonard blinked, then nodded. “Let’s.”

They put their napkins down, abandoning the idea of breakfast altogether.

Uncle Leonard had bit, as Emma called it. He was in, hook, line, and sinker.

While Stuart was beside himself with pleasure and anticipation.

It was with joy that Stuart watched Emma repossess his two thousand pounds. She took both envelopes back, then put the money into the center drawer of her writing table. As she said, “You fellows certainly catch on.” She smiled with approval, turning to face them fully as she leaned back on the safely returned money. “You have indeed struck on the way to turn this found money into a fortune.”

“Do you need all of it?” Leonard asked. He looked anxiously at the desk behind her.

“How many duplicates do you want?”

“Three.”

“With the proper papers to get full value for the work”—she narrowed her eyes, a woman whose mind worked like an abacus, counting up costs—“two thousand pounds might do it.” Then she asked the appalling question, “If it takes a bit more, can you raise it on short notice?”

Leonard and Stuart looked at one another.

While Emma expounded: First, Leonard as the owner would have to “insure” his statue with one of her companies. “The insurance is absolutely legitimate,” she assured him. “If anything should happen to your statue, the company would have to compensate you. What a clever man,” she said and
tapped Leonard on the chest once as she walked by. “You use money you didn’t have a day ago to protect your only risk, your statue”—she nodded at Stuart—“and provenance. I must hand it to you. You certainly know how to make the most of circumstances. If all you tell me holds true, I could see the statue’s selling for upward from a hundred thousand.”

Leonard’s eyes grew round as crumpets. Besides the insurance, she explained, there would be costs for the forger who did the provenances, the sculptor who made the imitation statues, and the services of a jeweler who’d do the statue’s jewels in paste. “You can trust each buyer to be very careful of his rare old object, so as long as we get the look, substance, and weight of it right, I see no reason to use expensive materials.” Part of the statue was in jade as well as precious and semi-precious stones.

“This, you realize,” she said, swishing around today in a lavender gown—it fit so well and so encouraged a man to look at her shape, Stuart could hardly follow along with what she was saying: a good thing his main function just then in their little game was to ogle her. “This, you realize, is ideal in that there is no guard to pay off, and it is so private the newspapers won’t pick it up.”

“Look,” Leonard offered, “if you think you should have a cut of the profit—”

“I absolutely will hear of no such thing. I’ll set you up with the right people, but you’ll be doing most of the leg-work. And I get a commission off the insurance, remember. That is already enough. My pleasure, gentlemen. When my purse went missing yesterday, I thought I’d go mad. You saved me. It is my pleasure to throw a few names at you today. My pleasure,” she repeated.

“And now if you’ll excuse me,” said the bustling Emma, “I have my own business to attend to. Here.” She scribbled a name and address on a blank piece of hotel stationery. “Go to this man. Tell him I sent you. He’ll do a brilliant job on your statue, I promise.”

Stuart reached for the paper. Emma looked up at him, frowned, and jerked back. He’d been expecting something exactly like this, though he hadn’t known in what form it would come: Emma beginning the process of distrust in him. Even knowing it was feigned, the pit of his stomach clenched as he watched Leonard accept the slip of paper, with Emma smiling warmly at him.

She continued, “You should get the real statue as soon as possible. I’ll tell him to expect it and pay him his first installment.” She nodded toward the drawer with the money, then glanced at Stuart. “Get me the real provenance also,” she said coolly. Then to Leonard, with another smile as warm as sunlight, “We’ll take care of the rest.”

Leonard was watching all this, but not entirely taken in. He balked. “I’m not simply going to hand over a hundred-thousand-pound statue to a stranger.”

Emma lifted her hands—but of course—unfazed, still smiling. “You’re in charge, sir. Tell him where you want him to do the work. The simpler you make it, the quicker it will all happen, but by all means make yourself comfortable. All I can tell you is I’ve dealt with him, oh, eight times—” Almost absently, she went over to her breakfast table on which sat a tray containing several telegrams. She picked up one, sliding her nail, then her finger, under the flap, and continued, “He has been entirely reliable. Plus I believe he’d like to work with me again. Your statue will be perfectly safe.” Indulgently, she smiled again before she unfolded the telegram. “Plus it’s insured, dear heart. I’ll write the policy up as of today, though I’ll need to see the statue as soon as possible so as to get all the particulars right.” She looked down at her telegram, then muttered, “You know the way out, gentlemen. I’ll meet with you as soon as you have the statue and provenance.”

On their way down in the lift, Stuart murmured over the sound of chains’ and cables’ clanking, “The provenance is in Yorkshire.” It wasn’t; he’d brought it with him. “It’ll take me a day there and a day back. Is the statue far?”

The elevator operator lowered them slowly on the swinging cable as Leonard whispered, “Here in London.”

Oh, the joy of hearing the whereabouts after all the denial! Stuart kissed Emma on her imaginary cheek. “Will you take it to this fellow?”

Leonard nodded, though he spoke with some doubt. “I thought I’d go have a look at him first. I don’t know whether to trust her or not.”

“I know what you mean,” Stuart said seriously. “It all seems too easy. I myself don’t trust her.”

The lure of large profit and a history of opposing his nephew combined to make Leonard throw Stuart a worried glance. “You won’t get the provenance then?”

Stuart let the elevator noisily ratchet down another floor before he murmured, “No, no, I’m going to get it. I just think we should proceed cautiously.”

He and his uncle watched through the lift’s grate as the lobby slowly rose into view. Then Leonard said, “Of course, as she says, it’s all insured, even if her fellow suddenly took the statue.”

Stuart let a few more thoughtful moments tick by before he said, “Get the policy from her, then tell me who the company is. I’ll see if I can mention the company casually at my club, see if anyone knows—”

“God”—Leonard grabbed his arm—“don’t talk to your House of Lords cronies about this, you idiot.”

Stuart raised his brow, staring at where his uncle had hold of his coat sleeve.

Leonard continued, “I say we move carefully, but speak to no one about it. That’s the safest thing.”

“All right,” Stuart agreed happily.

The lift’s door accordioned back. “The lobby,” said the operator.

As they exited, Leonard asserted in a whisper, “You don’t trust her because she likes me.”

“Does she?” Stuart glanced over his shoulder as they walked. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“And she doesn’t like you.”

He stopped and turned to look at his relative, raising a disputing eyebrow.

They stood at the side of the lobby, beside a huge pot of palms, his uncle smirking at him. “While you can’t take your eyes off her. The Lady Hartley. Dear Emma. You fancy her.”

Stuart played it evenly. “And your point is?”

Leonard chuckled. “She’s a bit bottom heavy, don’t you think? A little thick?”

“Emma?” Stuart scowled. For a second, he wanted to wrap a lift cable around his uncle’s neck, shift the gear knob, then drop the fellow down the shaft. “Emma’s waist”—he made a small circle of his thumbs spread away from his hands—“is like this.”

Leonard was amused by the diameter, then intrigued. “And how would you know?”

Stuart raised his eyebrow higher: at himself. He cleared his throat, trying to clear his mind. “I came back last night,” he said. Which did not sound half-bad—not as a lie nor as a future idea. “I told her I’d lost a glove and asked if I could look for it.”

“And?”

“The glove wasn’t there.”

His uncle made a sarcastic face. “How did it go?”

Stuart shrugged and let out air noisily through his lips, looking down. “Not well.” He shook his head, then smiled up slyly. “But I can tell you her waist is small. She’s as firm as a little gazelle.” As pretty as a doe. As soft as a dove. To touch her hair was to run one’s fingers through manifest moonlight.

“I know,” Leonard said. “She’s something. A lush little thing.” He glanced at his nephew, an agreement at last. “I was having a little fun with you.” He laughed. “By jove, but I’d have a go at her myself if we didn’t need her so badly.”

Stuart felt heat rise up behind his eyes. “Go get the statue, will you? And mind your own business. My personal life is my own.”

“Not if you make a ballocks of it, it isn’t. Leave her alone. She was clearly taking pains this morning to keep her distance from you. Your stupidity last night explains that.”