Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less (7 page)

The gallery, just three doors away from
Sotheby’s, consisted of one vast room with a worn grey carpet and red faded
wallpaper. The more worn the carpet and the more faded the walls, the greater
the success and reputation of the gallery (or at least that is the theory).
There was a staircase at the far end of the room, against which some unregarded
paintings were stacked, backs to the world. David sorted through them on a whim
and found, to his surprise, the sort of painting he was after. It was
an oil
by Leon Underwood called “Venus in the Park.” The
large, rather sombre canvas contained about six men and women sitting on metal
chairs at circular tea tables. Among them, in the foreground, was a naked
comely woman with generous breasts and long hair. Nobody was paying her the
slightest attention and she sat gazing out of the picture, face inscrutable, a
symbol of warmth and love in indifferent surroundings. David found her utterly
compelling.

The gallery proprietor, Jean Pierre Lamanns,
wore an elegantly tailored suit as befitted a man who rarely received cheques
for less than a thousand pounds. At thirty-five, he could afford the little
extravagances of life and his Gucci shoes, Yves St. Laurent tie, Turnbull and
Asser shirt and Piaget watch left no one in any doubt, especially
women, that
he knew what he was about. He was an Englishman’s
vision of a Frenchman, slim and neat with longish dark, wavy hair and deep
brown eyes that hinted at being a little sharp. He could be pernickety and
demanding, with a wit that was often as cruel as it was amusing, which may have
been one of the reasons he was still a bachelor. There certainly had not been
any shortage of applicants. When it came to customers only his charm was on
display. As David wrote out his cheque, he rubbed his forefinger gently
backwards and forwards over his fashionable moustache, only too happy to
discuss the picture.

“Underwood is one of the greatest sculptors
and artists in England today. He even tutored Henry Moore, you know. I believe
he is underestimated because of his treatment of journalists and the press,
whom he will describe as drunken scribblers.”

“Hardly the way to endear himself to the
media,” murmured David as he handed over the cheque for £850, feeling agreeably
prosperous. Although it was the most expensive purchase he had ever made, he
felt it had been a good investment and, more important, he liked the painting.

Jean Pierre took David downstairs to show
him the Impressionist and Modern collection he had built up over many years,
and continued to enthuse about Underwood. They celebrated David’s acquisition
over a whisky in Jean Pierre’s office.

“I would like to see more of Underwood’s
work, Mr. Lamanns.”

“Then I can only recommend you to travel
down to his Brook Green studio to see his workshop. I’ll go with you, if you
like. I haven’t seen him for some time.”

“I would enjoy that immensely,” said David.
He was impressed by the Frenchman’s depth of knowledge on art. David always
admired experts. They fixed their pilgrimage to Underwood for the weekend.

On Saturday David travelled by car to Brook
Green from the City, and managed to get lost twice in Chiswick. He wondered if
he would ever understand how the London road system worked. When he eventually
arrived, Jean Pierre was standing on the pavement waiting for him and took him
straight in to see the great man, who was now very old and going blind. But his
immense enthusiasm and skill came out with everything he said. His studio in
the basement was covered in paintings and sculptures. In that room was fifty
years of work, and David spent two hours wishing he could afford it all.

He eventually ended up by buying a small
maquette called “The Juggler” and inviting them both for lunch.

“I rarely leave the house nowadays,” said
Leon Underwood, “but if you would ever like to come and see me again, or bring
a friend, you will always be welcome at any time.” He bowed them gently out of
the house and pottered back to his unfinished canvas. He picked up his brush
and thought a little sadly of his beautiful naked Venus on the wall of the
brisk young American.

David was not really sure where to take Jean
Pierre for lunch, and he made a bolt for the new Hilton in Shepherd’s Bush.
Like so many Americans in a strange city, he knew that not too much could go
wrong at a Hilton. It was all so reassuringly like home. Conrad Hilton must
have made millions playing on this particular characteristic in his countrymen.

Over lunch Jean Pierre told David in more
detail how he had built up his business over the past fifteen years from a
small gallery into its present size with quite an impressive stock of minor
Impressionists.

“But,” he continued, “one day I hope that my
gallery will be as respected as Agnew’s or Tooth’s.”

“I’m sure it will,” said David. “There is so
little enterprise or hard work going on in this country, anyone with your sort
of initiative will undoubtedly succeed, but what made you leave France?”

“Ah, a fair question. Let’s just say that I
nearly married the daughter of the chairman of the Bernheim Jeune. Also there
are enough Frenchmen trying to set up art galleries in Paris. But that’s enough
of me.” (Not that Jean Pierre ever really felt there was enough of him.) “What
line of business are you in?”

“I work with a small oil company called
Discovery Oil, who
are
exploring prospects in the
North Sea.”

“Had any success?” enquired Jean Pierre.

“Well, confidentially, we are rather excited
about the future. It is no secret that the company shares have gone from three
to seven dollars in the last few weeks, but no one knows the real reason.”

“Would it be a good investment for a little
art dealer like myself?” asked Jean Pierre.

“I’ll tell you how good an investment I
think it is,” said David. “I am investing three thousand dollars in the company
on Monday, which is all I have in the world–now that I have captured Venus,
that is. We are shortly to make a rather special announcement.”

A twinkle came into Jean Pierre’s eye. A nod
was as good as a wink to one of his Gallic subtlety. He did not pursue the line
any longer.

The rest of the meal was spent in discussing
their mutual interest, sports. They were so engrossed in their conversation,
they didn’t notice the waiter hovering anxiously to clear their table; he
wanted some time off that afternoon. Finally, they parted, both surprised that
it was nearly four o’clock.

“When is the strike going to be announced,
Bernie?”

“We expect it to be early next week. We’ve
had a few problems. Nothing we can’t lick though.”

That gave David some relief, as he had taken
up 500 shares himself that morning, investing the remaining $3,625 from his
bonus. Like the others, he was hoping for a quick profit.

“Rowe Rudd.”

“Frank Watts, please. Jean Pierre Lamanns.”

“Good morning, Jean Pierre. What can we do
for you?”

“I want to buy
twenty-five
thousand Discovery Oil
.”

“Never heard of them.
Hold on a minute...
Canadian
company, very low capital.
A bit risky, J.P.
I
wouldn’t recommend it.”

“It’s all right, Frank, I only
want
them for two or three weeks; then you can sell them. I’m
not going to hold on to them. When did the account start?”

“Yesterday.”

“Right.
Buy them today and sell them by the end of
the account, or earlier. I’m expecting an announcement next week, so when they
go over ten dollars you can get rid of them. I’m not trying to be clever, but
buy them in my share company name, as I don’t want the deal traced back to me–it
might embarrass the informant.”

“Right, sir.
Buy twenty-five thousand Discovery Oil and
sell during the last few days of the account, or sooner if instructed.”

“I will be in Paris all next week, so don’t
forget to sell if they go over ten dollars.”

“Right, J.P., have a good trip.”

The red telephone rang.

“Rowe Rudd
are
looking for shares. Do you know anything about it?”

“No, Harvey. It must be David Kesler again.
Do you want me to speak to him?”

“No, say nothing. I have released
twenty-five thousand shares at $7.80. Kesler’s only got to do one
more big
one and I’ll be out. Prepare our plan for a week
before the end of this account.”

“Right, boss. Quite a few people are also
buying small amounts.”

“Yes, just as before, they all have to tell
their friends they’re on to a good thing. Say nothing to Kesler.”

“You know, David,” said Richard Elliott, “you
work too hard. Relax. We’re going to be busy once the announcement’s made.”

“I guess so,” said David. “Work’s just a
habit with me now.”

“Well, take tonight off.
How
about a spot of something at Annabel’s?”

David was flattered by the invitation to
London’s most exclusive nightclub and accepted enthusiastically.

David’s hired Ford Cortina looked out of
place that evening in Berkeley Square with so many Rolls Royces and Mercedeses
double parked. He made his way down the little iron staircase into the
basement, which must have at one time been no more than the servants’ quarters
of the elegant town house above. Now it was a splendid club, with a restaurant,
discotheque and a small plush bar, the walls covered in prints and pictures.
The main dining room was dimly lit and crowded with small tables, most already
occupied. The decor was Regency and extravagant. Mark Birley, the owner, had in
the short period of ten years made Annabel’s the most sought-after club in
London with a waiting list for membership of over a thousand. The discotheque
was playing in the far corner, and the dance floor, on which you couldn’t have
parked two Cadillacs, was crowded. Most of the couples were dancing very close
to each other–they didn’t have much choice. David was somewhat surprised to
notice that most of the men on the floor were about twenty years older than the
girls. The headwaiter, Louis, showed David to Richard Elliott’s table,
realising it was David’s first visit to the club by the way he was staring at
all the personalities of the day. Oh well, thought David, perhaps one day they
will stare at me.

After an exceptional dinner Richard Elliott
and his wife joined the masses on the dance floor while David returned to the
little bar surrounded by comfortable red settees. He struck up a conversation
with someone who introduced himself as James Brigsley. Even if he did not treat
the whole world as such, certainly he treated Annabel’s as a stage. Tall, blond
and cool, his eyes were alight with good humour and he seemed at ease with
everyone around him. David admired his socially assured manner, something he
had never acquired and feared he never would. His accent, even to David’s
unskilled ears, was resonantly upper class.

David’s new acquaintance talked of his
visits to the States, flattering him by remarking how much he had always liked
the Americans. After some time, David was able quietly to ask the headwaiter
who the Englishman was.

“He’s Lord Brigsley, the eldest son of the
Earl of Louth, sir.”

What do you know?
thought
David, Lords look like anyone else, especially when they have had a few drinks.
Lord Brigsley was tapping David’s glass.

“Would you care for another?”

“Thank you very much, my lord,” said David.

“Don’t bother with all that stupidity. The
name’s James. What are you doing in London?”

“I work for an oil company. You probably
know my chairman, Lord Hunnisett. I have never met him myself, to tell you the
truth.”

“Sweet old buffer,” said James. “His son and
I were at Harrow together. If you are in oil, you can tell me what to do with
my Shell and BP shares?”

“Hold onto them,” said David. “It’s going to
be very safe to be in any commodities, especially oil as long as the British
government don’t get greedy and try and take control of it themselves.”

Another double whisky arrived. David was
beginning to feel just slightly tipsy.

“What about your own company?” enquired
James.

“We’re only small,” said David, “but our
shares have gone up more than any other oil company in the last three months,
though I suspect they have nowhere near reached their zenith.”

“Why?” demanded James.

David glanced round and lowered his voice to
a confidential whisper.

“Well, I expect you realise that if you make
an oil strike in a big company it can only put the percentage of your profits
up by a tiny amount, but if you make a strike in a small company, naturally
that profit will be reflected as a considerably larger percentage of the whole.”

“Are you telling me you have made a strike?”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that,” said
David. “I would be obliged if you will treat that remark in confidence.”