Ways and Means (9 page)
The Judge then reviewed the evidence, gave some directions on the question of damages and the jury retired. Poor Judge, poor jury. In the normal case the truth has a nasty habit of coming out, but in Merridew v. Drewe, Basil and Nicholas, with the assistance of their wives, had so arranged the evidence that it was a very difficult task to come to any conclusion at all. They did not in fact mind what view the jury took, and if the jury disagreed Basil would have found an excuse immediately for discontinuing the action so as to enable comment to be made in the Press. They had introduced into the case a large variety of subjects which many members of the public and all the popular newspapers love. There was a wealth of headlines from which editors or sub-editors could choose. Kisses and corsets, games under the kitchen table, the trusting wife, the beautiful next-door neighbour, they were all there and many other things besides.
Small wonder that all the parties concerned were approached outside the Court while the jury was considering its verdict. Elizabeth was the chief attraction, but Petula was a good second, and journalist after journalist made his approaches. Basil and Nicholas, too, as they had hoped, were also invited to provide a story.
‘I have a picture of my wife in the bath,’ said Basil. ‘Quite decent, you know, but I’d throw it in for another £50.’
‘Let me see it,’ said the journalist.
The jury was a long time out.
‘If the plaintiff hasn’t proved his case, he fails,’ said the foreman. ‘That’s what the Judge said.’
‘There’s something funny between those two,’ said another. ‘Can you believe that any man would get a brassiere for a woman if he didn’t want to put it on her?’ He turned to Mrs Jones and added: ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’ve got to face the facts.’
‘Body belts and nylons,’ said another woman on the jury, ‘I’d like to see my husband buying them for the next-door neighbour. He wouldn’t do it twice.’
So they chatted away, now referring to the sherry incident, now to the kitchen table and so on. After two and a half hours, they were still not agreed.
‘Well,’ said the foreman, ‘let’s see if we can do a deal on the damages. I might be prepared to find for the plaintiff if the damages were small enough.’
‘What about £50?’ said another.
After a further half-hour’s discussion, the jury finally agreed on awarding Basil £75 damages, and judgement was given to him for this sum with costs.
The parties and their wives were so taken up with the journalistic attack on them that there was only time for Basil and Nicholas to shake hands with their respective solicitors and to arrange to meet them another day. Basil called to see Mr Mallet in the week following. He paid him his costs mounting to about £150 and then said: ‘Don’t take any steps to enforce the judgement, unless you hear from me. I have a feeling that this may have done the trick. I can’t tell you why. Of course, if she comes back, that’s all I want and I shan’t pursue Nicholas for the £75 and the costs.’
‘That’s very generous of you,’ said Mr Mallet. ‘I don’t see why he shouldn’t pay your costs.’
‘I don’t suppose you would, being a lawyer,’ said Basil, ‘but all I want is my wife back, and if she comes back I shan’t in the least grudge having spent £150 to get her back, and I shan’t let her go again.’
So Basil and Mr Mallet parted company quite happily. After all, from the solicitor’s point of view the case had been won, the costs paid, and the publicity plentiful and useful.
At about the same time Nicholas was seeing Mr Gateshead, and paying his costs, also about £150.
‘It was bad luck,’ said Mr Gateshead. ‘Plainly what we call a compromise verdict.’
‘Oh, I’m quite satisfied,’ said Nicholas, ‘and very grateful for all your help. Now, I can send her back again, can’t I?’
‘You can certainly send her away, but I don’t know if she’ll go back to her husband.’
‘Stranger things have happened,’ said Nicholas. ‘I shall let him whistle for his £75 and the costs. Don’t accept service of any more proceedings, please.’
‘I expect he’ll instruct the Sheriff to levy execution. What shall I say to his solicitors when they ask for payment?’
‘Tell them to take the usual running jump or translate that into legal language if you prefer. “My client has no suggestion to offer,” I suppose you’ll say.’
‘Very well, then, Mr Drewe. Is there anything further I can do for you?’
‘No, thank you very much. You’ve no idea how much you’ve helped me.’
Nor had he.
The net result from the financial point of view was a profit of well over £2,000 to the plaintiff and the defendant and their wives. There was no spectacular news at the moment and the papers eagerly accepted almost anything they were able to sell. Nicholas and Elizabeth even posed for a photograph under the kitchen table for an extra £550. It was really quite an achievement and, when you come to think of it, no one was any the worse off. The Judge and jury would have had to try another case if they hadn’t tried that one. So they lost nothing. Counsel and solicitors were not only paid their fees, but had some useful advertisement. So they gained. The newspapers got what they wanted and were very willing to pay the price asked. Those members of the public who liked reading about kisses and brassieres arid so on had their fill of entertainment. No one lost, some people gained, while the conspirators made over £2,000. It sounds very much like solving the insoluble and getting a quart out of a pint pot. So everyone was satisfied. The nearest approach to the discovery of the conspiracy — and it was still a long way off — was quite unknown to the four concerned in it, so that they had no uneasy moments. It happened when Mr Justice Broad was going to bed one night. His attention had been drawn to a few of the articles in the newspapers and, as he was turning over in his mind some of the details of the case, he had a sudden thought. However, it never went beyond his saying to himself ‘I wonder’ as he took off his cholera belt.
Chapter 3
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‘I WANT you to look really expensive,’ said Basil to Elizabeth. ‘We’re going out.’
‘I am expensive,’ replied Elizabeth. ‘At least, I intend to be.’
‘Well, unless this idea of mine is a success, you won’t be much longer.’
‘Are funds getting low again?’
‘We’ve just enough to try this out.’
‘What is it?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
An hour afterwards Basil and Elizabeth were strolling in the West End of London. Basil could always tell if Elizabeth had really tried by the way people looked at her. If only men did so, she was a failure, but if women had to do so too it was all right. On this occasion she was a great success, once even causing a slight traffic jam when a very human policeman was unable to keep his eyes on his work.
‘We are going to visit most of the art galleries in London.’
‘What a bore. I’ve been to the National Gallery. At least, I think I have. It’s that place in Trafalgar Square, isn’t it? Mother took me there once.’
‘No; I don’t mean those galleries. We are going to the commercial galleries, where they sell pictures — or try to.’
‘Whatever for? We don’t want a picture. You haven’t gone long-haired and artistic, have you? At any rate, not artistic?’
‘We are all going artistic in a sort of a way — you, Nicholas, Petula, and I.’
‘But how and why? I’m very happy as I am.’
‘Why? In order to live. How? I’ll explain in due course. In the meantime, I’ll tell you what you have to do. We’re going to visit the West End galleries every day for about a fortnight until they get to know us. We are prospective purchasers of pictures. Don’t you say anything at all except “Yes” or “No”. Leave the talking to me. But you’ll have to look at the pictures as though you liked doing so.’
‘For a whole fortnight? That’s worse than going to a concert of chamber music. I can at least go to sleep there.’
‘You like oysters and Chablis, don’t you?’
‘Oh, I didn’t know they provided them. That’s different.’
‘They don’t. I provide them, when I’ve got the money. And that’s the object of this exercise. To make money. To begin with, we’ll have to spend some. We’re going to buy a picture in the end.’
‘That seems an awful waste. I could do with five pounds for some stockings.’
‘We’re not going to spend five pounds.’
‘What do they cost, then?’
‘They vary. We shall probably spend about £300 or so.’
‘£300? Have you gone mad? Just think what I could do with that.’
‘Think what I could do with it. Nevertheless, it’s all going into a picture. But not until they know us. Just when they’re beginning to think that we’re not serious buyers, we shall buy one. I’ll tell you more later. Come on. In here. Pretend you’re enjoying yourself. Think of the new clothes you’ll get if this comes off.’
‘Yes — perhaps — if whenever I look at a picture, I can be thinking of a new hat or a new dress, I shall just be able to manage.’
They walked into the Samson Galleries, where an exhibition of French Impressionists was being held. There were not many people there, and one of the directors of this old-established gallery circled round them and decided to make an approach.
‘Good afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon,’ said Basil. ‘I like that one.’
‘Ah — that’s a beauty. It glows — doesn’t it? Look at it from here.’
‘Yes,’ said Basil critically, ‘very nice. Don’t you like it, my dear?’
‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth with a new hat in mind.
‘And you’ll be surprised,’ said the director, ‘when I tell you how much it is.’
‘Indeed? How much is it?’
‘I’ll tell you. You see, we only want to make our normal margin of profit. We picked it up cheaply and so we can sell it far below the market price. I’d like you to guess what it is first — if you don’t mind.’
‘Not much below £1,750,’ said Basil.
Elizabeth took a quick look at him. When he had mentioned paying £300 she had thought it mad enough. But
£1,750 for a picture. What possible enjoyment could be worth £1,750? A mink coat perhaps. But, even if you liked pictures, £1,750 would require a lot of looking before you had your money’s worth. And, she thought, I can always look in the glass for nothing. Still, she knew Basil was after something and so she kept quiet.
‘£900,’ said the director.
Basil patted himself on the back. If he had said much more than double, he would have appeared too stupid, but twice the price being asked was just about right.
‘Really,’ said Basil. ‘That’s remarkable.’
‘It is. Look how it glows.’
They watched it glowing for a few seconds. Then Basil walked right up to the picture, put on his glasses and examined it closely.
‘The quality of the paint,’ he said, admiringly. He had little idea of what it meant, but he knew it was the right thing to say.
‘Lovely,’ said the director. ‘Much better than Defence Bonds,’ he added.
‘You’re right,’ said Basil. ‘Pictures like that can’t lose their value.’
‘On the contrary, if you brought that back to us in a year or two, I expect we could show you a handsome profit.’
‘But I couldn’t do that,’ said Basil. ‘It’s pictures I want, not profit.’
‘Ah, but it’s nice to know you’ve got the value there. Then, again, if you saw another one you wanted very badly and couldn’t afford both, you might be able to exchange them and even have a holiday abroad with the difference.’
Elizabeth wanted to say that she would just like the holiday abroad without the trouble of having to buy a picture and find somewhere to hang it, put it up, take it down and sell it again, but she knew Basil was serious and so she controlled herself and thought hard about a pearl necklace.
‘£900,’ said Basil, as though reflecting. ‘I wonder.’
‘What use are Defence Bonds?’ said the director. ‘You can’t look at them and, with the pound falling every day, a picture’s a much safer investment.’
‘I agree with you about that,’ said Basil, ‘but it’s a question of which. I’d like to buy the lot — but there, I’m not a millionaire.’ He made another close scrutiny of the picture. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Really lovely,’ and then, quite casually, he added: ‘You don’t happen to be giving an exhibition of the Gropists soon, do you? I can’t really afford both and, at the moment, they’ve rather got me.’
‘The — ?’ asked the director.
‘Gropists,’ said Basil distinctly. ‘You know.’
‘Gropists?’ repeated the director slowly, as he considered whether to admit his ignorance at once or whether to make an excuse and go to look them up. Perhaps they were like the Nabis, whom most writers mentioned by name without stating who or what they really were.
‘Yes,’ said Basil again. ‘You know.’
At that moment, to the director’s relief, an old customer of his came in and he was genuinely able to disengage himself in order to greet Mrs Grantley Wotherspoon.
‘How very nice to see you again, Mrs Wotherspoon. I do hope you’re so happy with the little Renoir.’
‘Enchanted. Everybody admires it. It fills up that corner just like you said it would. It’s a shame that Henry doesn’t like pictures. He didn’t even notice it. But all my friends simply adore it. And they’re so envious.’
‘I’m so glad. Have you just come in to have a look round. Or do you want to be tempted?’
‘Please tempt me, Mr Macintosh. I shall adore giving in. You don’t happen to have that Monet seascape still, I suppose?’
‘Now, that’s funny. I thought you might ask me that. D’you know, I’ve kept it in my office just in case you happened to come along.’ As they walked to the office, Mr Macintosh suddenly remembered about the Gropists. ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if you’ve ever heard of the Gropists. I’ve just been asked about them and it’s stumped me.’
Mrs Wotherspoon was in the seventh heaven of delight — she would have been in the eighth if she had known the answer. Here was one of the acknowledged experts asking her a question, coming to her for knowledge. If only she could tell him. She thought for a moment.
‘Aren’t they,’ she began, ‘aren’t they those people who — who —’ and then she made queer movements with her hands. She had had sufficient experience of art experts to give quite a creditable imitation of the antics in which they indulge when trying to say something for which no known words exist.
‘I know them when I see them,’ she added boldly, ‘but they’re a little difficult to explain.’
Mr Macintosh was glad that he had not confessed his ignorance to Basil. He knew, of course, that Mrs Wotherspoon probably hadn’t the remotest idea of what the Gropists were and that it was most likely that she had never heard of them. On the other hand, however, she had been ‘doing’ art for some years now and she might have heard the word somewhere. He decided to look in one of his many works of reference — after he had sold the Monet to Mrs Wotherspoon.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘That’s who they are. Thank you very much indeed. I know now. Thank you for saving me from making a fool of myself to a new customer.’
‘Not at all,’ said Mrs Wotherspoon, beaming. ‘Not at all. You have always been so kind to me. I’m delighted to respond.’
As a matter of fact, over the years Mr Macintosh had been extremely kind to Mrs Wotherspoon. He had sold her many pictures and whatever he charged her, they always appreciated in value. If an impecunious person, in a fit of lunacy, decided to invest his last £500 in a picture, the chances are that tastes would change and a few years later it would not be worth half what he had paid for it. But with Mrs Wotherspoon, who was fabulously wealthy, pictures already worth much gold became worth even more. However much (within the limits open to a respectable art dealer) Mr Macintosh increased the price to Mrs Wotherspoon, the result was always the same.
‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that what you wanted? You want it for your husband’s study, I’m sure. I know just the place.’ Indeed, he knew every wall in her large house and had been responsible for covering most of them. Only good taste had prevented him from making suggestions for one of the lavatories, which was more like a reading room. He had often thought what a good idea that would be, but he was not sure of Mrs Wotherspoon’s reaction and it was not worth taking the risk.
While the Monet was being admired and shining or glowing or doing whatever a good picture ought to do — including, of course, being sold — Basil and Elizabeth completed their inspection and left for the Markwell Galleries.
‘That was excellent,’ said Basil, ‘keep it up. I’ll tell you what it’s all about on the way home.’
Roughly the same performance was repeated to begin with at the Markwell Galleries, except that the manager there was a foreigner.
‘Gropistes?’ he said, with an accent on the second half of the word. ‘Gropistes?’ He looked really puzzled.
‘Yes. You know,’ said Basil.
He said it with such an air of assurance that even Mr Bronck hesitated, even Mr Bronck, who was not only conceited about his knowledge of art, but was fully justified in being so. He was one of the few dealers who could have told you (out of his head) what and who were the Nabis, what the name meant, how the group started, and all the rest of it. But Gropists, Gropists — who on earth were they? Eventually he made a decision.
‘I have never heard of them,’ he said.
‘Really?’ said Basil. ‘It is Mr Bronck I’m speaking to, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How much is that Sisley?’ inquired Basil casually, and somewhat offensively changing the subject.
‘It is not for sale,’ said Mr Bronck a little curtly.
‘What a pity,’ said Basil, ‘if it hadn’t been too much, I should have liked it. But never mind, darling,’ and he turned to Elizabeth, ‘I believe they’ve one at the Rowntree Galleries.’
‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth.
By this time Mr Bronck’s natural desire to sell his pictures had replaced his temporary but stronger desire to cut Basil’s throat.
‘I can show you another one which I think you’ll like,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to come with me.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Basil. They went into a small room and Mr Bronck produced the picture.
‘It shines at you, doesn’t it?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth, thinking of a new diamond ring.
‘It looks as though it will be above my means,’ said Basil. ‘How much is it?’
Mr Bronck looked at the back of the picture.
‘I can let you have it for £1,500,’ he said.
‘I was afraid of that,’ said Basil. ‘Too much. Very cheap for what it is, but more than I can manage.’
‘It would be very easy to sell again,’ said Mr Bronck, ‘if you found you couldn’t afford it. We often do that for customers.’
‘Yes,’ said Basil, ‘but it’s a picture I want. I’m sorry you’ve not heard of the Gropists,’ he added. ‘You will.’
Mr Bronck had now completely recovered his composure.
‘Do tell me about them,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think there was any group I didn’t know. You mustn’t think me vain, but I’ve had forty years’ experience and I learned from my father, who was one of the greatest experts in Europe.’
‘They’re new,’ said Basil; ‘but I thought everyone had heard of them. I’m not an expert — not like you, anyway — but you mark my words, they’re coming along, like the Impressionists in 1874. They’re cheap at the moment, but they won’t be for long. You’ll see. You’ll be able to tell your son.’
‘This is most interesting,’ said Mr Bronck.
‘I’ve not time to discuss them now,’ said Basil, ‘but if you can get me one’ — he paused for a second — ‘one with fingers or a whole hand, I’d pay up to £50 for it.’
‘One with fingers?’ said Mr Bronck, with some astonishment.
‘Yes,’ said Basil, ‘or a whole hand. Now, we really must be going, darling. We’ll come in again soon. Thank you so much. Good afternoon.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Basil to Elizabeth as they walked home. ‘I’ll tell you all about it. On second thoughts, I’ll wait till we get home. Nicholas and Petula should be back by now, and I might as well tell you all at the same time.’
Nicholas and Petula had been spending a fortnight with a mad but wealthy aunt of Petula’s. It was during their absence that Basil had begun operations, believing that the visit to Petula’s aunt would produce no immediate result.
‘Any luck?’ he said when they were all together.
