As the Crow Flies (69 page)

“I
know,” said Becky. “That’s exactly why I can’t contemplate the same move for at
least another year. If I’m to go on stealing their best customers I must stay
competitive in the short term.”

Newman
nodded his understanding.

However,”
Becky continued, “by remaining at seven and a half percent, my profits for 1950
won’t be as high as I might have hoped. But until the leading sellers are
willing to come to us, that’s a problem I’ll continue to face.”

“What
about the buyers?” queried Paul Merrick.

“They
aren’t the problem. If you have the product to sell, the buyers will always
beat a path to your door. You see, it’s the sellers that are the life blood of
an auction house, and they’re every bit as important as the buyers.”

“Funny
old outfit you’re running,” said Charlie with a grin. “Any other business?”

As
no one spoke, Charlie thanked all the members of the board for their attendance
and rose from his place, a signal he always gave to indicate that the meeting
was finally over.

Becky
collected her papers and started walking back to the gallery with Simon.

“Have
you completed the estimates on the silver sale yet?” she asked as they jumped
into the lift just before the doors closed. She touched the “G” and the lift
began its slow journey to the ground floor.

“Yes.
Finished them last night. One hundred and thirty-two items in all. I reckon
they might raise somewhere in the region of seven thousand pounds.”

“I
saw the catalogue for the first time this morning,” said Becky. “It looks to me
as if Cathy has done another first-class job. I was only able to pick up one or
two minor errors but I’d still like to check over the final proofs before they
go back to the printer.”

“Of
course,” said Simon. “I’ll ask her to bring all the loose sheets up to your
office this afternoon.” They stepped out of the lift.

“That
girl has turned out to be a real find,” said Becky. “Heaven knows what she was
doing working in a hotel before she came to us. I shall certainly miss her when
she goes back to Australia.”

“Rumor
has it that she’s thinking of staying.”

“That’s
good news,” said Becky. “I thought she was only hoping to spend a couple of years
in London before she resumed to Melbourne?”

“That’s
what she had originally planned. However, I may have been able to convince her
that she should stay on a little longer.”

Becky
would have asked Simon to explain in greater detail but once they had set foot
in the gallery she was quickly surrounded by staff anxious to gain her
attention.

After
Becky had dealt with several queries, she asked one of the girls who worked on
the counter if she could locate Cathy.

“She’s
not actually around at the moment, Lady Trumper,” the assistant told her. “I
saw her go out about an hour ago.”

“Do
you know where she went?”

“No
idea, I’m sorry.”

“Well,
ask her to come to my office the moment she returns. Meanwhile, could you send
up those catalogue proofs for the silver sale?”

Becky
stopped several times on the way back to her room to discuss other gallery
problems that had arisen in her absence, so that by the time she sat down at
her desk, the proofs for the silver sale were already awaiting her. She began
to turn the pages slowly, checking each entry against its photograph and then
the detailed description. She had to agree with Becky Cathy Ross had done a
first-class job. She was studying the photograph of the Georgian mustard pot
that Charlie had overbid for at Christie’s some years before when there was a
knock on the door and a young woman popped her head in.

“You
asked to see me?”

“Yes.
Do come in, Cathy.” Becky looked up at a tall, slim girl with a mass of curly
fair hair and a face that hadn’t quite lost all its freckles. She liked to
think that her own figure had once been as good as Cathy’s but the bathroom
mirror unflatteringly reminded her that she was fast approaching her fiftieth
birthday. “I only wanted to check over the final catalogue proofs for the
silver sale before they went back to the printer.”

“I’m
sorry I wasn’t around when you returned from the board meeting,” Cathy said. “It’s
just that something came up that worried me. I may be overreacting, but I felt
you ought to know about it in any case.”

Becky
took off her classes, placed them on the desk and looked up intently. “I’m
listening.”

“Do
you remember that man who stood up during the Italian auction and caused all
that trouble over the Bronzino?”

“Will
I ever forget him?”

“Well,
he was in the gallery again this morning.”

“Can
you be sure?”

“I’m
fairly confident. Well-built, graying hair, a brownish moustache and sallow
complexion. He even had the nerve to wear that awful tweed jacket and yellow
tie again.”

“What
did he want this time?”

“I
can’t be certain of that, although I kept a close eye on him. He didn’t speak
to any member of the staff, but took a great deal of interest in some of the
items that were coming up in the silver sale in particular Lot 19.”

Becky
replaced her glasses and turned the catalogue pages over quickly until she came
to the item in question: “A Georgian silver tea set made up of four pieces,
teapot, sugar bowl, tea strainer and sugar tongs, hallmarked with an anchor. Becky
looked down at the letters “AH” printed in the margin. “Estimated value seventy
pounds. One of our better items.”

“And
he obviously agrees with you,” Cathy replied, “because he spent a considerable
time studying each individual piece, then made copious notes before he left. He
even checked the teapot against a photograph he had brought with him.”

“Our
photograph?”

“No,
he seemed to have one of his own.”

“Did
he now?” said Becky as she rechecked the catalogue photo.

“And
I wasn’t around when you came back from the board meeting because when he left
the gallery I decided to follow him.”

“Quick
thinking,” said Becky, smiling. “And where did our mystery man disappear to?

“Ended
up in Chester Square,” said Cathy. “A large house Haley down on the right-hand
side. He dropped a package through the letter box but didn’t go in.”

“Number
19?”

“That’s
right,” said Cathy, looking surprised. “Do you know the house?”

“Only
from the outside,” said Becky without explanation.

“Is
there anything else I can do to help?”

“Yes,
there is. To start with, can you remember anything about the customer who
brought that particular lot in for Salem...”

“Certainly
can,” replied Cathy “because I was called to the front desk to deal with the
lady.” She paused for a moment before adding, “Can’t remember her name but she
was elderly and rather genteel is the way I think you would describe herd”
Cathy hesitated then continued. “As I remember, she had taken a day trip down
from Nottingham. She told me that she’d been left the tea set by her mother.
She didn’t want to sell a family heirloom but ‘needs must.’ I remember that
expression, because I’d never heard it before.”

“And
what was Mr. Fellowes’ opinion when you showed him the set?”

“As
fine an example of the period as he’d seen come under the hammer each piece is
still in almost mint condition. Peter’s convinced the lot will fetch a good
price, as you can see from his estimate.”

“Then
we’d better call in the police straight away,” said Becky. “We don’t need our
mystery man standing up again announcing that this particular item has been
stolen too.”

She
picked up the telephone on her desk and asked to be put through to Scotland
Yard. A few moments later an Inspector Deakins of the CID came on the line and,
having listened to the details of what had taken place that morning, agreed to
come round to the gallery during the afternoon.

The
inspector arrived a little after three, accompanied by a sergeant. Becky took
them both straight through to meet the head of the department. Peter Fellowes
pointed to a minute scratch he had come across on a silver salver. Becky
frowned. He stopped what he was doing and walked over to the center table where
the four-piece tea set was already out on display.

“Beautiful,”
said the inspector as he bent over and checked the hallmark. “Birmingham around
1820 would be my guess.”

Becky
raised an eyebrow.

“It’s
my hobby,” the inspector explained. “That’s probably why I always end up
getting these jobs.” He removed a file from the briefcase he was carrying and
checked through several photographs along with detailed written descriptions of
recently missing pieces of silverware from the London area. An hour later he
had to agree with Fellowes: none of them fitted the description of the Georgian
tea set.

“Well,
we’ve had nothing else reported as stolen that matches up with this particular
lot,” he admitted. “And you’ve polished them so superbly,” he said, turning to
Cathy, “that there’s no hope of our identifying any prints.”

“Sorry,”
said Cathy, blushing slightly.

“No,
miss, it’s not your fault, you’ve done a fine job. I only wish my little pieces
looked so good. Still, I’d better check with the Nottingham police in case they
have something on their files. If they haven’t, I’ll issue a description to all
forces throughout the United Kingdom, just in case. And I’ll also ask them to
check on Mrs. . . ?”

“Dawson,”
said Cathy.

“Yes,
Mrs. Dawson. That may take a little time, of course, but I’ll come back to you
the moment I hear anything.”

“Meanwhile
our sale takes place three weeks next Tuesday,” Becky reminded the inspector.

“Right,
I’ll try and give you the all-clear by then,” he promised.

“Should
we leave that page in the catalogue, or would you prefer the pieces to be
withdrawn?” asked Cathy.

“Oh,
no, don’t withdraw anything. Please leave the catalogue exactly as it is. You
see, someone might recognize the set and then get in touch with us.”

Someone
has already recognized the set, thought Becky.

“While
you’re at it,” continued the inspector, “I’d be obliged if you could give me a
copy of the catalogue picture, as well as use of one of the negatives for a day
or two.”

When
Charlie was told about the Georgian tea set over dinner that night his advice
was simple: withdraw the pieces from the sale and promote Cathy.

“Your
first suggestion isn’t quite that easy,” said Becky. “The catalogue is due to
be sent out to the general public later this week. What explanation could we
possibly give to Mrs. Dawson for removing her dear old mother’s family
heirloom?”

“That
it wasn’t her dear old mother’s in the first place and you withdrew it because
you’ve every reason to believe that it’s stolen property.”

“If
we did that, we could find ourselves being sued for breach of contract,” said
Becky, “when we later discover that Mrs. Dawson’s totally innocent of any such
charge. If she then took us to court we wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.”

“If
this Dawson lady is as totally innocent as you think, then why is Mrs. Trentham
showing such an interest in her tea set? Because I can’t help feeling she
already has one of her own.”

Becky
laughed. “She certainly has. I know, because I’ve even seen it, though I never
did get the promised cup of tea.”

Three
days later Inspector Deakins telephoned Becky to let her know that the
Nottingham police had no record of anything that had been stolen in their patch
fitting the tea set’s description and they were also able to confirm that Mrs.
Dawson was not previously known to them. He had therefore sent the details out
to every other constabulary in the land. “But,” he added, “outside forces aren’t
always that cooperative with the Met when it comes to trading information.”

As
Becky put the phone down, she decided to give the green light and send the
catalogues out, despite Charlie’s apprehension. They were posted the same day
along with invitations to the press and selected customers.

A
couple of journalists applied for tickets to the sale. An unusually sensitive
Becky checked them out, only to find that both worked for national newspapers,
and had covered Trumper’s sales several times in the past.

Simon
Matthews considered that Becky was overreacting, while Cathy tended to agree
with Sir Charles that the wise course would be to withdraw the tea set from the
auction until they had been given the all-clear by Deakins.

“If
we’re to withdraw a lot every time that man takes an interest in one of our
sales we may as well close our front doors and take up stargazing,” Simon told
them.

The
Monday before the sale was to take place Inspector Deakins telephoned to ask if
he could see Becky urgently. He arrived at the gallery thirty minutes later,
again accompanied by his sergeant. This time the only item he removed from his
briefcase was a copy of the Aberdeen Evening Express dated 15 October 1949.