Oliver Dimbleby was a pink man in a pink shirt who always seemed unduly pleased with himself. His hair was curly and sandy, with tiny horns over his ears. Isherwood and Dimbleby were as close as two competitors could be in the London art trade, which meant that Isherwood despised him only a little.
“You’ve lost your backing,” Dimbleby said. “You can’t
give
a painting away. You even lost this month’s girl, two weeks ahead of schedule. Oh,
hell,
what was this one’s name?”
“Heather.”
“Ah, yes, Heather. A shame to lose one like that, wasn’t it? I would have enjoyed getting to know
Heather
a bit better. She came to me before she went to Giles Pittaway. Lovely girl, but I told her I wouldn’t poach in a friend’s forest. Sent her packing. Unfortunately, she walked to New Bond Strasse and straight into the arms of the devil.”
“So I’m in trouble,” said Isherwood, trying to change the subject. “What’s your point?”
“It’s Pittaway, isn’t it? Killing all of us, what?” There was a bit of the Estuary in Dimbleby’s accent, and it had thickened with the two bottles of Burgundy they’d consumed over lunch at Wilton’s. “Allow me to let you in on a little secret, old love. We’re all in the same boat. There are no buyers and no good pictures to sell even if there were. It’s all modern and the Impressionists, and nobody can afford to deal van Goghs and Monets except the big boys. I had a pop star come into my gallery the other day. Wanted something for his bedroom to pull together his duvet cover and Santa Fe carpet. I sent him to Selfridges. He didn’t see the humor in that, thick bastard. Father warned me to stay out of this business. Sometimes, I wish to Christ I’d listened to the old bugger. Giles Pittaway has sucked all the air out of the market. And with such crap.
Jesus!
But it’s crap, isn’t it, Julie?”
“Beyond crap, Oliver,” Isherwood agreed, and poured some more of the wine.
“I wandered past one of his galleries last week. Looked in the window. There was a very glossy, very shiny piece of shit by that French flower painter from Colmar. Oh, shit, what’s his name, Julie?”
“Are you referring to Jean-Georges Hirn?”
“Ah, yes, that’s it! Jean-Georges Hirn. Bouquet of roses, narcissi, hyacinth, nasturtium, morning glory, and other flowers. I call it chocolate box. Know what I mean, Julie?”
Isherwood nodded slowly and sipped his wine. Dimbleby took a deep breath and plunged on. “That very same night Roddy and I had dinner at the Mirabelle. You know how dinners with Roddy can be. Needless to say, when the two of us left the restaurant at midnight, we were flying very high indeed. Feeling absolutely no pain.
Numb.
Roddy and I wandered the streets for a while. He’s getting divorced, Roddy. Wife’s finally had enough of his antics. In any case, we soon found ourselves standing in front of the very same gallery owned by the venerable Giles Pittaway, in front of the very same piece of shit by Jean-Georges Hirn, bouquet of roses, narcissi, hyacinth, nasturtium, morning glory, and other flowers.”
“I’m not sure I want to hear the rest,” Isherwood moaned.
“Oh, but you do, petal.” Dimbleby leaned forward even closer and moistened his thin lips with his agile little tongue. “Roddy went crazy. Made one of his speeches. He was so loud they probably heard him in St. John’s Wood. Said Pittaway was the devil. Said his ascendancy was a sign the apocalypse was near. Marvelous stuff, really. I just stood on the pavement and applauded and tossed in a ‘hear, hear’ every now and again for good measure.”
Dimbleby drew even closer and lowered his voice to an excited whisper. “When he’s finished with the sermon, he starts beating his briefcase against the glass. You know that hideous metal creature he insists on carrying. After a couple of throws, the window shatters and the alarm starts to sound.”
“Oliver! Tell me this is just another one of your stories! My God!”
“Truth, Julie. Unvarnished truth. Not telling tall tales. I grabbed Roddy by the collar and we started to run like hell. Roddy was so pissed he can’t remember a thing.”
Isherwood was getting a headache from the wine. “Is there a point to this wretched story, Oliver?”
“My point is that you’re not alone. We’re all hurting. Giles Pittaway has us all by the balls, and he’s squeezing harder than ever. Mine are turning blue, for Christ’s sake.”
“You’re surviving, Oliver. And you’re getting fatter. You’re going to need a bigger gallery soon.”
“Oh, doing quite nicely, thank you very much. But I could be doing better. And so could you, Julie. No criticism intended, but you could move a few more pictures than you’re moving.”
“Things are going to turn around. I just need to hold on by my fingernails for a few weeks, and then I’ll be fine. What I
need
is a new girl.”
“I can get you a girl.”
“Not that kind of girl. I need a girl who can answer the phone, a girl who knows something about art.”
“The girl I was thinking about is very good on the phone and is a real work of art. And you’re not pinning your hopes on that piece you bought at Christie’s last summer?”
“Oliver, how did you—”
“Like I said, petal. There are no secrets down here.”
“Oliver, if there is a point to this conversation, please
do
come to it soon.”
“My
point
is that we need to band together. We need to form an alliance if we’re to survive. We’re never going to defeat the dreaded Giles Pittaway, but if we create a mutual defense pact perhaps we can live side by side in peace.”
“You’re babbling, Oliver. Try talking straight for once in your life, for God’s sake. I’m not one of your girlfriends.”
“All right, straight talk. I’m thinking about a partnership.”
“A partnership? What kind of partnership?”
“You want it straight?”
“Yes, of course.”
“The kind of partnership where I buy you out.”
“Oliver!”
“You’ve a nice gallery.”
“Oliver!”
“You’ve nice paintings down there in your vault.”
“Oliver!”
“You’ve even managed to retain something of a reputation. I would like to inspect your inventory and come to a fair price. Enough money for you to clear away your debt. Then I’d like to burn all your dead stock, get something for it, and start over. You can work for me. I’ll pay you a generous salary, plus commission. You can do quite nicely, Julie.”
“Work for you? Are you completely insane? Oliver, how dare you?”
“Don’t get your back up. Don’t get your pride up. It’s business, not personal. You’re drowning, Julian. I’m throwing you a lifeline. Don’t be a fool. Take the bloody thing.”
But Isherwood was getting to his feet and digging through his pockets for money.
“Julian, please. Keep your money. It’s my party. Don’t behave like this.”
“Piss off !” Isherwood hurled a pair of twenty-pound notes toward Dimbleby’s pink face. “How dare you, Oliver! Really!”
He stormed out of the restaurant and walked back to the gallery. So, the jackals of St. James’s were circling, and fat Oliver Dimbleby wanted the biggest piece of the carcass for himself.
Buy me out, Oliver! Imagine the nerve! Imagine me working for that tubby little misogynist!
He had half a mind to call Giles Pittaway and tell him the story about the broken window.
As Isherwood marched across Mason’s Yard, he vowed not to surrender without a fight. But in order to fight he needed a clean Vecellio, and for that he needed Gabriel. He had to find him before he fell under Shamron’s spell and was gone forever. He walked up the stairs and let himself into the gallery. It was terribly depressing to be alone. He was used to seeing a pretty girl behind the desk when he came back to work after lunch. He sat down at his desk, found Gabriel’s number in his telephone book, dialed the number, let it ring a dozen times, slammed down the receiver.
Maybe he’s just gone to the village. Or maybe he’s out on that bloody boat of his.
Or maybe Shamron has already got to him.
“Shit!” he said softly.
He left the gallery, flagged down a taxi on Piccadilly, rode up to Great Russell Street. He paid off the cab a few blocks from the British Museum and stepped through the doorway of the L. Cornellissen & Son art supplies shop. He felt strangely calm as he stood on the scuffed wooden floor, surrounded by the varnished shelves filled with paints, palettes, paper, canvases, brushes, and charcoal pencils.
A flaxen angel called Penelope smiled at him over the counter.
“Hullo, Pen.”
“Julian,
super,
” she breathed. “How are you? God, but you look all in.”
“Lunch with Oliver Dimbleby.” No other explanation was necessary. “Listen, I was wondering if you’ve seen our friend. He’s not answering his phone, and I’m starting to think he’s wandered off the edge of a cliff down there in Cornwall.”
“Unfortunately, I haven’t been fortunate enough to lay eyes on that lovely man in quite some time.”
“Anyone else in the shop heard from him?”
“Hold on. I’ll check.”
Penelope asked Margaret, and Margaret asked Sherman, and Sherman asked Tricia, and on it went until a disembodied male voice from deep in the shop—the acrylic paint and pencil section judging by the sound of it—announced solemnly, “I spoke to him just this morning.”
“Mind telling me what he wanted?” said Isherwood to the ceiling.
“To cancel his monthly shipment of supplies.”
“How many
monthly
shipments exactly?”
“
Every
monthly until further notice.”
“Did he say why?”
“Does he ever, darling?”
Next morning Isherwood canceled his appointments for the rest of the week and hired a car. For five hours he sped along the motorways. Westward to Bristol. Southward along the Channel. Then the long haul down through Devon and Cornwall. Weather as volatile as Isherwood’s mood, marbles of rain one moment, weak white winter sun the next. The wind was constant, though. So much wind Isherwood had trouble keeping the little Ford Escort attached to the road. He ate lunch while he drove and stopped only three times—once for petrol, once for a piss, and a third time on Dartmoor when his car struck a seabird. He picked up the corpse, using an empty plastic sandwich bag to protect his fingers, and said a brief Jewish prayer for the dead before ceremoniously tossing the bird into the heather.
He arrived at Gabriel’s cottage shortly before three o’clock. Gabriel’s boat was covered in a tarpaulin. He crossed the lane and rang the bell. He rang it a second time, then hammered on the door, then tried the latch. Locked.
He peered through the paned glass into a spotless kitchen. Gabriel was never one for food—throw him a scrap of bread and a few grains of rice and he could walk another fifty miles—but even by Gabriel’s standards the kitchen was exceptionally clean and free of supplies. He was gone, Isherwood concluded. Gone for a very long time.
He entered the back garden and walked along the edge of the cottage, trying each of the windows on the off chance that Gabriel had forgotten to lock one. Not Gabriel’s style.
He retraced his steps and stood on the quay again. Gunpowder clouds were rolling up the river from the sea. A fat ball of rain struck him in the center of the forehead and rolled down the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. He removed them and the river scene blurred. He dug a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face, and put the glasses back on.
When his surroundings came back into focus, he discovered a young boy standing a few feet away. He seemed to have come out of nowhere, like a cat stalking prey. Isherwood had never had children and was terrible at placing ages. He guessed that the pinched-faced lad was eleven or twelve.
The boy said, “Why are you sneaking around that cottage?”
“I’m not sneaking, and who the bloody hell are you?”
“I’m Peel. Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of the man who lives there. My name is Julian.”
Isherwood held out his hand, but the boy just stood there, body rigid and coiled.
“He never mentioned he had a friend named Julian.”
“He doesn’t mention a lot of things.”
“What do you want?”
“To talk to him.”
“He’s away.”
“I can see that. Do you know where he is?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Know when he’ll be back?”
“Didn’t say.”
The rain started to come down harder. The boy remained still. Isherwood held a hand over his head and turned to look at the cottage. “Do you know what he does for a living?” Isherwood asked.
Peel nodded.
“Does anyone else in the village?”
Peel shook his head.