Joe paused for a moment to consider the man’s deeper motives. He could have chosen anyone as his agent in the matter. His lawyer, his secretary, a trusted colleague—there must have been dozens of men whose names came to mind before that of Sandilands. So what special trick could he possibly bring to the party? Joe thought he knew and the thought didn’t please him.

“Not sure who you think might be bidding against you, but I’m guessing that the mere presence of a top policeman sniffing about and showing a warm interest might well scare off any opposition? Is that what you’re calculating?”

The man didn’t deny it. In fact, he hurried with disarming relief to confess to manipulation. “Exactly that! The man I fear may turn up and bid against me is an international art expert and purveyor of dubious goodies to rich collectors. Almost certainly known to you. Name of: Despond. Guy Despond! He pronounces his Christian name the French way—‘Guee.’ Despond as in ‘slough of.’ He’s in town with his family. This includes a pretty daughter and two brattish sons. The father is of Eastern European origin, I believe. He speaks English with an American accent. His children speak in any language you care to name. They are all much travelled. Do you have anything on him?”

Joe pretended to consider this. “Your plan would be for me to feel his collar and heave him along to the clink to cool his heels until the sale is safely over? Sorry, can’t oblige.”

“I say—could you really do that? I must admit I hadn’t thought that far but—yes—it sounds like a corking idea to me!” Joe was surprised to hear Truelove chortle with boyish glee. “Shove him in the Bow Street nick for an hour or two! Sure you couldn’t …? Oh, well. Pity! You must be aware of his reputation?”

“I know what the world knows from the newspapers and society reviews,” Joe said, noncommittal. “Tough opposition in a sale-room. He just has to show his face and people tear up their bidding cards and withdraw. Bottomless purse and a queue of rich customers on both sides of the Atlantic. He buys in Rome and sells to New York. Then he buys back in New York and ships the goods over the Atlantic again to London or Paris … The hold of the Berengaria is stuffed with goodies on almost any trip, I hear. A sort of floating Tate Gallery. I don’t like to imagine what would happen if she ever sank!”

“He’d make another fortune from the insurance companies. He’s careful. He’s very influential too. A self-promoting former of taste. Whatever Despond decides will be the next craze becomes exactly that—with inevitability.” Truelove was amused, if not admiring. “He’s not a man to just happen on clients. He seeks out rich men—women, too—and he cultivates them with the care of an obsessed grower of rare orchids. He educates them in his own tastes, he instils in them a thirst for a particular art form or artist, then dangles the very objects they now desire in front of their eyes. With a hefty price tag attached. I’ve seen less professional acts on stage at Wilton’s Music Hall,” he finished with bitterness.

From his tone, Joe wondered whether Truelove might be speaking from personal experience of Despond’s machinations.

“You’ll just have to hope he isn’t planning that this shall be the Year of the Miniature, sir,” he said lightly.

“I never place much store by ‘hope,’ Sandilands. Crossing fingers, pestering saints, tying ribbons around trees—not my style. I plan for what I want. That’s why I’m sending you in. I think you know what must be done. Will you do it?”

Joe had no intention of becoming the minister’s minion. He should have sent the upper-class chancer shirtily on his way, muttering darkly of the dangers of abuse of authority; should have delivered a flea in his ear, a kick up the derrière. Why wasn’t he showing him the door? He recognised that he’d been captivated by a mystery, charmed by an ancient beauty and caught once again on the hook of the man’s ambition. All that, he could have resisted. No—more important—he was unable to turn down the chance of digging up more information on this unknown who threatened so much that was dear to him. Information Joe might store away and use to his advantage, should it ever become necessary. The more scurrilous, the better. Would that amount to blackmail? He rather thought it would. Perhaps, after all these years and all the bad examples, he was learning a lesson from Dorcas. She would have called it “taking sensible precautions against disappointment.”

“It’s a personal matter,” Truelove had announced.

“Too right!” Joe growled silently. But he heard himself saying: “I’ll see what I can do. I shall need to know your upper limit.” Truelove smiled in satisfaction. “Good man! Tell me—how are you planning to …?”

“Don’t concern yourself. I’ll just say—no need for clanking handcuffs or police whistles. There are quieter ways.”

“Ah! A touch of your sophisticated shenanigans? I can see I’ve come to the right shop! Oh, there is one thing more. I’m making it quite clear to the management that in the event of a successful bid I want possession of the goods at once. They are to hand them straight over to you after the sale. There won’t be a problem—I’ve dealt with them many times before. They’re aware of my impatient nature. I’ll collect the goods from your front desk. I’m assuming the front desk of Scotland Yard is a reasonably secure place to leave a pair of miniatures?”

“More secure, apparently, than your country seat, Sir James. Melsett, would that be?”

WHEN HIS GUEST had completed his briefing and left, Joe telephoned down to the inspector on reception. “Well, thanks for that, Hawkins! What a treat you sent me! Look, I’m going to have to cancel the rest of my morning and my lunch hour. I shall be back at my desk at two o’clock, should the Prime Minister decide to pop in for a chat.”

He went to stand by his open window, breathing in lungfuls of air freshly filtered by the stout London planes below him until he felt calmer. The future Minister for Law and Order had just told him two whopping lies. He was only aware of two, it could well be more. The portraits? A smokescreen, a glittering diversion, Joe was quite certain. The man was clearly spending too much time at Wilton’s Music Hall. Joe grinned evilly. His lordship wasn’t to know how many hours his pet plod had spent in the line of duty, watching magic acts from the wings of seedy theatres in Soho. Joe knew all the tricks.

CHAPTER 3

With a hasty glance at his watch, Joe rang for his secretary and warned Miss Sturdy that he was going out and wouldn’t be back until after lunch. He took the time to make one or two phone calls himself to cancel the rest of his engagements and spent a further five minutes studying the catalogue Truelove had left with him. Only then did he ask to be put through to the Art Investigations Department for a consultation with its head, Superintendent Pearce.

A little reassured by what Pearce had to say, Joe prepared himself to take advantage of the advertised viewing time. One day before the actual sale, he reckoned he had probably missed the most fruitful moment to make his appearance, but he had to work with what he’d been given. He might not be lucky enough to be caught showing an interest by that smooth villain Despond himself—a busy boy like him was hardly likely to stick around personally in the sale-room for the whole week—but he would have his spies out at all times, observing and noting the names of anyone paying more than passing attention to any item he’d marked down for himself. Comment and gossip to the point of hysteria were rife in this world, and Joe was confident that the show he was about to put on would raise eyebrows and be the talk of St. James’s before lunch. Christie’s would not be pleased, but there was little they could do about it.