Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

James stood in the doorway of Slater’s, the furriers watching the early morning cleaners leave for home and the first of the office staff arriving.

Harvey Metcalfe was going through his normal routine of breakfast and the papers. Just before he had gone to bed he had a telephone call from his wife it Boston and another from his daughter during breakfast the next morning, which started his day well. He decided to continue his pursuit of an Impressionist picture in some of the other galleries in Cork Street and Bond Street. Perhaps Sotheby’s would be able to help him.

He left the hotel at 9:47 A.M. at his usual brisk pace “Action stations.”

Stephen and Robin snapped out of their daydreaming.

“He’s just entered Bruton Street. Now he’s heading for Bond Street.”

Harvey walked briskly down Bond Street, past the territory he had already covered.

“Only 50 yards off now, Jean-Pierre,” said James. “40 yards, 30 yards, 20 yards…Oh no, damn it, he’s gone into Sotheby’s. There’s only a sale of medieval painted panels on there today. Hell, I didn’t know he was interested in them.”

He glanced up the road at Stephen, padded out and aged to the condition of a wealthy, middle-aged businessman for the third day in a row. The cut of the collar and the rimless glasses proclaimed him as West German. Stephen’s voice came over the speaker:

“I am going into Jean-Pierre’s gallery. James, you stay north of Sotheby’s on the far side of the street and report in every fifteen minutes. Robin, you go inside and dangle the bait under Harvey’s nose.”

“But that’s not in the plan, Stephen,” stammered Robin.

“Use your initiative and get on with it otherwise all you’ll be doing is taking care of Jean-Pierre’s heart condition and receiving no fees. Right?”

“Right,” said Robin nervously.

Robin walked into Sotheby’s and made a surreptitious beeline for the nearest mirror. Yes, he was still unrecognizable. Upstairs, he spotted Harvey near the back of the sale room, and planted himself on a nearby seat in the row behind

him.

The sale of medieval painted panels was well under way. Harvey knew he ought to like them, but could not bring himself to condone the Gothic partiality for jewelry and bright, gilded colors. Behind him, Robin hesitated but then struck up a quiet-voiced conversation with his neighbor.

“Looks all very fine to me, but I’ve no knowledge of the period. I’m so much happier with the modern era. Still, I must think of something appropriate to say for my readers.”

Robin’s neighbor smiled politely.

“Do you have to cover all the auctions?”

“Almost all—especially when there may be surprises. In any case, at Sotheby’s you can always find out what’s going on everywhere else. Only this morning one of the assistants gave me a tip that the Lamanns Gallery may have something special in the Impressionist field.”

Robin beamed the whispered information carefully at Harvey’s right ear and then sat back and waited to see if it had created any effect. Shortly afterward, he was rewarded by the sight of Harvey squeezing out of his row to leave. Robin waited for three more lots to be auctioned, then followed him, fingers crossed.

Outside, James had been keeping a patient vigil.

“10:30—no sign of him.”

“Roger.”

“10:45—still no sign of him.”

“Roger.”

“11:00—he’s still inside.”

“Roger.”

“11:12 action stations, action stations.”

James slipped quickly into the Lamanns Gallery as Jean-Pierre once again removed from his window the Sutherland watercolor of the Thames and the Boatman, and replaced it with an oil by Van Gogh, as magnificent an example of the master’s work as a London gallery had ever seen. Now came the acid test: the litmus paper was walking purposefully down Bond Street toward it.

The picture had been painted by David Stein, who had achieved notoriety in the art world for faking 300 paintings and drawings by well-known Impressionists, for which he had received a total of $864,000 and, later, four years. He was only exposed when he put on a Chagall exhibition at the Niveaie Gallery on Madison Avenue in 1969. Unknown to Stein, Chagall himself was in New York at the time for an exhibition at the museum in Lincoln Center where two of his most famous works were on display. On being informed of the Niveaie exhibition, Chagall furiously reported the pictures to the District Attorney’s office as fakes. Stein had already sold one of the imitation Chagalls to Louis D. Cohen at a price of nearly $100,000, and to this day there is a Stein Chagall and a Stein Picasso at the Galleria d’Arte Moderna in Milan. Jean-Pierre was confident that what Stein had achieved in the past in New York and Milan he could now repeat in London.