1. An Extraordinary Catalogue
As the aeroplane steadied on its westward course, I started to skim through the papers respecting the legal entanglement that required my presence in London. Conscience and professional integrity dictated that I peruse the bundle meticulously. I owed this to the friendly law firm that was paying handsomely for my services and for the comfortable seat in the business class section of British Airways’ direct flight from Singapore.
Usually I should have started to work. I have the stamina and the alertness needed for the perusal of a bulky set of documents. Many a client had benefited from my perseverance. On this occasion, though, I was not up to the task. To start with, I was distracted by the hum of the engines and by the garrulous loudspeaker. In addition, my thoughts kept straying back to Yuan Ming. She had promised to fly to Singapore immediately after the close of her exhibition in Los Angeles. In about four weeks I was going see her again. But this eagerly anticipated moment might be delayed if my case dragged on. The thought was perturbing.
I was aware that my fears were largely unfounded. Bill Riggs, a former colleague of our Law Faculty in Singapore, had assured me that the case would be over within two weeks. All the same, I kept fretting. Experience had taught me that some of Her Majesty’s Counsel could be disturbingly long winded. At an honorarium of £800 per hour their tendency was understandable. Unfortunately, a Professor of Law like me, flown in as an expert witness on banking practice, was not in a position to stem the flow of their eloquence.
For a while I tried to distract myself by reverting to the bundle of depositions, of illegible photocopies of muddled letters and of the other party’s expert report. Then, with a shrug of my shoulders, I gave up the uneven struggle. Replacing the papers in my briefcase I took out the item I had been looking forward to examining during the flight: the catalogue of a forthcoming Christie’s auction of the contents of an elegant residence near Woodstock. The catalogue had arrived a few days before my flight. Although I had skimmed through the colour plates of the available Continental porcelain pieces, I had not studied the handsome booklet as meticulously as, I sensed, it deserved.
Within a short while I became immersed in the catalogue. Although my own collection comprises mainly mid-European ceramics and prints, I have a genuine love for all antiques. The reason is not a wish to travel back in time. I have no illusions about the quality of life in Europe of days past. But the antique furniture, the paintings, the sculptures and the ceramics, which go under the hammer in our modern sales rooms, are manifestations of the artistic achievements of their respective eras. They are also of the highest quality. After all, who would wish to preserve a poorly constructed piece of furniture or an ill conceived porcelain figurine?
The instant catalogue lent support to my sentiment. Every room in the stately home was filled with fine antiques. My admiration was invoked by an elegant 19th century arm chair. The desk, too, was exciting, with beautifully shaped legs and a delightful leather covered centre. The mahogany display cabinet, in the drawing room, made my mouth water. It would constitute an excellent home for my Meissen figurines.
For a while, I remained captivated by the ambience of the rooms. Would it not be exciting to own a property like this estate? Then, unexpectedly, an inner voice – the voice of my sceptic Viennese alter ego – broke the spell by raising a basic question. Had this splendid house been a real home, in which a person had lived and worked, loved and hated, or was it a show piece: a mere front or sparkling façade?
Once again my eyes traversed the photographs of the individual rooms. Somehow, everything appeared too tidy, too neat, to be real. I had to concede that, to an extent, this effect was produced by the conscientious efforts of Christie’s cleaners and polishers. But the ephemeral air was not entirely of their making. To me, each room appeared too perfect to be genuine. The broad double bed with its muslin curtains was too fine to be slept in regularly. The library, which had only two sparsely stacked bookcases, had a number of period chairs and a sofa; but there were no library steps. The most remarkable room, though, was the bathroom. The huge tub in its midst reminded me of a small Roman spa I had seen in Trier, and the 18th century porcelain basin and pitcher, placed beside the modern hand basin, struck me as out of place in a modern house.
By the time the steward approached my seat with the evening meal, I had reached my conclusions. I had traversed a stylish mausoleum, occupied by an owner who stayed there without dwelling in it. Did he regard himself a caretaker, like the uniformed attendants who guide a group of tourists through the rooms of palaces of kings and princes of times past.
As soon as I finished consuming the plain evening meal, I turned back to the bundle of documents related to my forthcoming appearance as an expert witness in London. After a concentrated effort on a number of pages drawn to my attention in my instructions, I noted some damaging inconsistencies in the other party’s correspondence. Shortly thereafter I discovered to my chagrin that our case rested on an equally shaky foundation. I knew, of course, that the two financial institutions, locked in the instant battle, adhered to a well known business philosophy, based on taking advantage of each available loophole and technicality in a bargain gone sour. It did not elate me to be of assistance to one of them. I even knew that my own policy of accepting remunerative banking cases without regard to my principals’ mercantile morality tarnished me with the very brush I applied to them. These thoughts had, frequently, induced me to vow that a particularly unmeritorious bundle was the last one to be handled by me. Up to now, though, my resolve had failed as soon as I discovered yet another exciting piece of Meissen, of Vienna or of Frankenthal in a new catalogue. To buy it I needed extra funds. To overcome my scruples, I kept reminding myself that the Code of Ethics of our profession encouraged me to accept a brief as long as I was able to conduct myself without violating any legal norm.
This established principle of ethics, and the covetous glances I kept bestowing on a yellow-ground milk jug produced and decorated in Meissen in 1735, kept spurring me for the next three hours of the flight. By the time the information chart, displayed on the digital screen, showed that we were approaching India, I was through with my work. Having pinpointed the information that was going to form the basis of my supportive expert’s opinion, I congratulated myself – in sheer disregard of my qualms – on a job well done. Replacing the bundle once again in my briefcase, I turned back to the catalogue. The pages setting out the European porcelain items now had my full attention.
I had discussed the yellow milk jug, that had caught my eye during my initial perusal of the catalogue in Singapore, with Yuan Ming. During the last few years, I rang her up regularly, whenever she was in the Los Angeles, from her own spacious apartment in Katong.
My last call to her had taken place on the day preceding my flight to London. Having driven to the condominium after my last class for the day, I worked for a while in the study, which used to belong to her late father, the antiques dealer and internationally acclaimed scholar Tay Fang-Shuo alias Dr Alfred Cheng, M.A., Ph.D. (Cantab.). At 10.00 p.m., when day was ready to break in Los Angeles, I dialled her number.
“Did I wake you up?” I had asked anxiously, when she picked up the receiver.
“You know you haven’t; I’ve been waiting for your call for the last hour; what were you up to, Uncle?”
Yuan Ming – presently an attractive woman in her thirties – had dubbed me her ‘special uncle’ when she was a little girl. It had been a mark of her affection: there was no family tie between us. I had been her father’s closest friend – not his brother or brother-in-law. Out of habit, though, she kept addressing me in the same manner even after she had grown up. She knew also that I cherished my title.
“Sitting at your Dad’s desk with my new Christie’s catalogue; I didn’t want to ring you before 6 o’clock in the morning!”
“And what did you discover in your new catalogue?”
“I just looked at a few pieces; one is a lovely Meissen yellow-ground milk jug with paintings of a church by the river and ships loading at the quay. I like it; and – God alone knows why – it looks familiar. Still, they say the handle has a hairline crack; and they estimate it at £2,000 to £3,000. A bit high for an imperfect piece?”
“I can get that crack fixed for you. If you still don’t want it, bid for me; you can go up to £4,000. But why didn’t you look at all the pieces; you always do?”
“I just couldn’t concentrate!”
“Why?”
“I was counting the days to your next visit. And I kept thinking of our last afternoon at the pool. You swim beautifully but – even so – I caught you in the end; and I’m waiting to challenge you again!”
I had blurted the words out despite a desperate attempt to control my tongue. Yuan Ming was busy with the preparations for her forthcoming exhibition. I knew that two of her pieces required final touches and yet a third was incomplete. My seriously minded alter ego upbraided me for the pressure I was bringing on her. The truth, though, was that I yearned to see her again.
To my relief, I heard her peels of laughter, the merry chimes I remembered so well from the gone bye days when an nine years old Yuan Ming, sitting on my lap in her father’s shop, was amused by my attempts to address her in Mandarin.
“You only caught me because you cornered me when I tried to dive under you; and you pretended not to see I was turning!”
“Not the way to talk to your old swimming instructor; you may be faster than me now; but I can still outmanoeuvre you any time!” I bragged, stung to the quick.
“So you say, Uncle; so you keep telling to yourself,” she teased me. “Well, we’ll see in four weeks time, Mr Swimming Instructor; I’ll sure give you a run for your money!”
“We’ll see,” I conceded, and then, much more sedately and once again in control of my emotions: “But, look, are you all set for your exhibition? Everything under control?”
“The two sketches are OK now; I have tarted them up nicely. But I can’t finish the last oil; I just can’t!” she said in a changed voice.
“Why not? It’s brilliant; honestly – one of your very best!”
“I’ll finish it in Singapore,” she said after a long pause.
“But then you won’t be able to exhibit the painting this time?” I said, trying to conceal my disappointment.
“Never mind; it’ll be in my next show” she said, adding with a shrug: “My admirers will have to wait for another six months!”
Once again, there was a pause. I had nothing to say. Yuan Ming had the ability and the talent. She was a fine artist. From time to time, though, she lacked the zeal. To my relief, she broke the silence before it became oppressive:
“And look, Uncle, you’ll see the initial sketch when we meet.”
“In another four weeks!” I sighed, cursing myself for the anxious cord that crept into my voice.
“They’ll pass soon, with you rushing about in busy London. But look here Uncle, what is really the matter? Why are you so agitated?”
“It’s the court appearance” I admitted. “Bill Riggs assures me the case will be over in two weeks; but what if it drags on?”
“So that’s it” I could hear her laughter. “What an ace you are, Uncle! Then I’ll simply fly to London.”
“But you told me you had to make a stop in Shanghai and then settle your new deal in Hong Kong or Singapore!”
I was now alluding to Yuan Ming’s second occupation. Even prior to the onset of her father’s fatal illness, she had taken the antiques business into her own hands. Unlike him, she was prepared to take risks and, from time to time, flew to China to clinch deals involving the smuggling out of rare pieces.
“So in the worst case we’ll meet two or three days later than expected; and so I’ll stay longer; and if I come to London we could also spend a few days in Vienna.”
“That would be superb” I confirmed enthusiastically.
I was now overcome by elation. The prospect of a trip to my old home town was exciting. Although my family had had to flee to Palestine at the eve of the Second World War, I had always preferred the Austrian milieu of my parents’ home in Tel Aviv to the harsher Israeli spirit that reigned outside it. Despite certain childhood memories – including the demolition of my mother’s porcelain collection by uniformed young men – I had visited Vienna several times after the end of the War, mainly to spend some time with my father who had returned to it in 1951. After a while, I started to feel at home and enjoyed myself.
In recent years, Yuan Ming and I had wonderful breaks in Vienna. She had become alarmingly fond of the Heuriger – the newly matured wine – served in Grinzing with light meals to the sound of music played by local bands. Waltzing with her, to their tunes, was an exhilarating even if exhausting experience: I was, after all, her senior by thirty years. Occasionally, her enthusiasm invoked the spontaneous applause of fellow patrons, who had remained seated comfortably at their tables with their glasses.
“That’s settled then,” she said happily. “But, honestly, is the case likely to drag on? Bill Riggs is a pretty reliable chap, isn’t he?”
“I suppose I’m getting over anxious” I confessed. “It’s just that I hate the very thought of missing my niece even for a single day.”
“It won’t happen. So don’t you worry. And, Uncle, you better take the catalogue with you to steady your nerves during the flight. And I forgot to ask, when is your flight?”
“Tomorrow evening; I’ll ring you from the plane!” I promised.
“That will be lovely” she replied. Then, instantly, she changed her mind: “No, you better ring me from the hotel in London: you can, of course, use my flat but I’m sure your clients have put you up in a five stars establishment.”
“They have” I told her. “See you soon then; and take care.”
“You too, Uncle; and don’t you forget to ring your wife as soon as you get to the hotel. She too deserves attention.” Her merry laughter echoed pleasantly in my ears even after she had replaced the receiver.
For a while, and in plain defiance of new torrent of information emanating from the aeroplane’s loudspeakers, I kept relishing the recollection of this short conversation of the previous day. Then, as I stretched myself against my seat, I realised I was exhausted. Switching off the light above my head, I closed my eyes.
2. A Leading London Banker
When I woke up, the stewardess was handing out steaming towels. As I wiped my face, I saw that the catalogue, which I had dropped on the vacant seat next to mine, had fallen open at a page setting out the history of the house near Woodstock and a short biography of its owner. Glancing at it with curiosity, I sat up with a jerk. The owner - Sir Arthur Smithies - was a man I had known well in my days as a research student in Oxford. Years later we had met again, by chance, when I was someone else’s guest at the Athenaeum. We managed to converse for a few minutes and, just before I returned to my host’s table, he showed me the catalogue of a forthcoming auction. The yellow Meissen milk jug was one of the pieces both of us had admired as we leafed quickly through the pages with the mid-European porcelain. As I recalled this encounter, I was momentarily irked by my failure to recognise the jug and, through it, its owner’s identity. The explanation, though, was simple. I thought that Arthur Smithies was still living on his estate near Epping. Indeed, I had kept sending my letters and Christmas cards to that address.
For the remaining two hours of the flight my thoughts focused on Sir Arthur Smithies. Our paths had crossed for the first time shortly after I embarked on my research of the law respecting a banking facility known as the documentary letter of credit. Work I had carried out two years earlier on in the course of banking litigation in Tel-Aviv had revealed that my facility was already in use during the first half of the 19th century. But where and when was this commercial technique initiated? Whose brainchild was it? To provide a conclusive answer, I needed access to bank archives. Attaching recommendations of my supervisor and of the Head of my Oxford College, I solicited information from all the London banks whose history stretched back far enough. Most replies were negative. Some explained that their archives had been destroyed during the First or the Second World War. Others regretted that old paper had been recycled.
All in all I received only two helpful letters. One, from a private bank, Brownlow Bros., enclosed a bulky tome covering the House’s history. My attention was drawn to a passage describing how the partners had resolved, on 4 March 1820, to obtain Counsel’s opinion about the legal risks involved in the use of documentary credits. The other letter, typed on the elegant stationary of a merchant bank, Crawford & Co., did not provide any specific information. The writer advised me of his own interest in the subject and invited me to have lunch with him in the following week. The signature read: Arthur Smithies, Managing Partner.
In 1959, Crawford & Co. had their premises in Birchin Lane off Lombard Street. The drab appearance of their grey building exacerbated my misgivings about my forthcoming interview with their Managing Partner. My letter to them had actually been written as an afterthought. Throughout their long history, commencing at about the middle of the 18th century, the bulk of Crawford & Co.’s business had been conducted with banks on the Continent, principally in Germany, in France and in the Netherlands. My instincts – and such information as was available to me – had directed my hopeful glances to banks active in the Anglo-American trade. I had solicited information from Crawford & Co., and from other banks active in the European trade, because no stone could be left unturned. Looking lugubriously at the front of the building in Birchin Lane, I upbraided myself for having been too meticulous: time was precious and, alas, money was scarce.
My dejected mood lightened when I entered the bank. As soon as I mentioned my name to the aging Chief Porter, he ordered one of his subordinates to escort me to a waiting room. When we arrived, a young gentleman, of about my own age, approached us and held out his hand: “I’m Brian Davies; Mr Smithies has asked me to show you around before I take you to his office.”
Leaving my wet top coat and hat in the cloak room, I followed my guide. We stopped for a while in the well, where a few customers transacted their business at the counters. Looking around me, I realised that Crawford & Co. were a cut above the large retail banks in the City. The aura of spaciousness conjured by the elegantly furbished well contrasted pleasantly with the claustrophobic atmosphere, produced in the City branches of Barclays and of Lloyds Bank by the urge to utilise every square inch. The sense of rush and pressure, created by the shuffling of impatient feet in a queue, was equally absent. As I raised my head, I admired the terraced mezzanine floor, with the protruding offices, that broke the monotony of the high wall separating the marble floor of the well from the ornate ceiling.
“Quite impressive, isn’t it?” asked Brian Davies.
“Splendid, I should say” I answered.
“Wait till you see our boardroom,” he said with a smile, adding: “And there, on the north east side of the mezzanine, are the rooms of the international trade department; there – where the two fellows are peeping down at us. These chaps do like to see a customer’s face before he takes the lift to their little offices. Makes it easier to brave a storm.”
I grinned politely at the flat joke. After a short tour of the mezzanine floor we took the lift to the second floor. The boardroom was, indeed, grandiose. A plush carpet covered the floor, the chandeliers sparkled with their candle shaped bulbs and the solid, beautifully carved, rosewood table surpassed any piece of furniture I had seen in Oxford. After looking at the traditional English paintings – mainly galleons on stormy seas and hunting scenes – I admired the delightful pink stained pinewood panelling of the walls. Impulsively, I touched it only to give a start: my fingertips transmitted the cool sensation of a smooth marble surface.
“It does look like wood, doesn’t it,” said Brian Davies, with a satisfied grin.
“First time I see a terrazzo wall,” I conceded; “it’s beautiful.”
“It’s also very expensive; time honoured secret process of a firm in Padua. They didn’t allow anyone in during the work.” Pausing for a moment, he added with a thinly veiled sneer: “We had a good year in 1957; so the Partners loosened the purse strings.”
I had by then concluded that Brian Davies was an Oxford or Cambridge man. His accent and mannerism were unmistakable. As we left the room, I inquired about his College.
“King’s, Cambridge” he said readily. “Quite a few Oxbridge men in this firm. Mr Smithies went to Trinity, Cambridge.”
Brian Davies showed me few smaller meeting rooms – all neatly even if less lavishly furnished and decorated than the boardroom. We then proceeded to the broad staircase leading to the third floor. For a few seconds I glanced with appreciation at the neat Bokhara carpet. Then I stopped abruptly in my tracks. I had come face to face with a lithograph I had coveted for years.
“Do you like Toulouse-Lautrec?” I heard Brian Davies’ voice.
“Very much. He was unique,” I told him.
“You may be right,” he said; “although, for myself, I prefer some later artists like Picasso and Matisse. We have a few in the Library and some others in our smaller reception rooms. Our French clients appreciate them.” Glancing at his watch, he added: “We must proceed to Mr Smithies’ room now, but I may be able to show them to you some other time.”
Arthur Smithies turned out to be a man in his mid forties. His auburn hair had started to recede but his tall, sparse, figure was not frail. His neat grey suit, carefully pressed business shirt and discreet tie went well with his reserved mannerism and precise mode of speech. His keen brown eyes, though, projected warmth. I sensed, as soon as we shook hands, that he was a pleasant and friendly man.
“Glad you could make it, Mr Berger” he said. “I’m only sorry we weren’t able to arrange better weather for you.”
“Oh, I’m getting used to it,” I told him. “And many thanks for asking me for lunch.” Hesitating for a moment, I added: “It was good of you to ask Mr Davies to show me around. You do have splendid rooms.”
“What did you think of our boardroom?”
“Magnificent! But I should really congratulate you on the Lautrec lithograph. It’s the first time I have come across this piece outside a museum; and I haven’t seen it in any recent catalogue.”
“Are you a collector, then?” he asked with genuine interest.
“In a modest way,” I said, feeling embarrassed. Noticing his own resulting unease, I hurried to explain: “At present, I restrict myself to porcelain; mainly to Meissen and Vienna figurines; but I like the atmosphere of auction rooms and, of course, good catalogues provide a glimpse; some are available at half price after the sale.”
“I too like Meissen,” he told me, with a smile; “but mainly small vases, ewers and plates: cabinet pieces. What attracts you to figurines?”
“Some of them - like Kändler’s Harlequins - are really sculptures; and great ones at that.”
“I think I get your point,” he replied, thoughtfully. “You like the figurines for their own sake – for what they convey to you, don’t you?” Seeing me nod, he proceeded: “Well, I like my pieces to blend with their setting. Meissen plates and ewers look nice on the shelves of a suitable cabinet.”
At that point, our conversation lost its impetus. My host was too tactful to ask for further details about the collection of a person in my position. I, in turn, was too shy too persevere; I was also apprehensive of appearing eager to impress.
To my relief, Arthur Smithies broke the short silence. Indicating that we ought to proceed to lunch, he inquired whether I observed any dietary rules. Reassured by my response, he led the way to the private room of what he called “our modest in-house restaurant.”
It was over an excellent English lunch – smoked salmon, pumpkin soup and a steak and kidney pie – that Arthur Smithies turned to my enquiry.
“You seem quite certain that documentary letters of credit originated in the Anglo-American trade. You realise that, traditionally, our house has been engaged in trade with the Continent?”
“I do; but it occurred to me that some Continental merchants might have used Crawford, Fairbairn, Miles & Co. as intermediaries for financing their trade with America.”
He had broken into an appreciative smile when I referred to the style used by his firm during the last quarter of the 18th century.
“Quite possible; it will be interesting to have our records searched; and there is another possibility. Occasionally our house entered into joint ventures with banks active on the American scene, mainly Brownlow Bros. You see, one of our partners married a Miss Brownlow in 1765. So we may be able to provide some information. But tell me please, why are you so interested in the history of letters of credit? With your background in modern bank litigation, I should have expected you to be concerned mainly with the current legal problems?”
He listened attentively to my explanation of the connection between the historical background and the relevant modern practical problems. As I proceeded, I noticed that Arthur Smithies recognised some of the 18th and early 19th century court decisions which I discussed. Was he a lawyer by training? For the moment, however, my curiosity had to be suppressed. My immediate task was to secure my host’s assistance. To get it, I had to convince him of the merit of my quest. Encouraged by his supportive demeanour, I went on with my discourse. When I finished, he nodded.
“Quite a neat analysis, Berger. So you are studying the historical background mainly in order to support your practical arguments?”
“Precisely,” I confirmed. “My object is to ensure that my points won’t be faulted!”
“The lawyer’s need to dot the I’s and cross the t’s. His urge to cover his flanks even before a broadside is fired at him; just as you do in the preparation of a complex case for trial.” He had spoken slowly, even guardedly; but his expression manifested approbation. “Your experience in court must have stood you in good stead when you developed your theories.”
“It has, rather,” I affirmed. “But, if I may ask, you are, obviously, very familiar with legal work?”
“I was called to the Bar before the War; for a while I practised, mainly in copyright and patents. But then the Bank needed my services. Sometimes I still miss the drama of the courtroom.”
“But surely, the City must offer its own challenges?”
“It does,” he conceded. “Generally, though, the atmosphere is more relaxed than in our courts. And you don’t have to work against the clock all the time. Still, the work at the Bar was exciting.”
For a few moments he remained lost in his thoughts. I, in turn, was watching him with interest. Arthur Smithies had, I sensed, been less reserved with me than he would have been with a fellow Englishman. He was a friendly and sincere man but, all the same, constrained by the conventions of his class and society. With an outsider like myself, though, the strict norms could be relaxed.
“And look,” I heard him say, “I do believe you have a worthwhile project. So does Jack Roberts of Brownlows, from whom, I believe, you got some information. He mentioned your enquiry when we met in the Club. I’ll see what I can do. But it may take me a few weeks. I’ll see what documents are left in the archives of some friendly banks.”
“That’s really good of you; thanks,” I told him, “but a number of banks wrote to tell me that their archives were no longer in existence.”
“Very likely,” he responded; “but some of the partners and their families have private stacks of documents, kept in case somebody wants to compile a biography. I expect we’ll find some interesting documents there.”
We kept talking about other subjects for a while. Then Brian Davies entered the room. He had, obviously, been asked to join us for coffee with a view to escorting me back through the winding corridors to the main entrance. As I expressed my thanks, Arthur Smithies made a helpful suggestion: “I should be interested to know how your work progresses.”
“Would you, perhaps, be prepared to see the drafts of my chapters?” I asked eagerly.
“I shall be delighted; and I may draw your attention to points respecting our current banking practice.”
My trip into the remote past – to my Oxford days – was interrupted by the stewardess’ request that I fasten my seat belt and put the back of my seat in the upright position. Realising that I had missed the chief steward’s announcement, I hastened to comply.