14. Exciting Auction
“You look refreshed,” said Bill Riggs when I arrived next morning in his office.
“Thanks. And how does the case stand?”
“Our Judge is back in action. In the pre-trial conference, he urged the parties to settle!”
“And have you?”
“Whitehead and Blackburn won’t let us,” he said, referring to the two fighting cocks.
“What’s the matter with those two?”
“They had a quarrel – a shouting match – over the Wine Stewardship of their club. Since then they are not on speaking terms.”
“How stupid! And this childish nonsense might cost the two companies a fortune in legal expenses?"
“It might; but I won’t call it childish nonsense!” said Bill.
“You wouldn’t?” I asked stunned.
“You, Peter, overlook the place of a club in an Englishman’s life,” said Bill with mock severity.
“I thought his castle is his home?” I protested
“So it is, so it is. But the club is often a Briton’s social life centre. It’s a haven: his escape from his … noisy home; it’s where he has his peaceful dinner or a drink with his friends.”
“So a quarrel over a club matter can be a serious matter? I understand; but what are you going to do? Surely, you can’t allow this quarrel to determine the handling of our case?”
“No, of course we can’t,” agreed Bill. He then went on to explain that the Chairmen of the two companies had approached a well known London banker, Sir Osbert Davies, to chair a mediation session to be held in two days times. Blackburn and Whitehead would listen to his peals of wisdom.
“What is so special about Sir Osbert?” I wanted to know. “Is he by any chance a major shareholder in the two companies?”
“His merchant bank is, rather” answered Bill. “But this, Peter, is not the main point. Sir Osbert is also the President of the very club which has the honour of counting Blackburn and Whitehead amongst its members!”
“Good grief,” I expostulated. “So, in the end, it is the old boys net all over again!”
“So it is, old boy, so it is! Quite a lucky break, wouldn’t you say?”
For the next forty minutes, I took my instructions for our forthcoming meeting. When business was finished, Bill asked unexpectedly: “Peter, have you met Sir Osbert Davies?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“When we briefed him, I mentioned that you were our expert witness. From his reaction, I gathered that your name rang a bell.”
“He might have read ‘Modern Banking Law’.”
“Could be” said Bill. “Generally, though, Sir Osbert is more interested in the Art than in the Law.”
Next morning Yuan Ming and I made our way to Woodstock. When we arrived, the auction was in full swing. A short chat with the person sitting next to us disclosed that furniture had fetched a good price. As expected, the bidders had loosened their purse strings when told the proceeds would go to a charity.
The porcelain pieces were next to fall under the hammer. I had an easy time with the yellow-ground milk jug. The auctioneer’s erroneous announcement of a hair crack to the handle drove away the German dealers, who were bidding over the telephone.
A change of auctioneers took place after the last piece of porcelain had been knocked down to a London dealer. The relief auctioneer, an elegantly dressed woman in her mid-thirties, took her place on the podium with confidence. To my delight, she proceeded at a considerably faster pace than the man she had replaced, prompting the audience to keep up with her by an occasional show of impatience.
Most English paintings fetched reasonable rather than high prices. Few of them appealed to more than two or three bidders. ‘Galleon off Yarmouth’ was no exception. Roger Bates started the bidding, raising his numbered bidding pallet resolutely. He was not awed by the presence of so many professionals and upper middle class people and did not feel out of place. Indeed, the only concession made by him for the occasion was his well tailored new suit.
Initially, Roger Bates’ bids were countered by a portly gentleman, of about my own age, whose discreet method of bidding reminded me of Arthur Smithies’ tactics. For a few minutes he kept pressing on but, with a quick shake of his head, gave up. Roger Bates smiled happily. Then, whilst the next painting was placed on the large easel, he rose to collect his acquisition. It was only then that I perceived the motherly and plainly dressed woman, who had been sitting quietly beside him. As they walked together in harmony to the collection corner, she bestowed on him a proud smile. It dawned on me that, more often than not, the Roger Bateses of this world enjoyed a pleasant existence. Their ready acceptance of the norms and values of their society shielded them from the disillusions, the frustrations and the upheavals bred by broad horizons, by sophistication and by great expectations.
The auction continued to progress smoothly and uneventfully. Tissot’s oil painting was knocked down to Yuan Ming for a reasonable price, the only opposition coming from the portly gentleman who had challenged Roger Bates. To my surprise, he glanced at us surreptitiously a few minutes later on. Then, whilst a few hunting scenes went speedily under the auctioneer’s effective hammer, I started to feel mounting excitement. Soon ‘Dawn’ was going to take her turn.
Before she called for bids, the auctioneer read out the revised catalogue entry. Yuan Ming was described as a “well known Chinese artist, born in Singapore, currently active in Los Angeles and renowned for her neat blending of Eastern techniques with Western motives”. The bidding was then opened at £2,000.00. I was about to raise my hand; but the portly gentleman came in first. Between us, the bidding was quickly raised to £3,200. At this point the portly gentleman gave up but a tall middle aged man stepped into the arena.
“You mustn’t go on biddin, Uncle” murmured Yuan Ming anxiously when the auctioneer called for £4,000.00. “He’s Jack Levine, an art dealer from LA. He knows me well; and he mustn’t think I’m bidding on my own drawing.”
“But it’s worth much more than this; let me press on, just for a bit; please.”
Jack Levine nodded when the auctioneer solicited a bid of £5,000.00. Raising the stops between the bids to ten per cent of the new offer, she called out, somewhat impatiently, for £5,500.00. As soon as I nodded, Yuan Ming whispered resolutely: “That’s as far as you go, Uncle.”
“Six thousand I am bid; six thousand I am bid,” the auctioneer called when my opponent raised his hand without any change in his expression; “any bid of six thousand five hundred?” Seeing me shake my head in resignation, she went on: “Any further bid? None? Then for six thousand pounds I sell …”
A sharp snap of fingers drew the attention of all us to a small, pot bellied, informally dressed man, whose loud tie matched his flushed face with its beaky nose. Up to that moment, he had been standing unobtrusively near the entrance door without showing an interest in any of the preceding items.
“Six thousand five hundred from a new bidder,” chanted the auctioneer; “do I hear £7,000?”
“Uncle,” Yuan Ming was unable to contain her excitement; “Uncle, this new chap is David Schwarz, a famous art dealer from New York. I didn’t expect to find him here!”
“Have you met him before?”
“I have indeed; he bought ‘Dusk’ and ‘Stormy Night’.”
“Oh well, so you have two Jewish experts fighting over your masterpiece” I said, watching keenly as the bidding continued at a breath taking speed. By the time they reached £10,000 the auctioneer, who had retained her cool exterior, started to raise each bid by £1,000. Unperturbed, the two pressed on. Then, abruptly, it was all over: Jack Levine shook his head lightly and, to my surprise, saluted his adversary. As ‘Dawn’ went under the hammer for £19,000, Schwarz, whose expression had not changed during the tussle, responded with an apologetic smile.
To me the rest of the auction was an anticlimax. My interest was roused again only when the a small landscape by a leading English artist became the subject of the last skirmish. The bidding, though, was swift. The auctioneer called for an amount close to the estimate so that only two interested patrons responded. After some forty seconds, the painting was knocked down for £25,000 to the portly gentleman, who, on this occasion, kept pressing on adamantly. I concluded that, on the previous rounds, he had but flexed his muscles.
“So this is your great day,” I said to Yuan Ming as we joined the crowd milling to the exit door.
“It was exciting, Uncle,” she conceded; “it really was!”
On the way out, we were joined by Jack Levine. For a while, he talked to me, enquiring about Yuan Min’s background. Unexpectedly, we were interrupted by David Schwarz’s shrill voice: “Need a lift back to London, Jacob?”
“Didn’t you come on the shuttle bus?” asked Jack Levine.
“Too slow, too slow. I’ve the hotel’s limousine waiting outside the gate. So what d’you say?”
As the two proceeded to the front door, with David Schwarz in the lead, Jack Levine turned back and, to my surprise, winked.
“You had quite a chat with Jack Levine, Uncle,” said Yuan Ming.
“He seems a nice chap; and he admires your work!”
“What you mean, Uncle, is that he is a nice chap because he speaks well of my work. But, yes, Jack Levine is alright. And so is David Schwarz, despite his manner.”
“I suppose so,” I said grudgingly; “but how good is he? They way he talks and dresses doesn’t inspire confidence.”
“You are prejudiced, Uncle. I know, he isn’t as smooth as a London art critic or Art dealer. But you mustn’t judge him by their yardstick. Why don’t you have a guess at his background.”
“I suppose his father was grocer in Brooklyn or a tailor on the Bronx!”
“His father was a famous attorney.”
“And our friend?” I asked bewildered.
“Young David wanted to be an artist; so he defied Dad and went to an Art School. Later on, when he realised he wasn’t much good, he decided to become an Art dealer. And he has made a success of it.”
“The Midas touch?”
“That too; but he has an excellent appreciation of art and a discerning eye. He has backed some of the leading artists of today: some Americans, some Israelis and, more recently, a handful of Chinese and Burmese.”
“Oh very well,” I gave in, “it takes all kinds to make the world.”
“Yes, Uncle: even the world of art. But we better look for Alan Jones. Remember we want to see the other rooms of this house.”
15. A Remarkable Suite
Alan Jones was waiting for us in the foyer. As the Real Estate Agent had to keep another appointment, he volunteered to take us through the house on his own.
“I’m sorry you missed out on ‘Dawn’, Sir,” he said to me.
“I’m glad it fetched such an excellent price. I’m sure this will boost the artist’s morale.”
“So it should," he agreed. There had been no change in his tone or expression; but his swift glance in Yuan Ming’s direction told me that Alan Jones was both smart and discreet.
As soon as the last patron left the building, Alan Jones led the way to a corridor hidden behind a heavy curtain. It took him a while to find the right key but, eventually, he unlocked the door leading to the inner rooms of the house.
We started our tour in the huge modernised kitchen, separated by a swinging door from a dining alcove. The brass and glass table and four matching chairs contrasted pleasantly with the heavy rosewood furniture in the elegant yet impersonal dining room in the public part of the house. We then went through a set of unfurnished and poorly carpeted rooms. They were in a shabby condition, requiring a general upgrading following years of neglect. A few broken picture frames leaning against the walls, told me that these rooms had been used to store paintings.
The staircase to the second story was another eyesore. The carpet was in tatters and the varnish on the rail had perished. Only the servant quarters had been refurbished.
“I won’t take you to the third floor,” said Alan Jones. “I suspect nobody has climbed up for years.”
“Bringing this house up to scratch would be a challenge,” mused Yuan Ming.
“It could also be extremely expensive,” said Alan Jones. “Our tradesmen say the entire plumbing and wirings are in need of repair or replacement.”
Back at the ground floor, after a slow and wary descent down the ramshackle staircase, Yuan Ming pointed to a corridor we had bypassed when we entered.
“And what sort of rooms are these?” she asked.
“They were Sir Arthur’s living quarters,” confided Alan Jones. “I’m not supposed to let anyone in.”
“Could we perhaps have a peep” she asked, smiling at him ingratiatingly.
For just a moment, Alan Jones hesitated. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he produced his key ring. “I can’t see why not; but we better be quick about it.”
A wing of the house had been converted into a self-contained suite. The small entrance hall, with an umbrella stand and a coat cupboard, led to a spacious sitting room: well furnished, comfortable but lacking in pomp. I could visualise the late Sir Arthur Smithies relaxing in the large armchair with its worn leather upholstery, his feet resting on the stool and the remote control gadget in his hand. Had he watched the daily television programmes or old films stored on video cassettes? A perusal of the cabinet brought a smile to my face. On its middle shelf, two Tony Hancock cassettes rubbed shoulders with Jacques Tati’s films.
A high fidelity set was placed against another wall. It had both a turn-table and a compact disk player. Few records were placed on the stand but the compact disks cabinet was full to its brims with choice performances of classical and modern pieces. Obviously, Arthur Smithies had discarded most of his records, replacing them with the better sounding and more durable compact disks.
Raising my head from the musical corner, my eye rested on a large discoloured space on the slightly damp wall.
“Was ‘Dawn’ hanging here?” I asked.
“I believe it was” confirmed Alan Jones.
The same homely, relaxed, atmosphere reigned in the study. The desk and chair turned out to be old acquaintances. Both came from Arthur Smithies’ office in Birchin Lane. As in a trance, I walked over to the large book case and the collapsible library steps placed in front it. My own books were resting on a shelf devoted to law. A large cardboard box, stationed beside them, was labelled “Berger’s offprints”. Right beneath them, amongst works on copyright and patents, I came across a thin unfamiliar tome. The title imprinted on its back read: “Introduction to the Law of Patents” by Arthur Smithies, BA MA (Cantab.), of the Middle Temple, Barrister at Law.
A splendid array of old master and modern prints and lithographs decorated the walls. Yuan Ming and Alan Jones became immersed in William Blake’s ‘The Three Friends Accusing Job’.
“Isn’t it profound, Uncle?” asked Yuan Ming. “The way each of the ‘friends’ points his finger at the stricken patriarch.”
“Quite a devastating indictment of human nature,” I consented. “And what do you think of it, Mr Jones?”
“It is brilliant,” he agreed; “but I couldn’t live with it. It’s too depressing. Coming to think of it, so are the other prints in this room.”
“Is it because they are so candid about human frailties?” asked Yuan Ming. She had been staring, fascinated, at Rembrandt’s Eve tempting Adam by pressing the forbidden apple possessively against her bare bosom whilst the snake was smiling malevolently.
“Perhaps,” said Alan Jones. “The truth be told: I do find the scenes of the hunt and of the stormy seas more pleasing.”
“Coming to think of it,” I changed the subject rather abruptly, “are there no traditional English paintings in the suite?”
“Wait till you see the bedroom” said Alan Jones, breaking into a smile.
The comfortable double bed had a traditional brass frame and headboard. On the wall above hung a large rural scene mounted in a simple wooden frame.
“Constable?” I asked assertively.
“It is: an unrecorded Constable; and he left it to the National Gallery,” replied Alan Jones with an unexpected display of emotion.
Yuan Ming was captivated by the fine landscape. My less interested eye started to rove around the room. A sliding door opened to the bathroom. Its modern basin, tub and fittings were of the finest quality. But there was no trace of the extravagant splendour of the bathroom in the public part of the house.
Alan Jones’ discreet cough reminded us that our visit was supposed to be brief. At the very same moment, though, I caught sight of a small rectangular show case in one of the corners of the room.
“Uncle,” asked Yuan Ming whose glance had followed mine, “are these the cup and saucer?”
“They are indeed,” I responded in a voice turned inaudible.
Apart from my own gift, the show case contained a few enamel snuff boxes and some silver cups and tankards which, I felt certain, were gifts from staff and from satisfied clients. I then spotted a small brocade box housing a locket. One miniature photograph was of Arthur Smithies in his twenties; the other depicted a girl with a stylish coiffure, an aquiline nose and Nordic features. A full calf bound edition of “Great Expectations” occupied the lowest shelf.
“Were you looking for this cup and saucer in the first preview?” asked Alan Jones in a voice that allayed my fears of testing his patience. “Diane told me you asked if we had such a piece in the auction.”
“It’s Vienna, about 1804. I gave it to him when I finished my Oxford thesis: he had been most helpful to me.”
“So you did know him quite well?”
“I thought I did,” I heard myself say; “but I’m not so sure any longer: this suite – it is full of surprises.”
“Is it the contrast between this suite and the other rooms?” asked Alan Jones.
“That too, although, even before I saw this suite, I found it hard to associate those showy rooms with the man I knew.”
“What is it then?” asked Yuan Ming.
“The decor. I didn’t know and would have never guessed that Arthur Smithies collected prints and had an interest in modern art.”
“But you knew about ‘Dawn’?” she pointed out.
“I thought it was a one off; but alright then: perhaps I should have expected to find some other modern paintings. But how about the prints? He knew I was a collector. Occasionally, I talked to him about prints I had seen in auctions. But he never referred to his own interest!”
“He was quite secretive about it,” said Alan Jones. “He got most of his prints from dealers in Vienna and Paris; and, from time to time, he commissioned these dealers to bid in our own auctions on his behalf but in their names!”
“How about his English paintings” I asked “did he get them at Christie’s?”
“Quite a few of them; when he couldn’t attend, Diane took his telephone bids. And he got his porcelain in London auctions. Diane liked to handle his bids: she said he was a ‘real gent’.”
“How do you explain this secrecy about the prints?” I asked.
“We have no idea. But I can tell you this much: he did everything he could to cover his tracks. Apart from some three or four prints which he left to a friend in the City, the collection is to be sold in our next sale of prints as ‘the property of a Gentleman’. His will precluded their inclusion in the sale of his household!”
“I can’t make head or tails of this scenario,” I said after a pause.
“Neither can we,” confessed Alan Jones.
“I take it that he did not admit guests into these rooms,” I added as an afterthought.
“He didn’t,” said Alan Jones emphatically. “The servants say he received all his guests in the open part of the house. But he didn’t really have many callers. During the last few years, he led the life of a recluse.”
I could sense that Yuan Ming wanted to get out of the orphaned suite. I, too, craved for a breath of fresh air. When we were back in the open rooms, Yuan Ming said to Alan Jones: “Thanks for showing us the house; but it’s too big and the renovations are bound to be expensive.”
“I understand,” smiled Alan Jones. “Well, our agent might have something more suitable in Banbury or in Iffley. I’ve got his card with me.” Handing it to Yuan Ming, he added: “I believe one of the houses in Iffley has a loft, which could be easily converted into a nice studio with an excellent view.”
We returned to the car park on the last shuttle bus. Most of the other passengers were Christie’s employees. The snippets of their conversation, which reached my ears, centred on ‘Dawn”. They, too, had found the bidding exciting.
“I think I better drive us back to London” said Yuan Ming when we got back to our car. “You look shattered, Uncle.”
“I am, rather,” I confessed. “I still find a great deal of what we’ve seen in these rooms incomprehensible!”
“I’m sure we’ll find the right answers sooner or later, Uncle,” she replied, patting my shoulder.
16. A Solomon Judgment
Next morning, my taxi stopped in front of Bill Riggs’ office block at 8.55 a.m. The solicitors, their assistants, the other party’s expert and the two fighting cocks were already seated around the conference table. Two elderly gentleman came in shortly thereafter. These, whispered Bill Riggs, were the Chairmen of the Boards of the two companies. They had, apparently, held a brief preliminary meeting in an adjacent room.
Sir Osbert Davies kept us waiting for 15 minutes. I had my first surprise when he arrived: he was none other than the portly gentleman of the auction at Woodstock. I was startled again after he had walked resolutely to the Chair, mumbling some apologies for being late. Just before he took his seat, he winked at me conspiratorially!
Thereafter business was brisk. Within a few minutes Sir Osbert made it clear that he failed to comprehend why the dispute had not been settled amicably. The two firms had enjoyed an excellent business relationship for years and had to continue trading with each other. Small disagreements and disputes had to be sorted out without fuss. If the two companies destroyed their joint operations by petty mindedness, foreign competitors would eagerly pick up the business.
“It’s a matter of principle” said Whitehead.
“What principle?” asked Sir Osbert.
“Of honesty in dealings!” Pointing his finger at Blackburn, Whitehead added furiously: “This fellow must not be allowed to get away with his filthy pack of lies!”
“How dare you, you …” started Blackburn, but was cut short by Sir Osbert:
“I am not going to tolerate any abusive language in this meeting – and this goes for both of you: Philip Whitehead and Tony Blackburn. I just won’t have it!” He had raised his voice but his eyes, I noticed, remained cold.
“But surely, I have the right to express my views,” said Whitehead defensively.
“As long as you express them civilly,” answered Sir Osbert severely. “Our object today is to sort things out – not to perpetuate a petty personal feud.”
“I resent that,” exclaimed Whitehead, raising his voice in a vain attempt to regain his previous position of strength; “you have no right to bring club gossip to …”.
“I have the right to control this meeting and I intend to exercise it. You better get that straight, Philip!”
“How dare you speak to me like that” yelled Whitehead; “who do you think …”
“Shut up, Philip, shut up!” interrupted Sir Osbert in a tone that brought a flush to Whitehead’s face.
For the next half hour, Sir Osbert went through the documents pertaining to the dispute, including the depositions of the witnesses of fact and the experts’ reports. His analysis, I thought, was lucid and well balanced. He concluded – as had all of us before him – that the outcome of the case depended on the Judge’s assessment of the reliability of the two main witnesses: Whitehead and Blackburn. His reasoning, he added, was based on the useful reports of the two expert witnesses.
“But Professor Berger concludes that we are in the right,” insisted Whitehead.
“Care to comment, Professor?” asked Sir Osbert.
“What I say is that, if the Judge accepts Mr Whitehead’s testimony, we ought to win the case,” I explained.
“But you show that the documents support what I say!” persisted Whitehead.
“I show in my Report that some documents do; but I have had to concede that other documents go against us.”
“But that’s double Dutch,” exclaimed Whitehead.
“No, it isn’t,” intervened Sir Osbert. “Mr Barlow for the other side had to make similar concessions. Professor Berger, am I right in concluding that in this type of situation the Judge has to base his decision on his personal assessment of the witnesses?”
“Precisely,” I agreed.
“But how could he possibly believe Blackburn?” wailed Whitehead. “His story doesn’t make sense.”
“It does – much more so than your confused letters!” countered Blackburn, who had kept his tempter until this moment.
“Only the Judge will decide which version makes sense,” said Sir Osbert. “Professor Berger, could you please tell us how a Judge makes up his mind in this type of case?”
“When the facts are neatly balanced,” I said readily, “the Judge can use only one criterion: his own subjective assessment of the witnesses. So the outcome is bound to depend on whether he believes A or B. Most judges hate this type of situation and try to persuade the parties to settle. But if the parties don’t reach an agreement, the Judge has to decide.”
“But I’m positive he’ll believe me,” Whitehead’s voice was charged with emotion; “it’s a matter of simple justice.”
“Famous last words,” said Sir Osbert Davies contemptuously. “As the Professor has just indicated, the Judge has to rely on his impressions and, of course, the Judge is human. I consider it impossible to predict the outcome. I gather Professor Berger and Mr Barlow are, basically, of the same view. Can we have the views of the legal advisers?”
“We are of the same view,” said Bill Riggs, whilst his counterpart simply said: “I Agree.”
“In the circumstances,” said Sir Osbert, “I consider it imperative that the case be settled forthwith. I have studied the draft agreement dated 29 April and consider it a fair and just solution. I urge both parties to accept it as is!”
“And if we don’t?” asked Whitehead, trying to sound defiant.
“Then I shall recommend to my bank that we withdraw the facilities granted to both firms.” Sir Osbert did not raise his voice, but the reaction of all the businessmen in the room left no doubt about the impact left by his words. Unperturbed, he continued: “As you well know, both companies experienced certain financial setbacks during the last few years. Acting as the lead bank, we took a substantial risk when we arranged the syndicated loan facilities I am referring to. We went ahead despite this risk because we concluded that the operations of both companies were of considerable importance to British trade. But I am not prepared to assume any further risks, or to throw good money after bad, when the two companies indulge themselves in the pursuit of petty quarrels.”
“We can get our funding elsewhere,” countered Whitehead in a new fit of rage; “you are pointing a pistol at our heads.”
“I am indeed,” affirmed Sir Osbert. “And you better cool down before you make me pull the trigger. Once again, I urge each company to place the proposed settlement forthwith before a meeting of its Board of Directors.”
“Perhaps I should mention that, following a short meeting of the two Chairmen earlier this morning, such meetings have already been called; I understand each Board is to meet this afternoon,” volunteered Bill Riggs.
“Quite so,” said the two Chairmen in unison.
“Without consulting me?” asked Whitehead; turning to his own Chairman he added with a touch of bitterness: “I thought I was the General Manager.”
“So you are,” replied his Chairman. “But this case has gone out of hand and I have felt for some time that a settlement is desirable. As Sir Osbert has explained at the outset, our two companies have to go on cooperating in our trading activities. Our Board’s meeting is scheduled for 4.00 p.m. in our Convention Room. Your presence, Philip, will, of course, be appreciated.”
“I do not propose to come,” said Whitehead, who had turned pale.
“As you wish,” answered his Chairman; “still, in your own interest, you ought to be there. Why don’t you think the matter over during lunch.” For a moment, I thought Whitehead was going to reply. Then, to everyone’s relief, he rose from his seat and left the room.
“How about you, Tony?” asked the other company’s Chairman.
“Do you think I should attend?” asked Blackburn who, though deflated, had remained in control of himself. “I mean, do you consider my presence desirable?”
“You should attend, especially if you feel you are able to accept the proposed settlement.”
“On final reflection,” said Blackburn with an effort, “I believe I can live with it.”
All in attendance started to collect their documents. Before we rose, Bill Riggs thanked Sir Osbert Davies. He, in turn, asked the parties to contact him if they felt that he could be of further assistance. I was getting ready to take my leave but was pre-empted by Sir Osbert: “Can I give you a lift, Professor Berger?”
17. Recognising an Old Friend
On our way to the carpark, we talked about the case. To my surprise, Sir Osbert made a number of favourable comments about Philip Whitehead. He praised the policies Whitehead had pursued during his five years with his company and described his conduct in the instant dispute as out of character. Then, as I fastened the safety belt, Sir Osbert said without a change in his voice:
“Hopefully, Philip Whitehead will soon be back to normal. But, be this as it may, I only hope you didn’t find our stormy meeting too trying, Peter!”
“Not at all” I replied mechanically; then, as the gist of his address sank in, I looked at him in poorly disguised amazement.
“You are somewhat slow to recognise an old friend” he said with a smile.
For a few seconds I stared at him searchingly. Then, at long last, the smoke lifted itself. Camouflaged behind the double chin, the receding hair, the thick glasses and the wrinkled face, I recognised my acquaintance of days long gone bye:
“Brian …?”
“Have I really changed that much?” he asked sadly and, whilst I was searching for words, went on: “I suppose it’s the effect of all these expense account luncheons, the sumptuous dinners, the endless drinks and, between you and me, my not exercising enough.”
“It’s not your appearance” I told him truthfully. “It is, rather, your proper name, although I should have really known: I knew your initials were B.R.O. But, you see, although I’ve lived in Anglo-Saxon societies for years, I’m still …”
“Occasionally perplexed by our impervious ways?”
“You could put it like that, Brian … I mean, Sir Osbert.”
“I’m still ‘Brian’ to my old friends!”
“Let me congratulate you, belatedly, on your Knighthood. Was it for your work in the Gulf?”
“That, and my contributions to certain Committees. Some people thought it came earlier than deserved.”
“I’m sure that’s nonsense,” I said, once again myself. “But, I hope you don’t mind if I ask: what made you prefer ‘Osbert’ to ‘Brian’?"
“But I didn’t," he burst out laughing. “It was, rather, Ruth’s idea. She thought that ‘Sir Osbert Davies’ sounded better than ‘Sir Brian Davies’.” Noting my perplexed glance, he added: “Not that Ruth has become a snob; she’s still the same old girl. But she had always liked the sound of ‘Osbert’.”
“And what did Mary Jane and Jonathan have to say – I take it they were consulted?”
“So you have a better memory for names than for faces,” said Brian, gratified. “And, yes, they were consulted. Mary Jane agreed with Mom. She said the ‘Nobs’ had no monopoly over ‘fine’ English names. Jonathan was neutral: he said that to him I’ll always be Dad.”
“I see; but tell me: what are Mary Jane and Jonathan doing?”
“Mary Jane is a vet – one of the few women in the profession. She practises although she is married and has two kids. Jonathan did electronic engineering but, some two years ago, joined a business firm. He says he’ll make his first million before he’s thirty five!”
“Good luck to him,” I said, slightly amused. “And is he married?”
“Not formally. But he has been living with the same girl since his University days. She rules him just as firmly as his Mom rules his Dad! They say they’ll get married if they decide to have children. At first Ruth urged them to do the right thing presently; but later on she accepted the situation. She has become very fond of Rosalind and treats her like a daughter.”
“And where do you live now? I remember you bought a property in Stanmore.”
“We’re still living there. I wanted to move to an Edwardian house in Mayfair a few years ago but Ruth was against it. So I purchased our neighbour’s house and converted the two into one large property. Ruth drew the basic plan. It’s turned out very nicely.”
“I’m delighted, Brian.”
“And how are things with you, Peter? You have done very well professionally: Arthur Smithies used to tell me about your work. But how is everything else? Did you move back to Singapore for your wife’s sake?”
“Partly,” I told him truthfully. “It was the best thing I could do for her. But there were other attractions like the salary and, frankly speaking, something personal. You see, my marriage has not been a great success. Still, Pat and I are still together; but during the last few years, Brian, … a ray of light has entered into my life.”
“The young woman who was with you at the auction?”
“Her name is Yuan Ming. I told you a great deal about her the last time we met!”
“But that was ages ago!” Brian gave a start. “Hold on,” he proceeded, “so she is the little girl you talked about over our lunch, isn’t she?”
“She is, rather. We had lost touch when I left Singapore and then, when I had almost given up all hope of seeing her and her father again, I stumbled into their new shop!”
“What a strange coincidence!” His voice remained even but, for just a flicker, his expression changed perceptibly. “I recall our conversation clearly. You appeared engrossed in your work and steered back to it when I asked about your personal life. But your face lit up when you told me about little Yuan Ming: you became animated. And I assume ‘Dawn’ is her work, isn’t it?”
“It is” I said and kept talking about Yuan Ming and her art until we reached Marble Arch.
“I’m glad to see you are happy, Peter, I really am. And, Peter, are you free for lunch?”
“I am: only it’s my turn really.”
“Nonsense. You’ll take me out when I visit you in Singapore.”
18. Lunch Down Memory Lane
After some fifteen minutes we stopped in front of a smart restaurant in Mayfair. Leaving the car in charge of a valet, Sir Osbert Davies – whose role Brian played to perfection – led the way to a table at a bay window. The deference of the waiters and of the Chef, who stepped out of the kitchen to welcome him, brought a discreet smile to my face. Still, once he had ordered our meals and a bottle of wine, my host metamorphosed again into his old alter ego.
As was to be expected, we spent some time exchanging news about common friends in the English banking and business world, savouring the success of some and the untimely retirement or demise of others. Eventually, under the influence of the excellent wine, Brian started to talk happily about his grandchildren.
A short lull in our conversation took place when a waiter uncorked the second bottle. When he departed, I steered the conversation to Sir Arthur Smithies. I was not surprised to learn that Brian had, occasionally, called on him in Epping and that, more recently, he had dinner with him in Woodstock.
“We had a drink in the library followed by a formal dinner in that huge dining room.”
“Just the two of you?”
“Quite. It gave me an uncanny feeling.”
“Didn’t you find the entire house weird, Brian?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t put it that strongly; but, yes, I was puzzled.”
“Because it was out of character?”
“Not really; it struck me was as a place suitable for housing Arthur Smithies’ collection. I was, rather, surprised not to find certain things in it.”
“Such as?”
“His old desk, for instance. Roger Bates told me that Arthur Smithies had personally supervised the removal of his desk and chair from his old office. Later on, I spotted them in his study in Epping. Their replacement by the grand desk and elegant chair in the Woodstock house was out of character.”
“Anything else, in the house or, perhaps, at the auction?” I wanted to know.
“Well,” he said after an inner struggle, “I think it’s alright to tell you about it now: Arthur Smithies had a fine collection of prints. I still wonder why there was no trace of them at the auction.”
“The answer is simple, Brian” I told him. “The prints as well as the desk and office chair are in a self contained suite, or bachelor’s flat, on the ground floor. This was Arthur Smithies’ real abode.”
“How on earth did you find out?” Brian looked thunderstruck.
“Yuan Ming and I gained access to it yesterday, after the auction.”
Brian Davies listened attentively to my description of Arthur Smithies’ hidden rooms. He interrupted me for the first time when I described the books I saw in the study.
“Did you have a good look at the shelves with the English novels?”
“I’m afraid not,” I had to admit. “Do you have a specific book in mind?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. It’s ‘Great Expectations’.”
“A fine full calf bound edition?”
“Precisely,” he said eagerly.
“It’s not on the shelves. It is, rather, in a cabinet in which he kept gifts and trophies. A Vienna cup and saucer I gave him before I left Oxford is also there.”
“I know them. He showed them to me shortly after you went to Singapore,” said Brian, overtly moved. “The book is from me. I presented it to him when he left Crawfords. Can you recall any other items you saw in the cabinet?”
Brian was able to identify some snuff boxes. He then turned, somewhat uneasily, to the locket.
“During his early years at the Bar, Arthur Smithies was often seen in the company of Vivian Armstrong, a successful Chancery Junior from the Chambers in 11-12, Grey’s Inn Square. Rumour had it that they were engaged to be married. But, in the end, no announcement was made and they appear to have drifted apart. I’m sure she gave him the locket.”
“What a pity they didn’t get married.”
“I am not sure I agree with you. Arthur Smithies was very much his own man. He might have found it hard to accept the everyday compromises dictated by marriage.”
Brian was equally interested in my description of the remaining rooms in the suite. He wanted details about the prints. I was impressed when he identified a number of them from my description. Some turned out to be rare and valuable.
“Brian,” I asked when I had completed my description of the suite, “why, on earth, did Arthur Smithies lead such a schizophrenic existence? I mean, why did he need both the opulent open rooms and the hidden suite. I have no doubt that he felt at home in the suite. So why did he need the façade of the other rooms. I am satisfied that Arthur Smithies was not a show-off.”
“Of course not,” confirmed Brian. “What bothers you about the two separate pArt of the house?”
“They are incompatible with each other!”
“Viewed as two homes, they are,” he answered readily. “But the open rooms were not meant to be Arthur Smithies’ home. They were the rooms of a grand mansion, housing his collection of artefacts. He wanted his guests to enjoy them. The suite was his living quarters: the place in which he dressed informally, discarding his suit and putting on a pullover or cardigan and a comfortable pair of trousers: the place in which he relaxed and felt at home.”
“But why did he keep its existence in the dark. You were, I believe, close to him. But even you were never told, let alone invited to enter these rooms?”
“As you well know, Peter, Arthur Smithies was a very reserved man, who cherished his privacy. Perhaps he felt that the existence of these ‘hidden rooms’ was no one else’s business.”
“Isn’t this an extreme example of the privacy fetish; doesn’t it verge on the absurd?”
“Perhaps it does, Peter,” conceded Brian; “but, then, Arthur Smithies was an unusual man.”
“And why this secrecy about the prints? He never mentioned them in his letters to me although he knew I was a fellow collector. He was, at the same time, communicative about his Meissen artefacts. Actually, I wonder if you were the only person who knew about his collection of prints.”
“Perhaps I was; and, as a matter of fact, I found out by chance.”
“How?”
“I met him in a dealer’s shop in Amsterdam. When I came in, he was in the process of paying for a Goya. He reacted like a boy caught with jam on his fingers. Still, the cat was out the bag and so we started to talk about prints. He was quite knowledgeable.”
“This still doesn’t explain why he was so secretive about them. And, Brian, how can one man have an interest in both these prints and in the paintings we have seen on the walls of the house?”
“I quite agree with your assessment of these paintings. I made those bids for ‘Galleons off Yarmouth’ to boost Roger Bates’ ego. I didn’t want him to sense that no one else in the room had an interest in his dream painting.”
“I see; and you are a very kindly man, Brian.”
“Oh, come off it,” said Brian suddenly all flustered. “It was just a supportive gesture.”
“But how about the contrast between the prints in the ‘hidden rooms’ and the paintings?”
“I can’t be certain,” said Brian, after having pondered for a while; “but let’s see if we can come up with a good hunch. Basically, how would you describe these prints?”
“All of them deal with human emotions: Eve’s insatiable curiosity; Man’s cruelty in war; the horror inspired by the apocalypse and so and so on.”
“And the paintings?”
“They are expressions of harmony and grandeur: of Man’s achievements.”
“These, of course, suit the elegant furniture, the fine porcelain with its quaint paintings, and they are in harmony with the atmosphere Arthur Smithies’ grand house.”
“Quite so,” I agreed.
“Perhaps,” said Brian reflectively, “these paintings – and the open rooms as a whole – represent the solidity toward which, Arthur Smithies felt, we ought to strive. The prints reflect the controversies of life, the emotions and obsessions which drive us, every now and then, to irrational actions.”
“Like Philip Whitehead’s behaviour,” it was my turn to reflect.
“Precisely,” agreed Brian readily. “I believe that, in his own way, Arthur Smithies was both aware of the effects of inner turmoil and was mesmerised by them.”
“That,” I said “would also explain what attracted him to ‘Dawn’ and the other modern, abstract but highly emotive, paintings displayed in his ‘hidden rooms’.
“Spot on,” said Brian.
“How very strange,” I said after a pause. “How very strange that a man of Arthur Smithies’ background would reflect on these aspects of life. I knew, of course, that he was a sensitive and sophisticated man. But I had not realised that he had stepped so far out into the … twilight zone.”
“But, Peter, how much do you really know about Arthur Smithies background?”
“Not much; I assumed that – like yourself – he came from the ranks of the professional middle classes.”
“Wrong on both points,” said Brian, who, to my relief, was amused rather than annoyed by what had, obviously, been a gaff.
“How?” I asked.
“Well, my father was a businessman in Peterborough. He was quite successful but we were a long shot removed from the ‘professional’ upper middle classes.”
“But your accent,” I said bewildered. “To me it didn’t - and still doesn’t - sound ‘Midlands’.”
“So I’ve fooled you about my accent, haven’t I?” said Brian in such a heavy Midlands accent that I broke into a smile.
“You rather have! When did you change over?”
“Just before I went up to Cambridge. It was really mom’s idea. She doted on me and did everything she could to ensure my ‘future’. One of her best ideas was to persuade me to ‘learn to speak English like a real gentleman’. It helped me in my interview at King’s and opened the doors to Crawfords.” Smiling at me, he added: “ ‘Osbert’, too, was her idea. She thought that such a fine proper name would stand me in good stead at the right time.”
“Alright, then,” I came back to my main point; “but you said I was wrong twice. So what was Arthur Smithies background? He appeared the epitome of an executive in an English aristocratic bank.”
“He was; and he had the necessary credentials and the appropriate upbringing,” agreed Brian. “But the full story is considerably more complex than what meets the eye. You see, Peter, Arthur Smithies’ great grandfather was a successful businessman in Manchester. His name, I gather, was Peter Smith or, possibly, Peter Schmidt.”
“A migrant from Germany?”
“He was, I am told, born in England. His father had migrated either, as you suggest, from Germany or from the Netherlands. After he had made his fortune, Peter Smith came down to London to look for even bigger and better opportunities. Well, it didn’t take him long to find a suitable target. The City was, at that time, full of rumours about certain financial difficulties faced by Crawford, Fairbairn, Miles, Lawson & Co. Concluding that merchant bank had a sound base, Peter Smith injected the capital required for its recovery; and he married Juliana Crawford, third daughter of the senior partner, a girl some twenty years younger than himself.”
“Quite a man!” I broke in. “And, obviously, his financial gamble paid off.”
“Didn’t it ever!” affirmed Brian. “Within ten years the bank regained its prominent position and established excellent relations with some Dutch and German banks. It soon became an intermediary for trade between the East Coast of the United States and Central Europe.”
“And the bank remained a sort of family business.”
“It did. The partners consolidated the bank’s standing by marrying into the families of successful lawyers and of wealthy businessmen and industrialists in Britain, the Continent and the States. Some of them joined the bank. So it changed its name from time to time; and the ‘Smiths’ changed their name to ‘Smithies’.”
“How did Arthur Smithies get into the lead. I though he had opted for a career at the Bar?”
“He did, rather. But circumstances dictated his final move. Originally, his older brother, Archibald, was considered more suitable for the job. Archie was a an easy going, affable, man with all the social graces. People liked to deal with him. Arthur, in contrast, was a reserved and shy young man. But he had his ancestors’ sharp mind. A career at the Bar appeared just right for him.”
“I believe I can put the rest of the jigsaw together.” I nodded. “He had a successful start at the Bar and, eventually, chose to specialise in a newly developing field: copyright and patents. I suspect that – in due course – Archibald proved himself unable to handle the affairs of the Bank during times of turbulence. So the sedate and resourceful Arthur had to take over. Was it a family decision?”
“It was.”
“So, all in all,” I mused, “far from being the scion of a pure old English family, Arthur Smithies came from a somewhat … mixed background?”
“You are surprised, aren’t you?” grinned Brian.
“I am: to me he appeared a typical upper middle class Englishmen.”
“He left that impression on most people he met; and I don’t think it was a mere façade. In most ways, he was just that.”
“But, at the same time, there were some other inner forces pulling him in very different directions.”
“I think so,” said Brian, “but we can’t be certain.”
“True,” I had to agree; “but what you’ve just told me sheds new light on the public section of the house and on the ‘hidden room’. Their coexistence no longer appears incompatible with his character. Like Arthur Smithies’ background and outlook they were moulded by chance!”
“Chance,” replied Brian vigorously, “or, as I prefer to put it, a series of events each triggered off by another, like the ripples created by a pebble thrown into a clear pool.” Breaking into a smile, he went on: “And now, Peter, you know as much about Arthur Smithies’ background as myself!”
“Thanks for telling me” I said.
“Anything else you like to know?” he asked, still smiling.
“As a matter of fact there is: do you know what became of Vivian Armstrong?”
“She died of an attack of pneumonia, just a few years after Arthur Smithies joined Crawfords. I was told he appeared subdued during that period and dressed even more sombrely than usually. And, Peter, I know for sure that Vivian Armstrong remained single.”
Taking advantage of the lull in our conversation, the waiter came over to fill our coffee cups and to remove our dessert plates. Having found out all I wanted to know about my late friend, I thought it appropriate to steer the conversation back to Brian’s own affairs. He told me, willingly, about his position in his merchant bank and his general role in London’s thriving banking community. He was, obviously, pleased to talk about his achievements but, at the same time, his tone remained sober. He became more enthusiastic when I asked about his collection of prints.
“My collection has been growing steadily over the years. You may recall that I prefer modern prints to the old masters. I have prints of all the modern leading artists, excellent prints! To tell you the truth, Peter, I am giving serious thought to early retirement from the bank. If I do, I shall turn my hobby into a lucrative business.”
“But, surely, you cannot possibly open an art gallery, can you?”
“As ‘Brian Davies’ I could; but, as you imply, not as ‘Sir Osbert Davies’; and, even if I wanted to defy convention, Ruth won’t let me. Still, one of Mary Jane’s friends has just finished her BA and aspires to become an Art dealer. I have had a chat with her. I would, of course, remain in remote control.”
“But why do you want to retire from the City. You are at the very peek of your career, Brian!”
“And that, Peter, is not a bad time to quit. I’d rather go whilst I’m riding high than when I sense the tide has turned and I’ve outlived my usefulness; and, quite apart from that, I am beginning to lose interest. I’ve been at the helm for far too long.”
“I understand. Sometime I, too, feel fed up with what I’m doing. I’ve been teaching law and writing legal monographs and articles for years. I am getting sick and tired of it.”
“What do you propose to do?"
“As soon as I’ve sorted things out, I intend to devote myself to Yuan Ming’s career; and I want to try my hand at some short stories and perhaps a novel.”
“I’m glad you have made your plans,” said Brian warmly. “You know, Peter, time has not stood still for either of us; but you, too, contemplate a new start: you haven’t lost your aspirations.”
“I haven’t” I confirmed. “I continue to look forward to the future. But how about Arthur Smithies, Brian, had he lost heart?”
“I don’t think so” said Brian with conviction. “I believe that in those hidden rooms, the rooms which you have been privileged to see, he was the man both of us knew at Crawfords.”
Discreetly, the waiter placed a silver plate with the neatly folded bill next to Brian’s side plate. He settled it in cash and, I noticed, left a generous tip.
Although I should have preferred to walk to Marble Arch Station, I felt obliged to accept Brian’s offer to drop me in front of my hotel. Having exhausted both our personal news and the subject of Arthur Smithies, Brian turned back to the legal proceedings that had brought me to London. It soon emerged that, like myself, he had been moved by Philip Whitehead’s bitterness and was inclined to accept his version of the facts. Both of us, though, were convinced that most judges would come down on the side of the more sedate and dignified Tony Blackburn.
“In effect,” I told Brian “we delivered a Solomon’s judgment. Being unable to discover conclusive evidence in support of either party we divided the loss in equal shares. ‘A’ didn’t win but ‘B’ didn’t lose. I only hope the episode has not ruined the careers of Blackburn and Whitehead.”
“Time will tell,” replied Brian.
Shortly thereafter we arrived at the hotel. Shaking his hand warmly, I thanked him for his hospitality. I watched his car until it disappeared around the corner. It was only then that I realised I had been driven in a Bentley.
19. Rerouting a Flight
Back in my room, I kept musing about Brian – now Sir Osbert – Davies, comparing his decisive progress with the slow downhill trend in Arthur Smithies’ career. Was it possible that in our fast moving age a rough diamond had brighter prospects than a polished one? After all, even the finest of diamonds had, in the very least, one flaw.
My reverie was disrupted by the four chimes of a nearby clock. Instantly, my mind swung to Yuan Ming. Why had she not rung? Did she go for some shopping? Despite my persistent calls, the receiver in her flat was not picked up. Had there been an unfavourable development respecting her deal? Had some of the pieces proved to be fakes? The purchasers were, undoubtedly, ruthless people. Was she in danger? Anxiously, I started to pace the floor with my arms pressed tightly to my sides. Then, as if in response to a prayer, the telephone rang.
“So you are back, Uncle!”
“Yes; but where have you been? It’s nearly four thirty?”
“Don’t tell me you worried about me? I’m not a ‘little Yuan Ming’ any longer, you know.”
“It’s just because of the deal; I feared something went wrong!”
“And the nasty men kidnapped me” she burst out laughing. “They haven’t paid yet: remember! So if they aren’t pleased they can call the deal off. So what would they want with me?”
“Sorry,” I conceded contritely; “I am getting rather edgy, and it is getting late.”
“I understand, you Old Silly. I’m late because we went to see the expert on bronzes in the British Museum, who took his time; and then the three of us had a late lunch in Gerard Street. But where have you been: there was no answer when I rang about an hour ago.”
“Sir Osbert Davies took me out for lunch!”
“So you are climbing up in the world, Respected Uncle: rubbing shoulders with the high and mighty; soon you’ll rise above the standard of your plain Yuan Ming. Don’t tell me you had been driven in a Silver Hawk?”
“In a Bentley, rather. But Sir Osbert isn’t really Sir Osbert…”
“Uncle, are you reciting ‘The Hunting of the Snark’?”
“I am not! And Sir Osbert isn’t a Bojum. He is, rather, the portly gentleman who started the bidding on ‘Dawn’ yesterday.”
“The fat chap who kept staring at us?”
“The very same. You see, he turned out to be an old friend about whom I’ve told you – I mean ‘her’ – long ago.”
“Don’t tell me he’s your old friend Brian Davies,” she burst out laughing merrily. “You told ‘her’ he was an elegant, athletic and suave upper middle class young Englishmen! No wonder he tried to attract your attention by bidding for ‘Dawn’. When did you recognise him?”
“Only on the way to lunch” I admitted; “and look, shall I come over to the flat?”
“Do. I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”
Yuan Ming greeted me when I arrived. She looked pleased; but I could sense her fatigue.
“Is all well with your deal, Yuan Ming; and I hope you don’t have to travel to China - right?”
“Right; the deal is all set and everything is fine.”
“Thank goodness.”
Despite my relief, a lump was forming in my chest and throat. In just about twenty four hours, Yuan would be on her way to Heathrow. Shortly thereafter I would be taking my flight to Singapore. Yuan Ming, to my relief, did not display unhappiness.
“Tell me about your lunch, Uncle” she asked. “You talked about Arthur Smithies, didn’t you?”
“We did; but do you really want me tell you about it now?”
“Oh, yes; I’m sure Brian Davies – I mean your Sir Osbert – knew a lot about him.”
I knew that her main object was to steer my mind away from her imminent return to Los Angeles. All the same, I went ahead. She listened without interruption, except an occasional snicker as I related the funnier aspects of my recent encounter. When I finished, she said with conviction:
“So your friend Brian – I mean ‘the Honourable Sir Osbert Davies’ – was not altogether surprised to hear about the hidden rooms? He took what you told him in his stride and came up with a ready explanation.”
“Do you think he is right?”
“Offhand, and bearing in mind Arthur Smithies’ real background, his view is plausible.”
“It probably is,” I said, trying to keep my doubts out of my voice.
Neither of us felt inclined to go on talking. Outwardly, we tried to prolong the discussion of my meeting with Brian Davies and of Arthur Smithies’ mystery. These were the topics of the day. Our thoughts, though, were focusing on our imminent parting. Some six or perhaps even eight months would pass before we met again; and life – alas – was full of uncertainties. We appreciated that an eventual return to our respective bases was unavoidable. Yuan Ming had her art and exhibitions; I had my post at the University. But was there no way to extend our spell of harmony and happiness?
Then, through the clouds of gloom, I caught sight of the benign face of my late friend, Yuan Ming’s father, the antiques dealer Tay Fang-Shou. In one of our last conversations, he had urged me not to ignore my insights. People like us taught ourselves to be guided by reason. In the process, we lost the ability to act on instincts, although these alone were dictated by the inner self. Man, Tay had explained in our special jargon, was made of flesh and blood. Reason was an acquired dimension. In extreme occasions – when special circumstances made their demands – you had to free yourself of it.
“Yuan Ming,” I told her when I was certain the time was right; “Yuan Ming: tomorrow I shall fly with you to LA. I know I’ve got to return to Singapore when the academic term stArt; I know you have to decided to settle in LA; and so you should. But I do want to see your exhibition!”
Slowly a smile crept over her face. “Do you have a visa, Uncle; and can you spare the time?”
“The old visa is still valid; and, yes, I have the time.”
“When does your next teaching session begin?”
“Not until the first week of July!”
“And how about your consultancy?”
“I cleared my table before I went to London; and any new matter can wait.”
“But what will you do when my exhibition is on? You can’t be there all the time; and I can’t bear the thought of your sitting around doing nothing.”
“I’ll have a good rest and, if I feel like it, I’ll go to some matinees in your theatres. Also, I’d like to spend some time in your museums. There must be some museums in LA?”
“There are. We even have a museum of Judaica; I haven’t been to it yet because I thought we’d go together one day. But alright then: you’ll come with me to LA tomorrow, Uncle; but you must not go to any part of town unless you check with me first and I tell you it’s safe.”
“So it’s all settled,” I let my delight show. “And it’s sure to be a lovely week, Yuan Ming.”
“It will be; and you are welcome to my opening and closing sessions.”
“Splendid” I told her; “and can’t I be of any use to you whilst the exhibition is on?”
“You can,” she said after a pause. “You can do some of my packing.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I’ve really just made up my mind, Uncle. When the exhibition is over, I’ve got to fly to Hong Kong in connection with the deal.”
“So we can go together” I said eagerly.
“Yes, Uncle; and after that I’m flying over to Singapore. It’s high time I spend some time back at home.”
“So we’ll be able to spend plenty of time together!” I said gleefully.
20. The Impenetrable Mask
We had dinner in a Viennese restaurant in Queensway. Left to myself, I should have spent the next morning in the vicinity of the hotel, possibly strolling down Kensington Church Street for a browse in the antique shops. Yuan Ming was more adventurous. Pointing out that the sky was clear, with only an occasional friendly white cloud floating past, she proposed a trip up the Thames.
It was a hot May day but a mild breeze, blowing from the East, kept refreshing us on the boat and during our hike in Kew Gardens. The smile on Yuan Ming’s face told me that, like myself, she felt at the top of the world.
Back at my hotel, where Yuan Ming and I intended to have our dinner at the Law Firm’s expense, I discovered that Bill Riggs had set me a cumbersome, even if pleasant, task. The settlement agreement had been executed without demur by both companies and, shortly before lunch, was given the effect of a decree by a much relieved Judge. With the exception of Philip Whitehead, everybody was smiling. True to form, the two law firms found this an opportune moment for the submission of their accounts. It was, accordingly, imperative that my own fee note be ready before I left London.
“Well, Uncle” said Yuan Ming enthusiastically; “let’s do it together.”
She waited patiently whilst I collected my time-sheets and reconciled them with the entries in my diary. Then, as I started to put the fee note together, she checked my amateurish calculations. Soon it dawned on me that she had a vivid recollection of the fine tuning my little Yuan Ming had introduced long ago – in Singapore – into my bookkeeping and bills. Now and then, she rounded up taxi fares and restaurant bills so as to include the tips and corrected all my wrong additions with an amused grin. The only time she got incensed was when I sought to charge a nominal fee for the period we had spent on the Continent.
“Come on, Uncle,” she said firmly. “You used to tell ‘her’ that it was customary to charge a waiting-fee of 50% for days a lawyer had made himself available but was not called upon to act.”
“True” I said; “but we had such a marvellous time during these days. Do you really think I ought to charge a waiting-fee?”
“But if we had remained in London they would have had to settle the hotel bill and reimburse your running expenses?”
“I suppose so,” I conceded.
“So, if your conscience bugs you, why don’t you charge them 33% instead of 50% per day?”
“Fair enough,” I accepted her verdict.
When the fee note, neatly typed out in the hotel’s Business Centre, had been sent out, we had coffee in the hotel’s lounge . For a while we talked about our European trip and planned a trip through the United States. In due course, though, the conversation turned back to Arthur Smithies. We had no doubt that his craving for independence – verging on an obsession – was the main reason for his decision to remain unattached.
“But, in truth, our answer begs the question,” Yuan Ming told me. “If a man really loves a woman, he’ll go ahead in any event; and he’ll usually be glad to fall in with her wishes and will accept her plans. And, frequently, she’ll accept his. This is not a loss of independence. It is the willingness to compromise necessitated where the spouse’s happiness is the first priority.”
“How very true,” I told her. “It means that each party to a happy marriage – a fellowship – has to give up some independence. If one party insists on having his or her way all the time, the fellowship is bound to turn sour. I am sure a man as sensitive and as sophisticated as Arthur Smithies knew this; he wasn’t blind.”
“But suppose he had another impediment that compounded the first?”
“Such as?”
She was about to tell me but, mercurially, changed her mind. “Uncle,” she said, “let me give you a clue; we’ll see if you find out on your own.”
“ ‘She’ loved to set me riddles,” I grinned. “So even a young lady doesn’t change her spots? Well, go ahead then.”
“Let’s start with Dad,” she said. “How many faces did he have?”
“I knew two: Tay Fang-Shou’s and Dr Alfred Cheng’s: two very different countenances. And, yes, I observed him once leaving the Odeon Cinema with ‘her’ and your Mom. His mannerism was so different that, for a while, I couldn’t be certain it was him.”
“I’m not surprised. On all family occasions he turned himself into a Chinese family man.”
“But what has this got to do with Arthur Smithies?”
“Not so fast, Uncle. How about you? Are you the same with close friends like me, with students, with clients and on formal occasions?”
“Not really,” I consented, still bewildered.
“And how about your friend Brian? In this morning’s meeting he was the Hon. Sir Osbert Davies, blah, blah blah; with you he became, once again, Brian; and I won’t be surprised to see our fat Sir Osbert, dressed informally at home, hopping on all fours and braying like a horse, with the two grandchildren riding on his back and shrieking happily! And to the them he is neither Sir Osbert nor Brian Davies: he is Grampa. I’m sure he loves it, but - what is more important - he doesn’t worry about his appearance, or about his ‘mask’!”
“True,” I said “but I still don’t see…”
“So the penny has dropped” she said, taking in the change in my expression as I cut myself short.
“You are hinting that Arthur Smithies was never seen with his mask off?” I asked.
“More accurately, Uncle: Arthur Smithies was unable to open up and drop his ‘mask’. It had become part of him!”
“And that is not something a woman would tolerate in her man – not if she loves him?”
“Precisely, Uncle. A woman cannot love a man who, even when they are on their own, remains the very person he is in the boardroom.”
“But suppose he doesn’t have another ‘face’ or ‘alter ego?”
“I don’t know if there are such men,” she said solemnly. “But even if there are some around, Arthur Smithies wasn’t one of them.”
“How do you know?”
“When Alan Jones and you looked at the trophies cabinet I peeked into the wardrobe. What I saw was a give away! His neat business suits were hanging on one side. On the other I saw an old V neck pullover, with the elbows all frayed, an old comfortable jacket, a few pairs of corduroy trousers and a worn out track suit. And, Uncle, the cuffs of some of the trouser legs were covered with dry mud.”
“So he did some gardening,” I said thoughtfully. “I should have never guessed!”
“And, Uncle, when you went through his professional books, I took in the other shelves. Well, he had quite a collection of books on gardening and horticulture as well as ‘Teach yourself’ and ‘Do it Yourself’ books on such diverse topics as ‘French Cuisine’ and ‘Carve Your Own Clock Cases and Mantelpieces’.”
“So he was a man of many hobbies; and, perhaps, he had a well equipped workshop, hidden away in another part of the house. What is so strange is that he never mentioned these hobbies or occupations to anybody!”
“Just as he didn’t talk about his prints,” she agreed. “Outside his own ‘hidden rooms’ he remained – day in and day out – the …”
“… London banker in the neatly cut and carefully pressed business suit,” I concluded for her.
“Precisely; and he took off his mask only when he was alone, usually in his suite, the existence of which was known only to the servants.”
“The ‘hidden rooms’, in which he created a world of his own: a sanctuary not to be disrupted by any other person.”
“Well put, Uncle; so now you are with me.”
“All the way,” I confirmed; “but I should still like to know what gave Arthur Smithies the strength to reject Vivian Armstrong and give marriage a miss. He was, after all, a normal young man, with a deep affection for her?”
“He was a realist, Uncle. He must have appreciated that, to enjoy a happy marriage, he had to change his outlook and his approach to life but felt both unable and unwilling to do so.”
“What a pity,” I said sadly.
“No, I don’t agree with you there, Uncle! Happy marriages are rare: you know this. And nobody can tell if Arthur Smithies and Vivian Armstrong would have hit it off, even if he had opened up to her.”
“How very true.”
“So perhaps Arthur Smithies made the right decision. He may not have been the happiest of men; but we know he took life as it came and was ‘satisfied with his lot’.”
“You are right,” I admitted. “But tell me just one more thing: did Arthur Smithies appreciate that he was ‘the man with impenetrable mask’?”
“I can’t tell; we may never know,” she conceded.
“And we may not find out why he became like that. Maybe it had something to do with his background or home or, maybe, he was ragged so badly in his public school that he had to teach himself to button up.”
“Or it might have been – as you would normally preach, Uncle – the outcome of pure chance!”
21. The Prints
Yuan Ming returned to Chelsea after dinner. Back in my room, I packed my suitcase, intending to check out in the morning. I was going to spend the day with her in Chelsea. In the afternoon we would take a taxi to Heathrow.
When I had finished packing, I watched two programmes on BBC. Then, before I retired, my mind strayed once again back to Arthur Smithies. We had found the answers to most of our questions about him. Just one issue remained obscure. Why had he been so secretive about his hobby of collecting prints. There was nothing untoward – let alone shameful – about them. Each was a collectors’ item, bound to fetch a substantial price in an established auction house.
In an attempt to find the answer, I let my mind dwell on the prints in the ‘hidden rooms’. Unlike the colourful painting in the public section of the house, most prints were black and white; there were only two colour lithographs. Yet another feature was that the prints highlighted man’s gruesome, untoward, weak and dark side. They also emphasised his blindness and limitations. They were parodies of human nature.
Was it possible that the Late Sir Arthur did not want anyone to suspect that, behind his benign and imperturbable mask, he was deeply interested in and even moved by human frailties? But, if this was the case, Sir Arthur Smithies’ mask was emblematic of an escape. He was not prepared to give anyone the opportunity to peep through it; and the knowledge of the very existence of the prints might have provided a clue. So it was best to keep it in the dark.
Was my analysis sound? Unable to come up with a definite answer, I switched off the lights. I wanted to have a good night’s rest prior to the long flight to Los Angeles. Youth was far behind; and an ageing man had to preserve his energies.