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44
Dimbleby Fine Arts
It was Sarah Bancroft, from a table at Franco’s Italian restaurant in Jermyn Street, who spotted her first—the tall, slender woman with almost black hair, dressed in a shortish skirt and a formfitting white top. She rounded the corner into Bury Street and instantly caught the attention of Simon Mendenhall, who was leaving Christie’s after an interminable senior staff meeting. Simon being Simon, he paused to have a look at the woman’s backside and was aghast to see her make a beeline for Dimbleby Fine Arts. Simon in turn made a beeline for Wiltons and informed all those present, including the dealer of contemporary art with whom he was rumored to be having a torrid affair, that Oliver’s hot streak continued unabated.
At eight o’clock precisely, the raven-haired woman rang the gallery’s bell. Oliver waited until she rang it a second time before rising from his Eames desk chair and unlocking the door. Stepping across the threshold, she pressed her lips suggestively against his cheek. During their weeklong game of cat and mouse, Oliver had sidestepped two offers of dinner and a thinly veiled sexual proposition. Only heaven knew what the next few minutes might bring.
He closed the door and locked it tightly. “Would you like a drink?”
“I’d love one.”
“Whisky or whisky?”
“Whisky would be perfect.”
Oliver led her through the half-light to his office and filled two tumblers with scotch.
“Blue Label,” she remarked.
“I keep it for special occasions.”
“What are we celebrating?”
“The impending record-shattering sale ofSusanna in the Bathby Paolo Veronese.”
“Where does the bidding stand?”
“As of this evening, I have two firm offers of thirty.”
“Museums?”
“One museum,” answered Oliver. “One private.”
“I have a feeling that both of your bidders are going to be disappointed.”
“The museum’s offer is final. The collector made a killing during the pandemic and has money to burn.”
“So does my client. He’s anxious to hear from me.”
“Then perhaps we shouldn’t keep your client waiting any longer.”
They carried their drinks to the gallery’s rear exhibition room. The large painting was propped on a pair of baize-covered display easels. The tableau was only faintly visible in the semidarkness.
Oliver reached for the dimmer switch. As Susanna and the two elders emerged from the gloom, the woman raised a hand to her mouth and murmured something in Spanish.
“Translation?” asked Oliver.
“It wouldn’t survive.” She approached the painting slowly, as though trying not to disturb the three figures. “It’s no wonder you have the entire art world at your feet, Mr. Dimbleby. It’s a masterwork painted by an artist at the height of his powers.”
“I believe those were the very words I used to describe it in the press release.”
“Were they?” She reached into her handbag.
“No photographs, please.”
She produced a small ultraviolet torch. “Would you mind switching off the lights for a moment?”
Oliver reached for the dimmer again and returned the room to darkness. The woman played the purple-blue beam of the torch over the surface of the painting.
