Chapter 5 May
Trupington Gore followed Miss Bates like a shadow.Every time he followed him, he appeared in a different form, and she didn't notice it at all.After finding out where she lived in Chim, Benny rummaged through her trash can at night and took away a bag full of trash in plastic bags.Nothing of value was found.
Miss Bates was a man of integrity, and her life was beyond reproach.She is an old girl who lives alone.She kept her little apartment tidy.For her commute, she took the train and tube to Knightsbridge and walked the last 500 yards.She subscribed to The Guardian - they tried unsuccessfully to use the Guardian's English name "Guardian" as a password, and she went on holiday to Frington with her sister and brother-in-law.
They found it in an old letter in the trash, but "Frinton" wasn't a code either.They also found six empty jars of Weijia cat food.
"She has a cat," said Susie, "what's its name?"
Truby sighed.This meant that he had to make another trip to Chim City.Knowing that she would be at home on Saturday morning, he chose to show up then.This time, he's posing as a pet supplies salesman.To his surprise, she turned out to be interested in scratching posts, without which bored cats would shred sofa covers into rags.
He stood in the doorway, wearing false buck teeth and heavy spectacles, when a tabby cat appeared in the drawing room behind Miss Bates, eyeing him contemptuously.He enthusiastically praised the little animal, calling it "little kitty".
"Come here, Alamein, to Mummy," she called.
Alamein: A battle fought in North Africa in 1942.Her father died there when she was a one-year-old baby.In the residential area of Radbroke Forest Road in London, Susie successfully logged in this time.The username and password for Miss Priscilla Bates, Peregrine Slade's private and confidential secretary, in the Darcy Building database are "P-Bates" and "ALAMEIN".And she has access to all of her boss's private emails.Susie impersonated Bates and downloaded more than a hundred private emails.
It took Benny a week to choose a target.
"Slade had a friend in the art department of the Observer. Three emails were from that man, and his name was Charlie Dawson. Sometimes Dawson would ask Christie's or Sotheby's and break the news to Slade. Can open a hole in him."
Using her computer expertise, Susie made up an email from Charlie Dawson to Peregrine Slade for later use.Benny was studying the catalog for the next big sale at the Darcy Mansion.After a while, he tapped the picture of the small oil on canvas in the newspaper.
"Just this one," said Benny.Suzy and Truby stared at it.Here is a still life of a bowl of raspberries: a Delft, Netherlands, white-glazed and blue-glazed porcelain bowl with shells next to it.An odd combination.The bowl was sitting on the edge of an old table with broken sides.
"Who is Colt?" asked Trupington Gore. "I've never heard of him."
"Many people haven't heard of him, Truby. Few people know. He was of the Middelburg School in Holland in the mid-seventeenth century, but he only painted small still lifes. There are only sixty or so in the world. So...precious. He always painted similar objects: strawberries, raspberries, asparagus, and sometimes shells. Very flat, but there are people who appreciate him. Look at the estimate."
The suggested price in the catalog is £120,000 to £150,000.
"Then why choose Colt?" Susie asked.
“Because there is a Dutch billionaire in the beer business who is so obsessed with Colt and has been collecting art from his compatriots all over the world for years. He won’t be here in person, but he will send a representative, and he will bring a Blank cheque."
On the morning of May 20th, the Darcy Building was full of voices.Peregrine Slade, who was to preside again, was already in the auction room when his secretary, Miss Bates, noticed an e-mail from him.It was nine o'clock in the morning, and the auction would start at ten o'clock.She read the message to her boss and thought it might be important, so she printed a copy on a laser printer.She took this printing paper, locked the office door and hurried to the auction hall.
When she found Slade, he was onstage checking positions and testing microphones.He thanked her and looked at the email.It's from Charlie Dawson, and it's likely to be extremely helpful.
Slade stuffed the letter into his pocket and came to the reception desk in the lobby.Unless they are well-known customers of the auctioneer, people who come to these auction houses to bid generally have to fill out a form and receive a "tag", that is, a plastic card with a number on it.
People can hold up the sign to show bids, but more importantly, this sign can prove the identity of the winner, because when people hold the sign, the staff will notice the number on the card, which means the name, Address and Bank of Account.
It was still early, only nine fifteen.There are only ten forms so far, none of which belong to Martin Getty.But that name alone was enough to make Slade salivate.After a brief conversation with the three lovely female receptionists behind the desk, he returned to the auction hall.
At nine forty-five, a short, not particularly handsome man approached the reception desk.
"Are you here to bid, sir?" said one of the girls, holding a form in front of her.
"Yes, girl."
The drawling accents of southerners are as sweet as honey.
"Name, sir?"
"Martin Getty."
"And the address?"
"Here, or at home?"
"The detailed address of the family."
"Beecham Stud Farm, Louisville, Kentucky, USA."
After filling in the details, the American took the sign and strolled to the auction hall.Peregrine Slade was about to take the stage.He had just reached the bottom step when he felt someone touch his elbow.He turned his head and looked down.The bright eyes of a female receptionist gleamed.
"Martin Getty, short, gray-haired, goatee, disheveled." She looked around. "Sit in the bottom third row, center aisle, sir."
Slade smiled happily and continued up the steps to his place.The auction has started.No. 18's work was sold for a good price, and the staff in the audience recorded all the details.The porters moved masterpieces, key works and general works one by one and put them on the easels next to and below the rostrum.The American did not bid.
Prices were secured for two works by Thomas Helemans, and a work by Cornelis Dieheim was fiercely contested to double its estimate, but the Americans still did not bid.Slade knew at least two-thirds of the people present, and he also recognized Jan Diehoft, a young buyer from Amsterdam, the Netherlands.But what exactly does the American billionaire want?Shabby, indeed.Did he think he could fool the expert before him, the venerable Peregrine Slade?That piece by Adrian Colter is number 102.It came on at fifteen past eleven.
At the beginning, seven people participated in the bidding.When the price reached 100,000 pounds, the five retreated.Then the Dutchman held up the sign.Slade was triumphant.He knew who Die Hoft represented.Billions are made in frothy beer.At £120,000 another bidder withdrew.The remaining London agent continued to compete with the quiet Dutchman.But Die Hoft beat him.He had a larger checkbook in his pocket, and he knew he could win.
"One hundred and fifty thousand pounds, is there a higher one?"
The Americans looked up and held up their signs.Slade stared.He was adding Colt's work to his collection in Kentucky.Very good, very good.A Getty confrontation with van den Bosch.He turned to the Dutchman.
"You are challenged, sir. There is an offer of £160,000 down the aisle."
Die Hoft didn't even bat an eye.His body language is almost dismissive.He glanced at the figure on the side of the aisle and nodded.Slade chuckled inwardly.
"My dear Dutch lad," thought he, "you never know what you're up against."
"One hundred and seventy thousand pounds, sir, and . . . "
The American waved his sign and nodded.Bidding prices continued to rise.Die Hoft lost his arrogance because of his poverty.He frowned nervously.He knew his customer had said "buy it," but of course there was a limit to the price.When the bid reached half a million pounds, he took out a small mobile phone from his pocket, entered a twelve-digit number, and started talking in Dutch in a low and sincere voice.Slade waited patiently.There is no need to embarrass others.Diehoft nodded.
At eight hundred thousand pounds, the hall was as solemn as a church.Slade bids upwards in increments of £20,000 each.Diehoft had been pale when he entered the hall, and now his face was like a blank sheet of paper.He occasionally mutters something into his phone and continues to bid.When one million pounds was auctioned, the Amsterdammer was finally defeated by reason.The American raised his head and nodded slowly.The Dutchman shook his head.
"Auctioned at £1.1 million, lot 28," said Slade.The crowd in the hall let out a sigh of relief.Diehoft turned off his phone, glared at the American Kentuckian, and then walked out of the hall quickly.
"Number 103," said Slade, with a calmness that he himself did not feel, "a landscape."
The Americans in full view now got up and walked out of the hall.A young and beautiful girl followed behind him.
"Well done, sir, you've won," she flattered.
"Nearly a whole morning," said the Kentuckian slowly. "Do you know where the men's bathroom is?"
"Oh, the toilet. Okay, go ahead, the second door on the right."
The girl watched him go in, still carrying the big tote bag he had kept in his hand all morning.She stands guard outside.When he came out, she would accompany him to the finance department to go through the specific procedures.
In the bathroom, Trupington Gore pulled a leather briefcase from a tote bag and pulled out a pair of black mid-heel Oxfords.In less than five minutes, his goatee and gray wig were gone, as were the canary slacks and old coat.The items were packed into tote bags which were thrown out the window and into the yard below.Benny picked it up in time and left.
After a while, a London businessman of great style appeared.His thinning black hair was pulled back, and he wore gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose.He had gained two inches in height and wore a tailored but rented pinstripe suit, a designer Thomas Pink shirt and a regimental-striped tie.He turned and walked straight past the girl waiting at the door.
"Auctions suck, don't they?" he couldn't help whining. "Watching the Yankee get his favorite treasure."
He nodded towards the door behind him and continued walking forward.The girl continued to stare at the bathroom door.
It wasn't until a week later that people realized what had happened, but by this time, the news had already spread.
After repeated questioning, the Getty family replied that although there were many members, there was no one named Martin in their family, and no one owned a stallion farm in Kentucky.When word got out, Darcy House, and especially Peregrine Slade himself, became a laughingstock.
The unfortunate vice-chairman of Darcy House tried to persuade the old man van den Bosch's representative - Jan Diehoft, who had failed at the auction - to pay a million pounds.But it is impossible.
"If you hadn't been a liar, I could have won it for £150,000," Dutch businessman Die Hoft told him over the phone, "so we should settle the deal at this price."
"Then I'll discuss it with the seller," Slade said.
The painting was the property of a recently deceased German nobleman.The aristocrat was a former SS Panzer Corps officer who traveled with the army to occupied Holland during World War II.This unfortunate coincidence always casts a shadow over the question of how he acquired the collection in the first place, but the old man has always claimed to have acquired the Dutch master before the war and has cleverly falsified the related invoices. Serve as evidence.The art world cannot function without flexibility.
But it was a Stuttgart law firm that represented all the property of the old German nobleman, and it was they who dealt with Peregrine Slade.German lawyers don't look very good when they lose their temper, and Bernd Schliemann, a senior law firm partner who stands six feet five inches tall, looks intimidating even when he's happy.After learning the details of what had happened to his client's estate in London that morning, and the £150,000 proposal, he was in a rage.
"No," Schliemann yelled at the colleague who was sent to negotiate through the phone receiver, "No, there are no doors. Take the painting back."
Peregrine Slade was far from stupid.Half an hour later, a male colleague finally broke into the bathroom and found that there was no one there.This made him suspicious.The girl gave a detailed description of the appearance of the only man who emerged from it.But in this way, there should be two people, and the appearance of the two is completely different.
Charlie Dawson was completely confused when he was blamed.He hadn't sent an email and had never heard of Martin Getty.Slade showed him his e-mail.Identification showed that the mail came from his computer, but the contractor responsible for the installation of the entire computer system at the Darcy Building admitted that a true computer whiz could forge the origin of the mail.It was at this time that Slade became convinced that he had been played.But who did it?And why?
When he was called to the office of the chairman, the Duke of Gateshead, he had just given instructions to make Darcy's computer system as robust as possible.
His leadership may not have been as violent as Mr. Schliemann's, but his rage was no less.Peregrine Slade stepped into the office upon hearing the "Come in" instruction, and the leader was standing with his back to the door.The chairman was gazing through the window at the roof of Harrods, five hundred meters away.
"Not happy, my dear Perry," he said. "Not at all. There are some things in life that people don't like, and one of them is being laughed at."
He turned to the desk, spread his fingers, and laid his palms on the Georgian mahogany desk, leaning forward a little, his blue eyes glaring fiercely at his deputy.
"Don't you understand a man walking into a club and being openly laughed at, dear old chap?"
A friendly tone is like a dagger in the sun.
"You're blaming me for incompetence," said Slade.
"Shouldn't I?"
"It was vandalism," Slade said, handing over five pieces of paper.The Duke straightened up slightly, took out his glasses from his coat pocket, and took a quick look.
One was a fake email from Charlie Dawson.The second is Dawson swore he never sent the email.The third was a statement from a specially invited top computer expert, to the effect that a computer genius could have fabricated this email and stuffed it into Slade's private e-mail.
The fourth and fifth documents were written by two girls who had been in the auction room that day, one of whom gave a detailed account of how the fake Kentuckian had introduced himself, and the other how he had disappeared.
"Have you any clues as to the identity of the liar?" asked the duke.
"Not yet, but I plan to find out."
"Oh, you go look it up, Perry. Go look it up right away. When you get him, make sure he's in jail. Even if he's not in jail, make sure you let him know in this tone, and he's never allowed to show up again. Within a mile of us. In the meantime, I'm trying to appease the board — again."
Just as Slade was about to leave, his leader made another addition.
“Before the Sassetta incident and now this incident, we need to take some special measures to restore the image. Keep an eye out for this kind of opportunity. If it fails, and this fake incident, then the board may have to consider acting. A small... adjustment. That's all, my dear Perry."
The part of the nervous spasm near the left eye that used to appear when Slade left the chairman's office during periods of great psychological stress or heightened emotion was now throbbing wildly like an oil lamp in the wind.
Notes:
Notes: