indeterminate age,Madame Magnat-lâÃtrange. I am told she is ill. She is intestate. The contents of the property could fall to the hammer, but it is more likely the government will intervene and make a collection of it all.â
Sax detested when governments made collections of things. Sticking paper labels on beautiful objects and subjecting them to inventory inspections. Taking them permanently out of the market. Other sins. He felt the urgency of the situation. He had swallowed the hook and he didnât care.
âMmm,â he said, allowing himself the minimum expression of interest.
âPerhaps we can discuss the matter en mains propres ,â the voice said.
Two hours later, Sax was on the Bordeaux-Périgueux-Paris train.
T here were other advantages. Foremost, Paris was a suitable distance from his cottage in Dordogne. At first, it was primarily the distance he was concerned withâthe Beat poets were past their prime, and this particular specimen, although beautiful in a wispy-bearded, postadolescent way, wrote miserable poetry. Worse, he read it aloud, interrupting himself to make scribbled revisions on scraps of paper. The escapade suggested by the voice on the telephone was riddled with omissions and lies; of that, Sax was perfectly aware. But the extended description of the Loire estate was convincing. If he got so much as a pair of good chairs out of the deal, it would pay for the trip. Sax tossed the house key at the poet and told him to clear out in a week if Sax didnât come back. Then he cleared his own calendar for two weeks.
Once Sax was on the train for Paris, he could properly consider the odd assignation toward which he was rushing. You may bring confederates , the smoky voice had said. Accomplices, he meant. Sax had a few of those, and considered his options. Gander, his beefyassistant manager from Liverpool, might do for a start. The London branch was staffed primarily with willowy, oversexed shopgirls Sax recruited from Liberty, Laurent, and similar retailers, because they were attractive and hip. The real work, however, was done by the assistant managers.
There were others in Saxâs stable. Marco the Italian was strong and unscrupulous but prone to panic; this job seemed to have elements of a burglary about it, and Marcoâs anxiety might get the better of him, regardless of how well he looked with his shirt open and that wealth of dark curls bursting out.
The Pole, Szczepan (whose name, disappointingly, was pronounced merely âStefanâ), was an immense, powerful man with a devious mind, but Sax didnât trust himâSzczepan remembered too well the breadlines and hunger back in Poland. Sax didnât doubt the man would take the prize for himself if he thought he could get away with it. Which he couldnât. But he might try.
There were a couple of lads in London and the German Krunzel brothers, but Sax hadnât seen any of them in a while. After some consideration, he settled on Gander. Nigel, an effeminate, cunning, hand-dry-washing buyerâs assistant, could keep the shop in Ganderâs absence.
Gander looked like an apprentice butcher, with huge red hands and ears and a low forehead surmounted with blond, bristling brush-cut hair. He never seemed to blink, his small blue eyes peering out uncomprehendingly from a wealth of pink face. Appearances deceive. Gander was extremely intelligent. He had been a specialty furniture remover before Sax recruited him; Gander had spent several years standing by at auction houses, soaking up along with tea and cigarettes the details of period, quality, and style that defined historical objects. Ganderâs mates didnât care what they were moving. It was all weights and measures to them. Gander alone took note.
He knew something of art, furniture, and ceramics when Sax spotted him at a lythcoop, or estate auction, at a North Country mansion; since then, heâd learned a great deal more.
Sax detested when governments made collections of things. Sticking paper labels on beautiful objects and subjecting them to inventory inspections. Taking them permanently out of the market. Other sins. He felt the urgency of the situation. He had swallowed the hook and he didnât care.
âMmm,â he said, allowing himself the minimum expression of interest.
âPerhaps we can discuss the matter en mains propres ,â the voice said.
Two hours later, Sax was on the Bordeaux-Périgueux-Paris train.
T here were other advantages. Foremost, Paris was a suitable distance from his cottage in Dordogne. At first, it was primarily the distance he was concerned withâthe Beat poets were past their prime, and this particular specimen, although beautiful in a wispy-bearded, postadolescent way, wrote miserable poetry. Worse, he read it aloud, interrupting himself to make scribbled revisions on scraps of paper. The escapade suggested by the voice on the telephone was riddled with omissions and lies; of that, Sax was perfectly aware. But the extended description of the Loire estate was convincing. If he got so much as a pair of good chairs out of the deal, it would pay for the trip. Sax tossed the house key at the poet and told him to clear out in a week if Sax didnât come back. Then he cleared his own calendar for two weeks.
Once Sax was on the train for Paris, he could properly consider the odd assignation toward which he was rushing. You may bring confederates , the smoky voice had said. Accomplices, he meant. Sax had a few of those, and considered his options. Gander, his beefyassistant manager from Liverpool, might do for a start. The London branch was staffed primarily with willowy, oversexed shopgirls Sax recruited from Liberty, Laurent, and similar retailers, because they were attractive and hip. The real work, however, was done by the assistant managers.
There were others in Saxâs stable. Marco the Italian was strong and unscrupulous but prone to panic; this job seemed to have elements of a burglary about it, and Marcoâs anxiety might get the better of him, regardless of how well he looked with his shirt open and that wealth of dark curls bursting out.
The Pole, Szczepan (whose name, disappointingly, was pronounced merely âStefanâ), was an immense, powerful man with a devious mind, but Sax didnât trust himâSzczepan remembered too well the breadlines and hunger back in Poland. Sax didnât doubt the man would take the prize for himself if he thought he could get away with it. Which he couldnât. But he might try.
There were a couple of lads in London and the German Krunzel brothers, but Sax hadnât seen any of them in a while. After some consideration, he settled on Gander. Nigel, an effeminate, cunning, hand-dry-washing buyerâs assistant, could keep the shop in Ganderâs absence.
Gander looked like an apprentice butcher, with huge red hands and ears and a low forehead surmounted with blond, bristling brush-cut hair. He never seemed to blink, his small blue eyes peering out uncomprehendingly from a wealth of pink face. Appearances deceive. Gander was extremely intelligent. He had been a specialty furniture remover before Sax recruited him; Gander had spent several years standing by at auction houses, soaking up along with tea and cigarettes the details of period, quality, and style that defined historical objects. Ganderâs mates didnât care what they were moving. It was all weights and measures to them. Gander alone took note.
He knew something of art, furniture, and ceramics when Sax spotted him at a lythcoop, or estate auction, at a North Country mansion; since then, heâd learned a great deal more.
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