Read Online The Moche Warrior by Lyn Hamilton - Free Book Online

message. I’m a bit at loose ends, so I thought I’d see if you had time for a coffee. Do you think you could drag yourself away?”
    “From what?” he asked wryly, gesturing around the room. “Do you see customers? Do you see a
single
customer? For this I left a low-paying but steady job in a museum? Where shall we go?”
    We left his assistant—Janie, he called her—and headed for Starbucks. “I guess you were implying business is not exactly great,” I said.
    He laughed. “Oh, it’s okay. No fame and fortune, though. But I always thought I’d like working for myself, and I do. Sorry about your place. Dreadful thing. Insured?” I nodded. “Good,” he said. “You’ll let me know if there is anything I can do.” I smiled my thanks.
    We chatted awhile, and then it struck me that Sam might indeed be able to help with something, by way of information. “Would the name A. J. Smythson and the Smythson Gallery mean anything to you?”
    “Oh, yes,” he replied. “Surely you remember too.”
    “The name sounds familiar, but I can’t really recall why,” I said. “So tell me. I can tell from the expression on your face that there’s a good story here.”
    “It’s quite a tale, all right, but good isn’t exactly the word,” he replied. “In fact it is precisely the wrong word. Smythson, Anton James Smythson—his friends, I wasn’t one of them, called him A. J.—was an art dealer on King Street West. He had his gallery in one of those industrial buildings that are being converted in that old part of town. He lived in a fabulous loft over the store.
    “He was very successful, in a way I am coming to realize I never will be. He threw the most extravagant openings for his artists, and I attended several. A little collegial schmoozing, you could say. His gallery was only a few blocks from mine. Champagne, caviar, oysters. Only the best. But the parties in the gallery were nothing compared to the private parties he threw in his loft. These were unbelievable. I only got invited to one, but it was spectacular: flowers everywhere, fabulous food, witty entertaining guests, movie stars, politicians, all the glitterati.
    “Really, he had it all. Lovely stone cottage in the country, winter residence in San Miguel de Allende. He also had good taste. Make that exceptional taste. The paintings he owned personally in his loft were to die for.” He paused. “Actually that is an entirely inappropriate expression considering what happened, forgive me. But he had a couple of Rothkos in the dining area of the loft that I would have given my eyeteeth for.
    “Unfortunately he also had a few weaknesses. One in my mind was that he was just a little too successful. This may sound like sour grapes; I mean no one is ever likely to call my gallery a huge success, but when you’re in the business we are, you have to be careful not to accept stolen goods. It’s easy enough to do, and it is done. You and I both know that. You know that when you’re buying antiques in the East, for example, you have to make sure that they are not national treasures, that they have an export permit.” I nodded.
    “It’s easy enough to be fooled, of course. I recall when I was collecting for the museum, someone brought me some very exceptional silver pieces. Very old, Persian, about thirteenth century. I was desperate to add them to the collection. You know the rules as well as I do. Canada is a signatory to various UNESCO conventions on trade in art and artifacts, and particular agreements with various countries, and it was therefore necessary for me to ensure that these objects had left Persia, or Iran, before Canada signed the agreement with that country.
    “I asked the person who had brought the objects for that proof. The person was not asking for money, incidentally, which is just as well because the museum, in fact most museums, have no acquisitions budgets anymore, and they rely on donations. The person merely wanted a tax receipt for