As Berry and I Were Saying (23 page)

“That Chairman has long been dead, but his leniency was a scandal, as everyone knew. Mercy – yes. That is as it should be. But Wallace was absurdly lenient. The leniency which he showed did incalculable harm. Over and over again, it made a crime worth while. And it discouraged the police. ‘What is the good,’ they cried, ‘of doing all this work and getting our man, only to see the fellow laugh in our face?’ And, by God, you couldn’t blame them. I’d worked damned hard on that case, and I’ll say I was sore.”

“I’ll lay you were,” said Berry. “Eighty thousand pounds’ worth of pearls. Why, I’d do four years myself for a guerdon like that. How much would they get?”

“I can only guess. I’d say fifteen thousand, between them. And that, of course, was paid them when they came out. Cammy, I should think, took twenty. I may be wrong. Still, fifteen or twenty thousand in 1909 was a very handsome sum.”

“And the pearls went to Amsterdam?”

“Yes. That was the market then. All the big stuff went there. God knows how it was carried, but carried it was. I never remember jewels being stopped
en route
. And it wasn’t for want of trying. But the carriers knew their job.”

“You make a point of that in two of your books.”

“I know.
Formosa
and
The Bank of England
. Neither stole, but both of them carried the stuff. All imagination, of course. But I sometimes wonder whether I was so very far out.”

“
The Wet Flag
,” said Berry. “I have an affection for that sinister restaurant. And
The Red Nose
, of Montmartre. Your scenes in those two cafés are some of the best you’ve done. And
Fluff
was a cordial. ‘Sweaty knows them cuffs.’”

Jill put in her oar.

“You must have known someone like
Fluff
to make him ring so true. And
Punter
and
Bunch
and
Sloper
.”

I shook my head.

“I never had anyone in mind: but all my life, my darling, I’ve studied my fellow men. Like everyone else, I’ve rubbed shoulders with all and sundry. I must have travelled thousands of miles by the Underground, and the Tube gives you every chance of observing your company. I have received all sorts and kinds of impressions on which, I suppose, I have drawn. For the student of human nature, the Tube is a wonderful place. All manner of men take the Tube, and you’ve only to sit and watch them – or stand, if the coach is full.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Berry. “You must be damned receptive. You must have a brain of wax, if all your rogues have emerged from impressions made by wallahs you’ve seen in the Tube. Didn’t the Old Bailey help?”

“Not very much in that way. The prisoner at the Old Bailey is hardly himself. And rogues don’t frequent the Old Bailey, unless they’re brought.”

“I knew there was something,” said Daphne. “The Great Pearl Case – the first one. When Sir Charles Russell received the damning five-pound note. Hadn’t you that in mind when you wrote
This Publican
?”

“I can’t be sure,” said I. “But I don’t think so. I don’t think it entered my head. My eyes were fast on what would in fact have happened in such a case. And now pray silence for Berry.”

“I think,” said my brother-in-law, “that a few observations, fat, pungent and brief on the subject of fakes and experts will not be out of place in this authoritative work. The average man takes both at their face value: he can hardly do anything else. He may suspect a fake, but he can’t be sure: and if he calls in an expert – well, it’s no good calling him in, if he’s not going to trust what he says. But a few, more fortunate beings – though not less ignorant – of whom I happen to be one, have, by the merest chance, had the startling truth vouchsafed. And this revelation proved to me once for all that the one and only touchstone which will declare, first, whether an article of virtu is genuine and, secondly, what it is worth, is its sale by auction at Sotheby’s or at Christie’s Great Rooms.

“I do not suggest that there do not exist experts who are qualified to distinguish between the true and the false, and to appraise. But who can tell which they are? But, if a piece goes to Christie’s, the opinion the owner gets is that of a number of experts who are backing that opinion with their own money; and, as more than one expert desires to acquire the piece, the highest market value is paid.

“And now for the fakes…

“I believe it to be a recognized fact that, if a list had been kept of all the period furniture which was made in England up to the end of the nineteenth century, and a similar list were made today of all the period pieces which had survived, the second list would be very much longer than the first. Now the explanation of this flouting of the most elementary principles of simple arithmetic is, of course, painfully clear. But I was never able to focus its detail, until a housemaid, called Bowen, entered the married state.”

“Bowen,” said Daphne, “was such a very nice girl. I was awfully sorry to lose her. I’m afraid I can’t remember her married name.”

“Neither,” said Berry, “can I. But the point is that the man she married was employed by, er—”

“Very careful,” said I.

“–by Messrs. Nottarf and Wotsit, of Stop Street, WC. Is that all right?”

“Admirable,” said I.

“And Nottarf and Wotsit, of Stop Street, were a very well known firm. They purveyed antique furniture. If you wanted a really fine set of Chippendale chairs, you couldn’t do better than go to Nottarf and Wotsit: if you wanted a refectory table, Nottarf and Wotsit were the people to whom to go: if you wanted a Queen Anne tallboy, Nottarf and Wotsit would have or would find you one.

“Well, in due course Bowen had a baby, and the infant was brought to Cholmondeley Street, for Daphne to see and admire. And Bowen’s husband came, too. It was while he was talking to me that he told me about his job: and he interested me so much that I asked him to come and see me next Saturday afternoon. And so he did.

“He was in ‘the faking department’. And he told me how it was done. Six copies, perhaps, would be made of a genuine, period piece. But each was slightly different. One was a little larger, and one not quite so large: one stood a little higher, and one not quite so high: but all were in perfect proportion. And when they had all been passed, they were broken down. Tables set out in the rain and thrashed with chains…wormholes inserted in chairs by special tools…and other tools reproduced the traces of rowels, belonging to Cavaliers’ spurs… You never heard such a report. That morning he had helped to ‘make up’ a room. A Tudor dining-room. An American millionaire was due at the show-rooms on Monday: he fancied Tudor stuff: and he had been recommended to go to Nottarf and Wotsit… Before he came, the head expert would scrutinize every piece, to be sure that no proof of age had been omitted or slurred.

“‘How long have you been there?’ I asked him.

“He told me, seven years.

“‘Well, you must be an expert, yourself.’

“He smiled.

“‘Well, I wouldn’t say that. But I know what to look for, sir.’

“I took him into the dining-room. You remember our Hepplewhite chairs?”

Daphne nodded.

“Ten. And we had two made by Morris, to make up the set. They were beautifully done. After a week, you couldn’t tell which was which.”

“He could,” said Berry. “I showed him the set, and I said nothing at all. He went over every one, and set two aside. ‘Those, sir,’ he said, ‘are copies. They’re nicely done.’ And he showed me how he could tell, but I can’t remember that.

“The point is that he was an expert – a very reliable expert, for he’d had the finest training that any expert could have. ‘Set a thief to catch a thief.’ By that, I mean nothing against him. He was an honest man. But this was his employment. And he wasn’t an educated man. In fact, he was very simple. He never even asked me to keep the things he was saying under my hat. I did, naturally…

“Only once did I use him, as an expert. That was when Madge and Crispin set up their London flat. Madge had fallen flat for some fine old Spanish chairs. Real Cordova leather, two hundred and fifty years old. She found them at —’s. Crispin had them round on approval, and asked me to come and see. Well, I couldn’t say: but they looked a hell of a set. So I offered to bring an expert, who’d tell them the truth. ‘But on these conditions,’ I said; ‘that you don’t ask him his name or what he is, and that you tell no one about him, for this must be kept very quiet.’ Crispin passed his word, of course. ‘But he must be a big man,’ he said. ‘How much is his fee?’ ‘He’ll ask you nothing. If you like to give him a sovereign, he’ll be as pleased as Punch.’

“Well, I got hold of Collins – there you are.”

“Collins,” cried Daphne. “Well done.”

“It is wonderful, isn’t it? That after all these years, I should be able to recapture—”

“Proceed,” said everyone.

“That’s right,” said Berry. “Defile the crystal fount. Spit into the limpid basin.”

“You filthy beast,” said Jill.

“That takes me back,” said Berry. “When I was St Salmon of Gluckstein, I was operating—”

“Will you go on?” said I.

“Oh, very well… I took Collins round to the flat. He went over each chair – there were eight. Then he stood back.

“‘The set’s a fake, sir,’ he said. ‘There’s not one genuine chair: not even a made-up chair. I’d say they come out of the Midlands. Shipped to Spain, of course. There’s a lot of that goes on.’

“Crispin was so thankful that he gave Collins five pounds.

“Collins stared at the gold.

“‘But I ’aven’t done nothing, sir.’

“‘Yes, you have,’ says Crispin. ‘You’ve saved me three hundred pounds.’

“And now for the expert by profession…

“Let me make it quite clear that I am speaking of those who declare that they are experts, who ask and receive money for the opinions they give. As an executor, on more occasions than one I have sought their advice. Allow me to place upon record one or two opinions which I was able to check.

“When old Mrs — died, I employed a well-known man. She had some very nice stuff. And the Will had the usual provision – that relatives should be allowed to purchase at probate prices. What was left was to be sold by auction. One of the best things was a Louis Quinze bureau, in a lovely state. I’ve never cared for them: but most people do. The expert examined that table before my eyes. His examination was thorough. At last he looked up. ‘It’s an excellent copy,’ he said. ‘It was made in Holland, by a man called Damuryse (or something like that). It was made for the Great Exhibition of 1851. If it was genuine, it would be worth quite a lot. As it is, I shall put it in at twenty-five pounds.’ None of the relatives wanted it, so I sent it to Christie’s to be sold. I thought it might make forty pounds, for he was valuing low. That table sold for eight hundred and fifty guineas. It was a fine example of period stuff… And a plate, I remember, he valued at four pounds ten. I sent that to Christie’s, too, where it made nearly eighty pounds.

“And the table Boy wrote about in
And Berry Came Too
. We all know that’s true. Only, it wasn’t Geoffrey Majoribanks. It was a well-known peer. He was having his stuff revalued in 1928. For purposes of insurance. At — House, a stately home of England. And —’s of London valued that very table at twelve hundred and fifty pounds. And it had been made for Lord —: made to his order, some twenty-five years before. And it cost him, I think, thirty pounds.

“Well, there you are. Fakes and experts. They’re really synonymous terms. The fake is the frying-pan, and the expert is the fire. It’s not strange that, between the two, the purchaser falls to the ground. I don’t say the expert’s dishonest. But he professes a skill which often he hasn’t got. To my mind, that is dishonest; for no man should hire himself out as an authority, unless he knows in his heart that that representation is true. As for the faking of stuff it’s purely a criminal offence. Well, not the faking – the selling, as genuine stuff, of stuff that is faked. It’s obtaining money by false pretences. And that’s what the expert does, too. But that would be hard to prove. Both parties are culpable. Of course, you can talk of fools who deserve what they get. But I say this – that no man deserves such treatment. But, unless the world has changed, a great many people receive it year in year out.”

My sister glanced at her watch.

“Something short, Boy?”

“Two flashes,” said I. “I’m sorry to have to suppress the names of the cases concerned. But at least I can promise you this – that neither of these flashes has ever appeared in print.

“A man was tried for murder at the Central Criminal Court. Although I was not concerned, I remember the case very well. It attracted much attention. The jury acquitted the prisoner, and that was that. But, always afterwards, at every murder trial – at every hearing of every murder charge, that man was in the front row of the public seats. He was pointed out to me in the Crippen case. One might have been forgiven for supposing that, having been through the hoop, he would avoid the precincts of criminal courts. One would have been wrong. Police Court, Coroner’s Court, Old Bailey – if the charge was wilful murder, that man was there.”

“Theory?” said Berry.

“I have no theory. I simply find his behaviour very strange.

“And the second flash is this. There was another case, in which I was not concerned. That, too, was a case of murder. The accused was defended – not very well, I thought – by, let us say, Weston Gale, while he was still at the Bar. And after a hearing which lasted for three or four days, the jury found him ‘Not Guilty’ and he was discharged. Now I felt pretty sure, as did other, wiser men, that the jury had made a mistake. I thought that the man was guilty – no matter why. Some months later, I met the Chief Inspector who had had charge of the case. ‘The King against —,’ I said. ‘Was he guilty, or not?’ ‘Of course he was guilty, sir. But there was one link in the chain which we hadn’t got. God knows I tried hard enough to find it… But there you are. If I could have found that link, the case was dead. You remember we had all his movements on that particular night. From pillar to post we proved them – all but one. That was the gap in the chain, which we could not fill – and, of course, Mr Weston Gale fairly rammed it home.