The Gimmel Flask Read online

  This lay-out gave the auctioneer’s men a long narrow area of movement for displaying the wares; and at the end opposite the door it left room for their clerk to set up a table and conduct his business of logging the sales and taking the cash. Benson knew this lay-out of old. He knew exactly where the ring would congregate, a dozen or so strong, straight opposite the auctioneer and occupying a disproportionate space for their numbers. As he passed behind them, he noted they were busy with their catalogues, marking in what each was intent on buying. It was a cartel. Dealer A would refrain from bidding against dealer B for lot number five if dealer B would reciprocate over lot twelve. And so on. Between them they sought to carve up the sale, covering every worthwhile article with a buying plan calculated to rob the vendors, to cut out lay buyers, and to line their own pockets with profits of, sometimes, many hundred per cent. Benson also knew, however, that the machinations of the ring were no match for the lay buyer among smaller items. A woman really determined to buy some article she had set her heart on was always willing to go a little higher than the members of the ring. They had an eye to profit. They had to buy below what they knew they could sell for in their shops. She only had one objective—ownership. She usually achieved it for less than she would pay in the open market.

  Benson passed behind the ring and chose an open square yard of floor. He glanced at his watch. Five past ten. Everything running true to form. The auctioneers were not the people to start promptly and run the risk of low bids before all those intending to come had arrived. There was always ten minutes’ grace for latecomers. He looked around. Mrs Horbium had managed to get a seat on a sofa. With a mental smile, he noted that it was the best and cleanest sofa in the row—a cream and crimson brocaded settee occupied by three elderly women who were now crushed unmercifully together by Mrs Horbium’s vast bottom. She still wore her large brimmed black hat, while from behind, the long, pendant jet earrings seemed to be in perpetual motion as their many facets caught the light one after another and gleamed momentarily. For a moment he could not see Mrs Horbium’s companion; then he spotted her, edging her way back from the clerk’s desk to stand behind the sofa. She had a pristine catalogue in her hand, so he guessed the purpose of her visit.

  Fred Hardy took the dais first. He was a heavily built man with short legs and twiddle toes. He wore a mid-grey suit and a fawn-green trilby which he didn’t attempt to remove. It was pulled well down over his brow, reminding Benson that somebody had once said that if all our sins were writ large on our foreheads, some would feel the need to wear their hats down to eye level.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if we don’t get on we shan’t get through today.” Hardy sounded petulant: as if he were accusing those before him of causing the delay, and not his own carefully planned cupidity.

  “Lot one.”

  There would be a few rubbishy lots first, just to give the big spenders and latecomers even more of an opportunity to get there.

  “Three pails, a handbroom and various small brushes. Who’ll start me at one pound?”

  Silence.

  “Come along, ladies and gentlemen. One pound?”

  “Ninety pence? Eighty? Seventy? Seventy I am bid. Any advance on seventy pence for the pails and brushes? Seventy pence then, it is.” Hardy looked up. “Mrs . . .?”

  “Faber,” said a voice.

  “Mrs Faber.” The name and amount were written in the first space of the perforated book. Ten spaces to a page. When full, the page would be torn out, and handed to one of the porters who would carry it across to the clerk. The clerk, in turn, would make out separate invoices for each lot. The money would start to come in shortly after the first page was full.

  “Lot two.”

  “Lot three.”

  “Lot four.”

  They were knocked down quickly. Rolls of lino, slip mats, an old knifebox full of bits and pieces.

  A caudle cup was put up. Benson guessed Hardy didn’t know what he was selling. The ring did. One of them went to four pounds for it and smirked his pleasure at the bargain. All members of the ring marked their catalogues with the price. There’d be a bit of financial settling to do at the end of the day.

  Benson glanced at his watch. Hardy was up to schedule. He reckoned to average about two minutes a lot. Ten past eleven and lot thirty-five was being displayed by the head porter, who was carrying it along the line of sofas. A chocolate pot, a caster and a teapot of English seventeenth-century silver. This time Hardy knew he was selling something of value—probably because it was silver, not because of its age and beauty. He waited until the porter’s slow procession ended.

  “You don’t need me to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, that we have a fine lot here. It came from the home of the late Mrs Acton-Stuart. Solid silver. Who’ll start me at a hundred pounds?”

  Silence. The ring lay low. The housewives looked at each other, grimaced and shook their heads as much as to say that such a starting price put paid to their hopes of a bargain round about the five pound mark.

  Benson was interested. He didn’t want the lot, but he knew it. Had inspected and admired it at the Acton-Stuart home. It was worth the hundred and a lot more besides. He didn’t want the estate to suffer. Jeremy Acton-Stuart, the grandson and heir, was in Northern Ireland with his regiment. Benson felt the least he could do was to prevent the boy being too badly fleeced by the ring. He raised his catalogue slightly.

  “One hundred I am bid on my right. One hundred for the silver.” Pause. “Come along, gentlemen, save my time and yours.”

  Benson, who was watching the ring closely, just caught the flicker of movement.

  “One hundred and five.”

  Benson reckoned he could safely afford to push them to at least a hundred and fifty. He re-entered.

  “One hundred and ten on my right.”

  Glances from the members of the ring to see who was against them. Benson made no attempt to hide his interest. They knew him. They also knew that if he was prepared to bid, their own estimates of the value of the lot were not at fault.

  “One hundred and fifteen.”

  “Twenty . . . twenty-five. . . .”

  Benson made his last bid at one-fifty. The ring chalked up a winner at a hundred and fifty-five.

  Benson was hoping lot 52 would be reached before midday. He was hoping for a bargain here; not for his own collection, but he had thought as soon as he saw them that the set of little pewter Baluster measures would be a nice gift for Jill Racine, to start her off on her expressed intention of collecting once she could afford to do so. The measures would go well in her rather bare sitting room and would need no cleaning. They were flat-lidded, in a graded set from half a gill up to the quart. Benson was delighted by the fact that this set boasted Scots shell thumb pieces, which are normally associated with the Glasgow and Edinburgh dome-lidded, pear-shaped measures. He wondered if anybody else here would have appreciated this rather unique feature. Somehow, he doubted it. Measures are more of interest to collectors than to dealers who, if they do dabble, prefer to go for the lidded, pot-bellied types or the harvester measures with their more flowing curves and haystack shapes.

  Hardy obviously felt he had lost time over the silver. He pushed ahead quickly. Benson knew Hardy would want to reach at least lot 60 by twelve o’clock when, his two hour stint finished, he would hand over to either Williams or Lamont and make his way to the Swan and Cygnets for a couple of hefty gins and a big lunch. But today it was going to be a near thing. Lot 52 came up at eight minutes to twelve.

  “Set of measures,” said Hardy. “Beer and spirits. Now all you publicans, just the thing for you. Any landlords in the house? No? Who’ll give me ten pounds? A complete set in pewter, gentlemen. Useful, these measures.”

  Pause.

  “Eight?”

  Pause.

  “Do you want me to give them away?”

  Voice in crowd: “Yes.”

  “Very well. Six.”

  “I’ll start at four,” said Mrs Hor
bium in a loud, harsh voice.

  Benson cursed gently to himself. With Mrs Horbium against him, the bidding would go too high for a gift for Jill. The last thing he wanted to do was to embarrass the girl with an expensive present. Besides, like the ring, if Mrs Horbium knew he was against her she would know the measures were worth something and would press ahead all the harder. Ah, well! There might be some fun to be had. He raised his catalogue.

  “Five,” said Hardy.

  “No,” said Benson. “Four twenty-five.”

  Hardy glared, but could not refute it. The bids went up by ten-pence a time below two pounds, by 25p between two pounds and five pounds, by 50p up to ten pounds and thereafter by one pound to fifty pounds, two pounds to a hundred, and five pounds above a hundred. Benson was a stickler for the sale rules.

  “Four twenty-five, Benson,” snapped Hardy.

  It had the desired effect. Mrs Horbium came again, so did Benson. Then the dealers woke up to the fact that if the two local collectors were slogging it out, they themselves might be missing something. One of them entered the bidding. Benson immediately dropped out and let Mrs Horbium buy at thirteen pounds.

  Benson contented himself with buying, a few minutes later, an enamel wine label. It was not a Battersea specimen, but a slightly coarser product made, he guessed, at either Wednesbury or Bilston, although the design, he imagined, was taken from one by Francois Ravenet. At any rate the colours were pleasant but, to his surprise, they had not caught the eye of the jackdaw-ish Mrs Horbium. He’d had a clear field. He could honestly tell Jill he’d got it for nothing and she would be the more pleased because of it.

  When the auctioneer’s sheet went across to the clerk, Benson edged his way to the desk.

  “Hello, Mr Benson. You got lot fifty-five. Do you want it now?”

  “Please.”

  The clerk despatched a porter to fetch the wine label, while Benson paid. “You’re not leaving us now, are you, Mr Benson?”

  “No. I bought the enamel for a friend. I’m going to deliver it now.”

  “See you later then, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps.”

  As he left the desk, Benson wrapped the little label very carefully in the clean handkerchief he had in his pocket. A moment or two after he arrived at his former position, Jill’s voice said, “Hello,” very conspiratorially in his ear. Almost at the same time, Hardy announced that Williams would take over the business of selling.

  “Where have they got to?” asked Jill.

  “Lot sixty-three is next.”

  “Good.”

  “Are you intending to bid?”

  “Or to get you to bid for me.”

  “Not a hope,” replied Benson. “You learn to do it for yourself, young lady. Besides, I’m too well-known. If I start bidding some people here might think the item to be valuable if it attracts me.”

  “Oh, it isn’t in the least valuable. Not like that.”

  “What is it?”

  “Lot sixty-nine.”

  “A standard lamp with shade?”

  “Yes. I’d like it for the sitting room.”

  “Right. Have you made up your mind what is the highest amount you’re prepared to spend?”

  “I thought three pounds.”

  “Splendid. Now whatever happens, don’t be tempted to go above that figure. And don’t start bidding at the figure he asks first.”

  “But I might miss it.”

  “Impossible. They wait for ages to make sure somebody isn’t going to raise the last bid.”

  “Lot sixty-three,” droned Williams, and then cleared his throat. “A modern sideboard in teak. Worth every penny of seventy pounds in the shops. I’ll start at thirty.”

  “Watch,” whispered Benson.

  “Twenty-five, then.”

  The sideboard eventually went for fifteen pounds to the local furniture shop. “Secondhand now added to modern and antique,” murmured Benson. “Did you learn the lesson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good girl.”

  “Lot sixty-nine,” said Williams. “Standard lamp in oak with round base and turned stem. The pink shade goes with it and it’s even got a bulb, hasn’t it Bert?”

  “Dunno whether it works or not,” said Bert lugubriously as he held the lamp aloft. “I ’aven’t tried it.”

  A laugh from the crowd greeted this remark and Williams said: “In that case I’m not selling the lamp as in working order. Where shall we start, ladies and gentlemen? Lamp and shade. Who’ll say two pounds?”

  Benson kept a light pressure on Jill’s arm to prevent eagerness running away with her. No takers.

  “One pound then. Let’s save the time, please.”

  “One pound I’m bid.”

  “Now,” whispered Benson, and Jill put up her hand.

  “One ten . . . twenty . . . thirty . . . forty. . . .”

  “Steady,” whispered Benson, “you’re letting it run away with you. Who has it?”

  “She has. Not me.”

  “Give it a moment. Let her see you’re not sure it’s worth it. It will breed doubt in her mind. Now, bid.”

  “One fifty,” said Williams, impatient to get along. “Any more? One fifty it is.” He looked across. “Mrs Racine?” Jill nodded eagerly.

  “Congratulations,” said Benson. “Now remember, start a fast run like that and you’re going down a slope on which you’re unable to stop.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you after anything else?”

  “No, I’ve got to get back to get the lunch. Jack’s minding the shop.”

  “Come along and collect your buy. It’s light enough to carry the few paces home.”

  As he saw her safely on to the pavement, past the increased lunchtime crowd at the door, Benson handed her the little handkerchief-wrapped parcel. “Here’s a little present for you. Nobody else put in a bid, so I was able to get it for a nominal amount. Let me have the nuffer back some time.”

  “You are nice.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “I’m not going to look at it till I have a few spare moments, then I’ll really be able to enjoy the mystery.”

  He raised his hat and she was gone, shouldering her way through the skewed door of the little shop. Benson returned to the Corn Exchange.

  The one item he was really interested in was 131. If all went well, it should come up soon after the third auctioneer, Lamont, took the dais. But Benson was taking no chances. He had known these auctioneers—unethically—bring an item forward at the request of some interested dealer who had wanted to get away early. He had to guard against that.

  When he again reached his position he noted that the ring had halved in size. This was usual. Half of them went off to lunch at a time, leaving the others to mind the shop. Mrs Horbium, however, had gone. This was not unexpected by Benson. Mrs Horbium was not one to forgo her lunch no matter what. He guessed, too, that she liked a snooze after it. If she were not to come back, so much the better. One probable competitor out of the reckoning. Her companion had gone, too. Benson wished he could recall whom she reminded him of. He was surprised at his own interest, and wondered why what had been little more than a fleeting glance of her should have aroused his curiosity.

  The sale dragged on. Always at this time of the day it seemed to lose some of its impetus. The initial excitement was over and the proceedings had settled into a routine. Quite an efficient routine, really. Benson admitted that at least he must pay the three auctioneer partners their due for the smooth running of their sales. He could think of very little else about them for which he could find a word of praise.

  At two o’clock and lot 127, Williams gave way to Lamont. Lamont was by far the youngest of the partners. He had been articled to the firm earlier and had stayed on to become the junior partner. Now he was beginning to show that he felt the effects of comparatively easy money. He had married a girl who, Benson suspected, had had nothing in early life and now demanded everything in compensation for her years of depriv
ation. Their house was big. Lamont had not overtly ‘fiddled’ this, but he had managed to buy it, not through the normal channels, but at an executors’ sale where prices are notably lower than those proposed by estate agents. Had Lamont had the selling of the house instead of the buying of it, the two prices would have differed by many thousands of pounds, and in this particular case, Benson was sure ‘inside knowledge’ had played its part. Lamont had big ideas, also. His wife used a very large Mercedes for fetching the bread, and the cruiser on the river had not been bought for peanuts.

  Benson had a shrewd idea that Lamont was feeling the pinch. The man had little knowledge of antiques, but over the last few months had tried to give the impression that he was interested. That the interest was spurious, Benson had no doubt. Lamont had approached him several times on the subject of late, but it was painfully apparent to the connoisseur that Lamont was more interested in prices than values. Benson wondered whether he himself was the cynic or whether it was Lamont, when judged by Lord Darlington’s yardstick. Certainly Benson was cynical of Lamont’s probity, even if it were the auctioneer who lived up to the stated definition as a man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.

  Lamont got under way. He used the end of his pencil for knocking. It gave a strangely thin sound after the gavel the others had used previously. The lots between 127 and 130 were ordinary. They were sold with no flurry. Mrs Horbium had not returned. The first half of the ring had returned, the others were about to go. They stood in a huddle, heads to the middle, catalogues out, pencilling in prices and buys and prospective bids. They didn’t seem in the least interested in Lot 131. Benson wondered why. It was unlike them, but it could mean he would have a comparatively clear field.

  “Lot 131, ladies and gentlemen. No need to describe it. It is on the table in front of me.” Lamont seemed to be in a hurry. So much so that he omitted to mention a figure as a suggested starting point. “What am I bid?”

  Silence.

  “Four pounds.” The pencil was raised to knock it down. Benson had heard no bid, seen no movement. Suspicious of what was happening, he raised his catalogue higher than usual to make certain he could not be overlooked.