JUNE was dominated now by a single thought. By hook or by crook she must get back the picture before she left that house. If she failed to do so, she would never see it again, and there would be an end of all her hopes. Exactly what these hopes were she did not venture to ask herself; in any case, they would not have been easy to put into words. But she felt in a vague way that William’s future and her own were bound up in them.
It was clear that the picture was concealed somewhere upon the premises, because Mr. Thornton and his friend, M. Duponnet, were coming there the next day to look at it. June was quick to realize that this fact offered a measure of opportunity which, slender as it was, must certainly be used. No other was in the least likely to come her way.
Three o’clock on Thursday afternoon she had learned already was the hour of the appointment. It was now the afternoon of Wednesday. No matter what the penalty, if flesh and blood could contrive it, she must be present at this interview, and see what happened to the treasure.
Despair heavy upon her, she lay awake the best part of the night searching her mind for a plan of action. But the quest seemed hopeless. Uncle Si could so easily thwart any scheme she might evolve. And he would not have a scruple. She must outwit him somehow, but to outwit one of such cunning was a task for a brain far stronger and nimbler than hers.
Lying up there in her comfortless bed, wild thoughts flocking round her pillow like so many evil spirits, the whole sorry affair was as haunting as a bad dream. And, interwoven with it, in the most fantastic way, was the shop below, and more particularly the Hoodoo, the presiding genius, which now stood forth in June’s mind as the replica of Uncle Si himself. He was surely possessed by a devil, and this heathen joss as surely embodied it.
On Thursday morning June rose early. She was in a mood of desperation. Little sleep had come to her in the long and dreary night hours. But, in spite of feeling quite worn out, her determination to “best” Uncle Si and regain her own property had not grown less. No ray was to be seen anywhere, yet defiant of fate as she still was, the time had not yet come to admit even to herself that all was lost.
As dustpan and brush in hand she began the day’s work, more than one reckless expedient crossed her mind. In the last resort she might put the matter in the hands of the police. If she could have counted on William’s support, she would have been tempted to do this, but the rub was, he could not be depended on at all. Nobly as he had fought her recent battle, it was clear that so far as the picture itself was concerned, his sympathies were wholly with Uncle Si. Even if he did not deny that the picture was her lawful property he had certainly done his best to revoke his gift.
No, she would gain nothing by calling in the police. She must find some other way. During the night a wild plan had entered her mind. And if in the course of the morning no scheme more hopeful occurred to her, she was now resolved to act upon it.
To this end, she began at once to throw dust in the eyes of Uncle Si. At the breakfast table he was told that she meant to spend the afternoon looking for a job if, with a modest eye on her plate, “he had no objection.”
The Old Crocodile had not the least objection. With gusto he assured her that it was quite the best thing she could do. Privately he assured himself that he didn’t want her hanging around the place while he was transacting business of great importance with Mr. Thornton and Monsieur Duponnet. Ever in the forefront of his mind was the fact that these gentlemen were coming to see him at three o’clock.
About an hour before the time appointed the old fox sent William on an errand which would keep him away most of the afternoon. And further to ensure that the coast should be quite clear, S. Gedge Antiques said sharply to his niece, “Go and put on your hat, my girl, and make yourself scarce. Get after that job you spoke about. I won’t have you hanging around while these gentlemen are here.”
June, however, had other views. And these, whatever they were, she was at great pains not to disclose. First she watched William go innocently forth on a long bus ride to Richmond. Next she made sure that Uncle Si was composing himself in his armchair for his usual “forty winks” after dinner. And then she proceeded boldly to develop her audacious design.
To start with, she crept into the front shop and surveyed the Hoodoo. The quaintly hideous vase was fully six feet tall, its body huge, its mouth wide. Was it possible to get inside? There was little doubt that if she was able to do so, this curious monster was quite large enough to conceal her.
She saw at once that the task before her was no light one. But by the side of the Hoodoo, inscrutable Providence had placed a genuine antique in the shape of a gate-legged table, £4.19.6—a great bargain. The sight of this was encouraging. She climbed onto it. And then wedging the Hoodoo most cunningly between the table and the wall, and artfully disposing her own weight, so that the monster might not tip over, she lowered herself with the caution and agility of a cat into the roomy interior.
It was almost a feat for an acrobat, but she managed it somehow. Keeping tight hold of the rim as she swung both legs over, her feet touched bottom with the vase still maintaining the perpendicular. The space inside was ample, and without even the need to bend, the top of her head was invisible. Near the top of the vase, moreover, was the monster’s open mouth, a narrow slit studded with teeth, which not only afforded a means of ventilation, but also through which, to June’s devout joy, she was able to peer.
For such a crowning boon on the part of Providence she had every reason to feel grateful. So far everything was miraculously right. Her daring had met with more success than could have been hoped for. One problem remained, however, which at that moment she did not venture to look in the face. To get into the vase was one thing; to get out of it would be quite another.
No friendly table could avail her now. In ascending that sheer and slippery face of painted metal-work, she must not expect help from outside when the time came to escape from her prison. Besides one incautious movement might cause the whole thing to topple. And if topple it did, the results would be dire.
This, however, was not the time to consider that aspect of the case. Let her be thankful for a concealment so perfect which allowed her to breathe and to see without being seen or her presence suspected. For such material benefits she must lift up her heart; and hope for the best when the time came to get out. With a sense of grim satisfaction she set herself “to lie doggo,” and await the next turn in a game that was full of peril.
It was not long before Uncle Si shambled into the shop. June could see him quite clearly, as he came in with that furtive air which she had learned to know so well. First he took off his spectacles and applied to them vigorously a red bandanna handkerchief. Then he peered cautiously round to make sure that he was alone.
June had not dared to hope that the picture was concealed in the shop; and yet it offered every facility. There were many nooks and crannies, and the whole place was crammed with old pieces of furniture, bric-à-brac, curios. But June had felt that S. Gedge Antiques was not likely to run the risk of hiding his treasure in the midst of these. She thought that his bedroom, under lock and key, was the most likely place of all.
Howbeit, with a sharp thrill, half torment, half delight, she saw that this was not the case. Within a few feet of the Hoodoo itself was an old oak chest which Uncle Si cautiously drew aside. The very spot whereon it had rested contained a loose board. He took a small chisel from a drawer in the counter, prised up the board and from beneath it took forth the buried treasure.
Long and lovingly the old man looked at it, hugging it to his breast more than once in the process, and as he did so June was reminded irresistibly of the Miser Gaspard in “Les Cloches des Corneville,” that famous play she had once seen at the Theatre Royal, Blackhampton. To hide such a thing in such a place was a regular miser’s trick. It was just what she had expected of him. Presently a grandfather clock, with a Westminster Abbey face, “guaranteed Queen Anne,” chimed the hour of three. June could scarcely breathe for excitement. Her heart seemed to rise in her throat and choke her.
At five minutes past three came Mr. Thornton and Monsieur Duponnet. The Frenchman was a small and dapper personage, with a keen eye and a neat imperial. In manner he was much quieter than tradition exacts of a Frenchman, but it was easy to tell that Uncle Si was much impressed by him. Louis Quinze-legs, too, was full of deference. That gentleman, whose face was almost as foxy as that of Uncle Si himself, and about whose lips a thin smile flitted perpetually, had an air of tacit homage for the smallest remark of M. Duponnet, who was clearly a man of great consequence if the bearing of Mr. Thornton was anything to go by.
June, at the back of the shop, inside the Hoodoo and her keen eyes hidden by its half-open jaws, which, in addition to other advantages was partly masked by a litter of bric-à-brac, was in a position to gain full knowledge of all that passed between these three. To begin with, S. Gedge Antiques ceremoniously handed the picture to Louis Quinze-legs who, with a fine gesture, handed it to Monsieur Duponnet.
The Frenchman examined the canvas back and front through his own private glass, scratched portions of it with his nail, pursed his lips, rubbed his nose, and no doubt would have shrugged his shoulders had not that been such a jejune thing for a Frenchman to do.
With a deference that was quite impressive, Mr. Thornton and S. Gedge Antiques waited for M. Duponnet to say something.
“Ze tail of ze R. is a little faint, hein!” was what he said.
“But it is a tail, Mussewer,” said S. Gedge Antiques in a robust voice.
“And it is an R,” said polite Mr. Thornton, as he bent over the picture.
“You can bet your life on that,” said S. Gedge Antiques.
M. Duponnet did not seem inclined to wager anything so valuable as his life. After a little hesitation, which involved further minute examination through his glass, he was ready to take the ‘R’ for granted. But he went on to deplore the fact that the picture was without a pedigree.
“A pedigree, Mussewer!” It was now the turn of S. Gedge Antiques to rub his nose.
M. Duponnet succinctly explained, with the air of a man expounding a commonplace in the world of art, that Van Roons were so few, their qualities so rare, their monetary value so considerable, that as soon as one came into the market its history was eagerly scrutinised. And should one suddenly appear that previously had not been known to exist it would have to run the gauntlet of the most expert criticism.
“May be, Mussewer!” S. Gedge Antiques wagged a dour head. “But that’s not going to alter the fact that this be-yew-ti-ful thing is a genuine Van Roon.”
In a manner of speaking it would not, agreed M. Duponnet, but it might detract considerably from its market value.
“That’s as may be.” The old man suddenly assumed quite a high tone.
M. Duponnet and Mr. Thornton took the picture to the other side of the shop and conferred together. So low were their voices that neither Uncle Si nor June could hear a word of what passed between them. Times and again they held the canvas to the light. They laid it on a tallboys, and pored over it; they borrowed the microscope of one another and made great show of using it; and then finally Mr. Thornton crossed the floor and said to Uncle Si, who was handling a piece of Waterford glass with the most pensive unconcern: “What’s your price, Mr. Gedge?”
“Heh?” said the old man, as if emerging from a beautiful dream. “Price? You had better name one.”
Excitement at this point seemed to cause June’s heart to stop beating.
“The trouble is,” said Mr. Thornton, “our friend, M. Duponnet, is not quite convinced that it is a Van Roon.”
“But there’s the signature.”
“It seems to have been touched up a bit.”
“Not by me,” said S. Gedge Antiques, austerely.
“We don’t think that for a moment,” said Mr. Thornton, in a voice of honey. “But the signature is by no means so clear as it might be, and in the absence of a pedigree M. Duponnet does not feel justified in paying a big price.”
There was a pause while the old man indulged in a dramatic change of spectacles. And then he said rather sourly, in a tone that M. Duponnet could not fail to hear: “Pedigree or no pedigree, I shall have no difficulty in selling it. You know as well as I do, Mr. Thornton, that American buyers are in the market.”
“Quite so, Mr. Gedge,” said Mr. Thornton suavely. And then while Uncle Si glared at both gentlemen as if they had been caught with their hands in his pocket, they conferred again together. This time it was M. Duponnet who ended their discussion by saying: “Meester Gedge, name your figure!”
“Figure?” said Uncle Si dreamily; and then in his odd way he scratched his scrub of whisker with a thumbnail and rubbed a forefinger down his long and foxlike nose.
“Your price, Meester Gedge?”
“Mussewer!” said the old man solemnly, “I couldn’t take less than five thousand pounds, I couldn’t really.”
June held her breath. For some little time past she had been convinced that the picture was valuable, but she was hardly prepared for this fabulous sum.
M. Duponnet shook his head. “Meester Gedge, if only we had its ’istory!”
“If we had its history, Mussewer, I should want at least twice the money. Even as it is I am taking a big chance. You know that as well as I do.”
This seemed to be true. At all events, M. Duponnet and Mr. Thornton again talked earnestly together. Once more they fingered that rather dilapidated canvas. Head to head they bent over it yet again; and then suddenly M. Duponnet looked up and came abruptly across to the old man.
“Meester Gedge,” he said, “I can’t go beyond four t’ousand pounds. That is my limit!”
“Five, Mussewer Duponny, that is mine,” said Uncle Si, with a dark smile.
It was a jejune thing for a French gentleman to do, but at this point M. Duponnet really and truly gave his shoulders a shrug, and advanced three paces towards the shop door. Uncle Si did not stir a muscle. And then M. Duponnet faced about and said: “Guineas, Meester Gedge, I’ll give four t’ousand guineas, and that’s my last word.”
Uncle Si having no pretensions to be considered a French gentleman, did not hesitate to give his own shoulders a shrug. It was his turn then to confer with the discreet and knowledgeable Mr. Thornton, who it was clear was acting the difficult part of a go-between.
June heard that gentleman say in an audible whisper: “A fair price, Mr. Gedge, for the thing as it stands. It hasn’t a pedigree, and to me that signature looks a bit doubtful. In the market it may fetch more or it may fetch less, but at the same time four thousand guineas is a fine insurance.”
Finished dissembler as Uncle Si was, even he did not seek to deny the truth of this. There could be no gainsaying that four thousand guineas was a fine insurance. True, if the picture proved to be a veritable Van Roon it might fetch many times that sum. In that shrewd mind, no bigger miracle was needed for the thing to turn out a chef d’œuvre than that it should prove to be worth the sum offered by M. Duponnet. Either contingency seemed too good to be true. Besides, S. Gedge Antiques belonged to a conservative school, among whose articles of faith was a certain trite proverb about a bird in the hand.
It went to the old man’s heart to accept four thousand guineas for a work that might be worth so very much more. June could hear him breathing heavily. In her tense ear that sound dominated even the furious beating of her own heart. A kind of dizziness came over her, as only too surely she understood that the wicked old man was giving in. Before her very eyes he was going to surrender her own private property for a fabulous sum.
“Four t’ousand guineas, Meester Gedge,” said M. Duponnet, with quite an air of nonchalance. But he knew well enough that the old man was about to “fall.”
“It’s giving it away, Mussewer,” whined Uncle Si. “It’s giving it away.”
“Zat I don’t t’ink, Meester Gedge,” said the French gentleman, quietly unbuttoning his coat and taking a fountain pen and a cheque book from an inner pocket. “It’s a risque—a big risque. It may not be Van Roon at all—and zen where are we?”
“You know as well as I do that it’s a Van Roon,” Uncle Si verged almost upon tears.
“Very well, Meester Gedge, if you prefer ze big chance.” And cheque book in hand the French gentleman paused.
June was torn. And she could tell by the strange whine in the rasping voice that the Old Crocodile was also torn.
At this moment of crisis, Mr. Thornton interposed with masterful effect. “In my humble opinion,” he said, “it’s a very fair offer for the thing as it stands.”
“You are thinking of your ten per cent. commission, my boy,” said S. Gedge Antiques with a gleam of malice.
“Well, Meester Gedge,” said M. Duponnet, “take it or leave it.” And the French gentleman began to fold up his cheque book.
With a groan to rend a heart of stone, S. Gedge Antiques brought himself suddenly to accept the offer. Half suffocated by excitement, June watched M. Duponnet cross to the desk and proceed to write out a cheque for four thousand guineas. And as she did so her heart sank. She was quite sure that she was looking upon the picture for the last time.
In jumping to this conclusion, however, she had not made full allowance for the business capacity of Uncle Si. When M. Duponnet had filled in the cheque and handed it to him, the Old Crocodile scrutinised it very carefully indeed, and then he said: “Thank you, Mussewer Duponny. The bank closes at three. But to-morrow morning I’ll take this round myself as soon as it opens. And if the manager says it’s all right, you can have the picture whenever you like.”
“Bien!” The Frenchman bowed politely. “Meanwhile, take good care of the picture. There are many thieves about.” M. Duponnet laughed. “Mind you lock it up in a safe place.”
“You can trust Mr. Gedge to do that, I think,” said Louis Quinze-legs dryly.
“I hope so, I’m sure,” said the old man with a frosty smile.
“Soit!” M. Duponnet smiled too. “I’ll call for it myself to-morrow morning at twelve.”
“Thank you, Mussewer!”
S. Gedge Antiques gave his visitors a bow as they went up to the shop door, and ushered them ceremoniously into the not particularly inviting air of New Cross Street.