First Gravedigger Read online

  “You’re saying it’s not?”

  “I’m saying look again.”

  I picked up the Leda; it felt heavy enough to be old Meissen. Old Meissen was eighteenth-century porcelain that weighed considerably more than the nineteenth-century reproductions of the same pieces (“new” Meissen). I turned the figurine over and looked at the mark: crossed swords, so that was all right. If it had said “Meissen,” ironically, there’d have been no doubt that this was the inferior stuff; “Meissen” was the mark used by a nineteenth-century factory that just happened to be located in the same German town that had produced the earlier, more valuable porcelain.

  The figurine had the right greenish tint to it, ever so slight; the later porcelains were generally dead white. Old Meissen was carefully decorated, and this piece certainly was. Ornamental lace border on Leda’s gown, a few scattered flowers in her hair. The feathering carefully detailed on the swan’s powerful outstretched wings. The colors were okay—no maroons or yellow greens, which were nineteenth-century introductions. So far everything checked out.

  Then I saw. Leda’s eyes—they were blue. All the eighteenth-century Meissen figures had brown eyes.

  “New Meissen,” I admitted, and put the figurine back on Speer’s desk.

  Speer pushed the photocopy of my evaluation toward me. “Do you see one word about eye color in there?”

  He hadn’t even looked at the paper; that meant he already had a copy. Telling me to bring in my evaluation—that was a ploy to put me on the defensive. I read through what I’d written and said, defensively, “You know these reports can’t mention everything about a piece. Mostly they’re concerned with matters that might be considered suspect.”

  “And blue eyes aren’t suspect?” Speer snorted. “Good god, Sommers, even the rawest neophyte knows to look for brown eyes in old Meissen.”

  I narrowed my own brown eyes and studied him. He was absolutely right: eye color was one of the first things you look for. It was such an obvious giveaway. So obvious, in fact, that even a furniture man knew to look for it. If I hadn’t mentioned eye color in my evaluation, it was because there’d been nothing unusual to mention. Which could mean only one thing: Speer had switched pieces on me.

  He said nothing, watching me figure it out. Daring me to accuse him, to provide him with an excuse to—to do what? Careful.

  I decided. “I’m sorry, Mr. Speer, I don’t see how I could have overlooked that. Porcelains aren’t really my field—if you’ll remember, I was just helping out one day when Wightman was sick.”

  “No excuse, Sommers. I expect catholicity in my agents.”

  “Well, then, I probably rushed the evaluation. I’ve had an unusually high number of them this past month. Not to mention cataloguing the Alice Ballard estate.”

  Speer’s eyes were gleaming. “Are you saying you’re overworked?”

  Enough was enough. “Yes, I am. The Ballard estate should take precedence over all these other evaluations, but I’ve had one distraction after another to keep me from finishing the job.”

  “How far are you from finishing?”

  “End of the week. It’d be finished now if I could have given it my full attention.”

  “This week.” He seemed to think it over. “Sommers, if you can’t finish it this week, I’ll put someone else on it.”

  I nodded. “I could use some help.”

  “You don’t understand. I’ll put someone else in charge.”

  No fun in tightening the screws if the guy you’re screwing doesn’t know about it. I got the message, all right. I nodded curtly to Speer and got up to leave.

  He pulled Wightman’s trick of letting me get all the way to the door before throwing his last bombshell. “By the way, Sommers, something a little more in your line has come in. A Mrs. Percy has what she calls an ‘early American’ writing table she wants to sell. She says it’s two hundred years old. Run out and take a look at it, will you? June will give you the address. I’d like an evaluation by five this afternoon.”

  Look at this writing table. Finish that catalogue. Jump through this hoop. As I sleepwalked out I could hear Speer telling June to get Wightman on the phone.

  June handed me an address card without looking up from the phone. Mrs. Percy of the ‘early American’ writing table lived in Beaver Falls. An hour to drive there, another hour to find the house and make the evaluation, an hour to drive back, allow for traffic, then write up the evaluation. Half a day shot.

  Outside I crumpled the photocopy of my Meissen evaluation into a ball and looked for a place to throw it. Not a wastebasket in sight, of course. I stuck the wadded paper in my pocket.

  Back in my office I lit a cigarette and tried to think. The scenario had changed. At one time I’d been the fair-haired boy at Speer Galleries, in line for the role of heir apparent. Speer was in his seventies; he was going to have to step down before too much longer. Three years ago I’d arranged for Speer to find out “accidentally” that Christie’s had offered me a good position in their New York office; he’d immediately countered with a substantial raise. Speer hadn’t wanted me to go then, and I had no intention of leaving. I wanted to run Speer Galleries myself; I wanted it so badly the wanting made me vulnerable.

  But now it was clear that what I wanted wasn’t what Speer wanted. Speer wanted me out. And he was going about getting me out in a particularly nasty way—giving me more work than I could possibly handle, rigging the evidence. That little stunt with the Meissen Leda—Speer was inviting a showdown. But I wasn’t accepting any invitations today. I decided I needed an ally.

  I went into Peg McAllister’s office and told her what had happened.

  She was stunned. “You mean he deliberately substituted a piece of new Meissen? Earl, are you sure? Couldn’t you be mistaken?”

  I just looked at her.

  She answered her own question. “No, of course you wouldn’t mistake a thing like that. And Speer would never get two pieces mixed up. It had to be deliberate.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “And why did I have to make that evaluation in the first place? It wasn’t urgent—it could have waited until Wightman got back.”

  “You mean Speer set you up?”

  “I mean Speer’s been setting me up for over a month now. All those extra evaluations I’ve had dumped on me? I could have finished the Alice Ballard cataloguing by now if it hadn’t been for them. So Speer just now told me that if I didn’t finish the Ballard job this week he’d give it to someone else—and then he hands me a new job that’ll take most of the rest of today. He’s setting me up, all right.”

  Peg was nodding, disturbed. “Yes, he’s quite capable of doing a thing like that. But he wouldn’t do it without a reason. Why, Earl? What’s he got against you?”

  “I don’t have any idea,” I lied. “Personality conflict, I guess.”

  But Peg wasn’t buying that. “Not good enough. There’s a man who’s been here ten years that Speer can’t stand. But he’ll never get rid of him because he’s so good at his work. And you’re good at your work, Earl. You must have done something to him.”

  “But I didn’t,” I lied again. “I don’t know why he’s out to get me. I haven’t done a thing!”

  “Oh, come, dear boy, think back,” said an officious voice behind me. “Not even one little indiscretion to return and haunt you? Even the blessed saints themselves don’t claim to be that pure.”

  I faced him angrily. “You have something to say, Wightman? This is a private conversation.”

  “Oh, I always have something to say,” Wightman told us unnecessarily. “And if you want privacy, shut the door. The Speer just consulted me about your little boo-boo with the Meissen, and I am now in the process of riding to the rescue. The June-bug says you have a photocopy of your evaluation. I’d like it back, please. Can’t leave our dirty linen floating about, you know—dreadful metaphor, I apologize.”

  “What are you hinting at, Wightman?” Peg asked with a touch of asperity. “W
ho’d want that evaluation?”

  “Spies,” Wightman hissed melodramatically. “If word ever got out that Speer’s couldn’t tell new Meissen from old, the clients would start deserting in droves.” Pure bull; Wightman was just rubbing it in. He held out his hand. “Your evaluation, please.”

  My evaluation. I remembered wadding it into a ball and looking for a place to—ah. I pulled the crumpled paper out of my jacket pocket and ceremoniously handed it to Wightman. The look on his face helped a little.

  “Dear me,” he said with distaste. “Must you be so violent? But scrunched-up is better than nothing, I suppose. Ah well, now the world can resume its orderly orbit once again. Peg, my love, when are you coming away with me for an illicit weekend?”

  “When hell freezes over.”

  “How very original,” Wightman murmured as he left.

  “One of these days,” I said, closing the door behind him.

  “Not before I do,” Peg snapped. “When will I come away with him! I’m fifty-eight years old and I’ve been with Speer Galleries since I was twenty-four. And he talks to me as if I were some giggling schoolgirl who feels flattered every time a man flirts with her!”

  I waited until her indignation sputtered itself out and then brought her back to my problem. “Speer wants me out, Peg. He’s trying to get rid of me.”

  “Then why doesn’t he come right out and fire you?”

  “You know him better than I do, Peg. You tell me.”

  She sighed. “Because he likes to hurt.”

  That was the right answer. We’d both seen it happen before. Three or four years ago Speer had gotten rid of an agent who wasn’t as sharp as he should have been, and he’d gone about it in the same unpleasant way—putting the man in impossible situations, even turning the other agents against him. Then when he’d made the agent as miserable as he could, he’d dismissed him. I was sure Peg had seen it other times too, before I came to Speer Galleries.

  “Seven years I’ve been here,” I said, allowing an edge of bitterness in my voice. “I’ve built my reputation at Speer’s. You think other dealers are going to take on someone Amos Speer has kicked out?” The antiques world wasn’t like industry, where noncompeting companies absorbed one another’s misfits. A dealer’s financial life depended upon his having a reputation for trustworthiness, and any agent who was considered incompetent or not quite honest or suspect in any way was avoided like the plague. If Speer fired me, word would go out over the network and I wouldn’t find a single door open to me. The only defense I could see was to leave voluntarily before Speer gave me the sack.

  “Maybe he’ll change his mind,” Peg said with a false enthusiasm.

  “You really believe that?”

  “Anything’s possible, Earl. He might. Don’t let it get you down—Speer could do a complete about-face before the week is over.”

  So that was going to be her line. Buck up, don’t lose hope, things will work out. Notice how Peg did not offer to go to Speer and put in a good word for me? I studied the expression of sympathy on her face—it was genuine, I was sure, but it was the limit of what I could expect from her.

  Peg had had a good life with Speer Galleries—doing work she liked, traveling extensively. And, as a sort of side issue, prudently outliving two husbands along the way. She’d once told me about Amos Speer’s first ventures into the international market, how he’d sent her hither and yon to check out legal titles. She’d go into a country where she’d never been before—not knowing the legal setup, not knowing the language, not even knowing how to go about hiring a reliable interpreter. She’d loved it. Obstacles were made to be surmounted. Then about the time she reached the age when gallivanting about was starting to become a chore instead of a pleasure, Scotland Yard had formed its art treasures squad and started doing a lot of her work for her. Peg was a fixture at Speer Galleries and she owned shares in the firm; she wasn’t going to do any boat-rocking for my sake. She was quite willing to challenge Amos Speer on matters she thought were important—but my future obviously didn’t fit into that category. Peg knew which side her bread was buttered on.

  I went back to my office, called Mrs. Percy in Beaver Falls, and told her I was on my way.

  CHAPTER 2

  On the way to Beaver Falls I had time to think. The Leda I’d examined the week before had been old Meissen, I was sure of it. If Speer had substituted a near-identical nineteenth-century reproduction, then what had he done with the original? I immediately ruled out theft; there was no way he could get away with it. Where had the Leda come from? I thought back and could remember no name, only a lot number. Not unusual. Also not very revealing. Except negatively, perhaps: What if the owner’s name was Amos Speer? Both figurines could have come from Speer’s personal collection and I’d have no way of knowing it. That must be it; it was the only way he could pull off a substitution without having to worry about ugly repercussions later. The owner wouldn’t complain because Speer himself was the owner. End of the case of the missing Meissen.

  Speer had been quick enough to call Wightman in and tell him I’d misidentified a piece. There was no reason Wightman needed to know; Speer had simply wanted him to. The new fair-haired boy? My god, that meant that if I did somehow manage to hold on to my job, I’d end up working for Wightman. Almost as unsettling was the fact that June Murray had taken it on herself to tell Wightman I had a photocopy of the evaluation. That meant she’d decided the percentages lay with him and not with me.

  The street in Beaver Falls where I parked had seen better days, but Mrs. Percy was young and pretty. And harassed-looking. Her living room had what is euphemistically called a lived-in look—I could hear young children’s voices in the back yard. Department store furnishings—that bland, no-statement style that’s somehow more offensive than outright vulgarity. Mrs. Percy and her husband weren’t collectors; they were obviously a young couple in need of money who’d decided to sell off the family heirloom.

  “We hate to give it up,” Mrs. Percy was saying of the writing table as she led me to the den. “My husband’s father says it’s been in their family for five generations that he knows of, maybe more.”

  I made some noncommittal noise as we went into the den. Even from across the room I could tell this one wasn’t the real McCoy. But for Mrs. Percy’s sake I pulled out measuring tape and magnifying glass and went through the ritual of examination.

  The table was a good imitation of an American Chippendale-style piece. Clean-lined marlboro legs supporting an essentially sober top structure with oddly inappropriate rococo carved ornament superimposed on it. I opened the drawers, peered underneath, took a few measurements.

  I don’t like giving people bad news. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Percy, it’s a reproduction, not an original.”

  The color drained from her face; that wasn’t what she’d been expecting. “But Denny’s father said it was over two hundred years old!”

  Denny’s father lied. “An honest mistake. It happens a lot—your husband’s family probably had an original at one time, but somebody sold it and substituted this one.”

  Mrs. Percy wasn’t ready to give up. She went over to the only bookcase in the room—in the house, so far as I could tell—and pulled out a paperback book, her authority on how to identify antiques.

  “Look,” she said, pointing to a picture. It was an exact line drawing of the kind of writing table that now sat in Mrs. Percy’s den. Even the ornamentation was similar. The drawing was labeled “Philadelphia, c. 1770.”

  I nodded. “That’s the one your table’s modeled after. Mrs. Percy, you can call in another evaluator if you like, but let me show you a few things.” I pulled out one of the drawers and pointed to the dovetailing. “Eight joints. A drawer made two hundred years ago would have only one or two.” I laid my tape measure across the joints. “The joints are uniform in size and evenly spaced. This dovetailing is machine-cut. The 1770 table in your book would have joints cut by hand, because the machinery for doing this ki
nd of work wasn’t developed until the nineteenth century.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Percy said blankly.

  I reached in the space left by the drawer and felt the exposed wood. “Circular saw marks. Same objection—modern machinery was used. Look at the screws holding the drawer pulls. The notch in the head is perfectly centered in every one of them. Machine-made. Everything about this table—the thickness of the wood, the width of the planks—it’s all too uniform to be eighteenth-century. It’s a good piece of furniture, Mrs. Percy, but it doesn’t have any antique value.”

  Mrs. Percy was drooping visibly; she’d been counting on that money. “Then Speer’s isn’t interested at all?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’m sorry.”

  She tried to put a good face on it. “Well, then, I’m afraid I got you all the way out here for nothing.” She laughed nervously.

  I smiled. “Happens all the time. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Would you like a cup of coffee before you leave?”

  I declined. Mrs. Percy was chattering to cover her embarrassment and disappointment. I half listened as I followed her out of the den and down the short hallway—when I saw something that stopped me cold.

  A half-open door on my right showed me the foot of an unmade bed, a chest of drawers, and two legs of a chair on the other side of the chest. “Mrs. Percy, could I take a look at that chair in there?”

  She quickly closed the door and gave her nervous laugh. “That’s just a raggedy old thing I should have gotten rid of long ago.”

  “I’d like to see it,” I persisted.

  Well, why not? you could see her thinking. “I tell you what. The light’s better in the living room—I’ll bring it in there.”

  I got the message: the room was messy and she didn’t want me going in. I nodded and went back to the living room. Mrs. Percy soon appeared carrying the chair, and a pleasurable chill ran down my back. If that chair was what I thought it was …

  I winced as Mrs. Percy banged a leg against the wall. She winced too, but because she’d made a mark on the wall. “I’ve been meaning to get it reupholstered,” she said vaguely as she put the chair down in front of me.