Quinneys 23

Quinneys 23

"Wonderful, isn’t it?" said Quinney.

 

"You mean to sell first-class copies as such?"

 

"Yes. I guarantee what I sell, Mr. Lark, as—as you do."

 

"I don’t sell fakes."

 

"Not necessary in your case. Will you come upstairs?"

 

"With pleasure."

 

Quinney was trembling with excitement. Gustavus noticed this, and went

on smiling. Pressland had prepared him. He praised and appraised many

things in the sanctuary, but he merely glanced at the commode.

 

"I want you to look at this, Mr. Lark."

 

"Bless me! Is that the commode which you bought in Melshire?"

 

"It is. What do you think of it?"

 

Gustavus protruded a large lower lip; his eyebrows, strongly marked,

expressed surprise, a twinkle in his left eye indicated discreet

amusement.

 

"Why isn’t it downstairs with the others?"

 

"The others?"

 

"By the side of that piece of tapestry."

 

"It’s the best bit I have," said Quinney defiantly.

 

"Surely not. I have bought such tapestry as yours before. I will admit

that I paid a big figure for it. We dealers are sadly done sometimes.

This commode is quite as good in its way as the Gobelins, but it ought

not to be next that cabinet."

 

"Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Lark, that you call it a fake?"

 

"A fake—no. A copy admirably executed—yes."

 

"Oh, Lord!"

 

He made no attempt to conceal his distress. Gustavus patted his shoulder

encouragingly.

 

"I may be mistaken. I am often mistaken."

 

"You?"

 

"Even I. Come, come, I see that I have upset you. But, as a friend, as

a brother dealer, I say this: Get rid of it. You are taking up a line

of your own. You mean to sell honest copies as such, and to guarantee

the genuine bits. A capital idea. Only don’t mix up the two. To

succeed in London it is necessary to establish a reputation. My eldest

son tells me that you built up a substantial business in Melchester—that

your reputation there was above reproach. Excellent! I rejoiced to

hear it. In our business we want men like you. But, no compromise!

Sell that commode for what it is, a fine copy executed at the end of the

eighteenth century. As such it has a considerable value. I have a

customer, an American gentleman, who would buy it to-morrow for what it

is, and pay a handsome figure."

 

The unhappy Quinney moistened his lips with a feverish tongue.

 

"What do you call a handsome figure, Mr. Lark?"

 

"Five or six hundred."

 

"And I paid nine!"

 

"Well, well!"

 

Gustavus turned his broad back upon the commode, and examined the Early

Worcester in the Chippendale cabinet. There was a tea-set of the Dr.

Wall period, bearing the much-prized square mark, some thirty pieces of

scale-blue with flowers delicately painted in richly-gilded panels.

 

"Is that scale-blue for sale?"

 

"At a price, Mr. Lark. I have had it for three years. I’m waiting for

a customer who will give me two hundred pounds, not a penny less."

 

"Two hundred pounds? And you won’t sell to the dealers who have

customers who write such big cheques. Now, look here, Mr. Quinney, I am

sorry for you. I know how you feel, because I have made, I repeat, sad

and costly blunders myself. You don’t ask enough for that scale-blue."

 

"Not enough?"

 

"I could sell that set for three hundred this afternoon. To prove that

I am not boasting I will offer you two hundred guineas, cash on the

nail."

 

"Done!" said Quinney. He added excitedly: "I’m much obliged, Mr. Lark.

I wish you could send me the American gentleman."

 

Gustavus laughed. He looked at Quinney with quite a paternal air.

 

"Come, come, isn’t that asking too much?"

 

"I beg pardon, of course it is, but what am I to do about that commode?"

 

"I repeat—sell it."

 

"You know that I haven’t a dog’s chance of selling it now. Don’t

flimflam me, Mr. Lark! You’re too big a man, too good a sort. You’ve

treated me handsomely over that scale-blue. Now help me out of this

hole, if you can."

 

Lark nodded impressively. He went back to the commode, and examined it

meticulously, opening and shutting the doors, looking at the back,

scraping the paint of the panels with the point of a penknife. Then the

oracle spoke portentously:

 

"I never haggle with dealers, Mr. Quinney, and I don’t want that

commode; but, to oblige you, I’ll give you five hundred for it, and

chance making a hundred profit."

 

"Make it six hundred, Mr. Lark."

 

"I repeat—I never haggle."

 

"Damn it! I must cut a loss."

 

"Always the wise thing to do. My offer holds good for twenty-four

hours. Isn’t Tomlin a friend of yours?"

 

"We’ve had many dealings together."

 

"He might pay more."

 

"Not he. I’ll accept your offer, Mr. Lark, with many thanks. I’ll not

forget this."

 

Gustavus returned to Oxford Street. He sold the commode to an American

millionaire for two thousand five hundred pounds, but Quinney,

fortunately for his peace of mind, never discovered this till some years

had passed.

 

He told Tom Tomlin that Lark was a perfect gentleman, and that the story

of the Rapper and the London "Cries" was a malicious lie on the face of

it.

 

Tomlin sniffed.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XI*

 

*MORE BLUDGEONINGS*

 

*I*

 

 

The loss of four hundred pounds stimulated our hero to greater efforts.

Deep down in his heart, moreover, lay the desire to rehabilitate

himself. Susan had spared him exasperating reproaches, but he perceived,

so he fancied, pity in her faithful eyes. Her ministrations recalled

that humiliating Channel crossing, when his superiority as a male had

been buried in a basin! Let us admit that he wanted to play the god

with Susan, to shake the sphere of home with his Olympian nod, to hear

her soft ejaculation: "Joe, dear, you are wonderful!"

 

At this crisis in his fortunes he found himself, for the first time in

his life, with time on his hands. His premises were overstocked to such

an extent that he dared not run the temptation of attending sales. To

succeed greatly, he only needed customers, and they shunned him as if

Soho Square were an infected district.

 

It began to strike him that he had embarked upon a highly speculative

business. Tomlin was clear upon this point.

 

"It’s a gamble if you go for big things. Buying that commode was a

gamble. You can’t escape from it. That’s what makes it interesting.

Win a tidy bit here, lose a tidy bit there, and it’s all the same a

hundred years hence."

 

This familiar philosophy percolated through Quinney’s mind. It never

occurred to him that he could be called a gambler, and yet something in

him thrilled at the name. He heard Tomlin’s platitudes, and wondered

why he had never thought of them before.

 

"Farming’s gambling—a mug’s game! Sooner put my money on to a horse

than into the ground! Marriage! The biggest gamble of all! You struck

a winner, my lad—I didn’t."

 

"I suppose," said Quinney, staring hard at Tomlin, "that you don’t

gamble outside your business?"

 

"Yes, I do, when I get a gilt-edged tip."

 

"Race-horses?"

 

"Stock Exchange. Customers tell me things. I’m fairly in the know, I

am. Make a little bit, lose a little bit! It binges me up when I feel blue."