Seventeen

It was the start of an uncertain afternoon, the follow-up to a surreally unpleasant morning, and the street in Paddington where Billie and Sam stood was a visual feast of Rolls-Royce and Cadillac limousine automobiles delivering what to Billie appeared to be Sydney’s most wealthy and chic citizens. She observed her surroundings as if through a telescope, at a distance, the display so blue-blooded, so polished and civilized, it hardly seemed to be from the same world she’d woken to. Here the well dressed arrived by way of uniformed chauffeur and were escorted by men in crisp suiting through the open double doors of a two-level historic sandstone building. Billie spotted an understated sign with delicate gold filigree lettering set against a deep black background hanging by the doors, confirming that they had indeed found the location of the auction house mentioned in the advertisement to which Adin Brown had evidently taken such exception.

GEORGES BOUCHER AUCTION HOUSE, it said.

She looked the building over as they approached. Iron gate, presently open. Perfect green hedges. Trimmed topiaries. A modestly sized well-kept garden of traditional English flowers. Like many of Sydney’s older establishments, it was tightly nestled between other buildings of a similar vintage. This one had that immaculately kept and tastefully understated look that seemed always to guarantee extortionate prices. Though Billie could handle herself in almost any social circle, she felt more like an interloper than usual, particularly on this day, which had started in so undignified a manner. A nap, several large cups of tea, and a vigorous shower had restored her sufficiently for the afternoon’s auction, something she had no intention of missing, particularly if the unfortunate setup that morning had been concocted to ensure that she did not darken the doorway of this particular establishment.

“Well, this is toff central,” she heard her assistant mutter under his breath as they strolled arm in arm toward the moneyed throng. “Sorry, Ms. Walker,” he apologized almost immediately, doubtless recalling that her mother was a baroness.

“Not at all, Sam. This is, as you say, toff central,” she agreed and smiled warmly at her companion, who had today gone well and truly above the call of duty. I guess I’m half-toff, she considered, thinking of her socially mismatched yet perfectly romantically compatible parents, and wishing for the moment that her bank account reflected her toff side a touch better. This was the kind of setting where one noticed just how little power and wealth one possessed. But she was far luckier than most and she rarely forgot it, not after all she’d seen. And she was certainly luckier than poor Con Zervos, who deserved so much better than the card he’d been dealt—one she hoped young Adin Brown had not also found himself holding.

Men in expensive tailoring and women in custom-made dresses and fanciful millinery passed them. Lustrous pearls and gems glittered and shone in the sunlight, worn on ears and fingers and over gloves on frail wrists. Shoes were shined and spotless, as if unmarred by anything as lowly as ground or footpath. Sam had parked in the alley at the back, and that seemed particularly prudent considering his Ford utility spoke more of rustic charm than of old money. Billie gave him a nod and they moved between the trimmed hedges and through the open gate toward the crowded entrance of the auction house. They made an attractive pair and were noticeably younger than most of the crowd, many of whom were elegantly silver-haired beneath their homburgs, bowlers, jeweled turbans, and cartwheel hats.

Sam was wearing his good light wool suit of French navy, which she’d had made for him, a complementary necktie of browns, navy, and lighter blues chosen to match his light eyes, and a brown leather belt and brogues, the latter not entirely broken in. The outfit had often been deployed for the courtroom. Between his black tie the night before, the pin-striped suit he wore at the office, his retired army uniform, and what he was wearing today, this was likely close to the entirety of Sam’s wardrobe, she reflected.

Billie herself had made particular sartorial effort this afternoon, wearing a square-shouldered but feminine dress in light gray with a shining hunter-green silk edge and carefully tied silk bow at the waist, teamed with matching hunter-green gloves. She’d made it from a Vogue Couturier Design pattern, and as with all her homemade garments, it had been time-consuming, but the resulting fit was immaculate. It fell just below the knee, with an A-line skirt that allowed Billie’s desired range of movement without wasting unnecessary fabric coupons. A small raffia and silk topper sat at an angle over her dark wavy hair, a thin black veil covering one eye and skimming her cheekbone, and a pair of round, darkly tinted glasses completed the look, along with a faux-pearl brooch and earrings. The hemline and midheight heel were just right for daywear, but the textures were strategically luxurious. The silk Billie had used was a beautiful weight and had been saved from before the war. Meanwhile, her near-black crepe dress of the night before was relegated to the back of the laundry cupboard, possibly to become dishrags in the near future.

Billie straightened her shoulders. “Into the lion’s den?” she suggested playfully.

“Into the lion’s den,” Sam replied. “And I must say, you look a picture.” He tipped his deep brown fedora to her. He looked the part himself. You’d never have thought he’d spent his morning sneaking a dead body around in a trunk.

Up a couple of sandstone steps and they were in, moving across Persian carpets and passing ornate antiques, the air in the auction house cooler than on the street and scented with freshly cut flowers in baroque vases and, beneath that, the aroma of furniture polish. Guests were milling about, exchanging small talk and sipping refreshments. Printed catalogs were offered, and Billie took one. The walls on all sides were draped in heavy velvet curtains, giving the impression they might be drawn back at any time to reveal some unseen marvel. There was a podium on a small raised stage at the front, with perhaps two dozen folding chairs set up to face it. On the stage and all around it were what appeared to be priceless objects of all sizes. Through a door on the left, aproned and white-gloved staff came and went carrying still more treasures. The guests were of at least as much interest as the wares on offer, Billie mused, and it seemed she was not the only one to think so, as several patrons openly looked at her as she discreetly surveyed the assembly. Fleetingly, she wondered how many of this crowd knew one another. It did seem to be quite a clique. Perhaps this was part of what made her presence of interest—she and her companion were not regulars.

Most of the women in the room wore fur of some type, Billie noticed, many favoring imported fox stoles, glass eyes staring out from the creatures’ stuffed heads. Would business pick up for the Brown family if the fashion kept up? Rationing and the restrictions on luxury items had evidently not impacted this crowd too greatly. Had any of them shopped at the Browns’ shop? Met Adin? Billie took note of faces, filing them in her formidable memory bank.

“Let’s sit,” she suggested.

They moved to chairs at the end of the fifth row. Billie handed Sam the auction catalog and asked him to look for the items advertised in the clipping Adin had ripped out while she continued to survey the crowd.

In front of them a man in a three-piece suit with bow tie moved to the podium, and the din of the crowd subsided. “Please be seated. The auction will begin shortly,” he announced, conducting himself in a sedate and formal manner that wouldn’t have been amiss in a mortician.

Sam looked up from the catalog. “Do you want me to get you anything before things get started?” he asked quietly.

She pulled her dark glasses off and locked eyes with him. “I don’t think we’ll be needing a paddle,” she replied. This auction was too rich for her blood, at least on her father’s side, but looking at the crowd, only half of whom were carrying paddles, it didn’t seem out of place to watch.

“Champagne?” he suggested, nodding toward the servers who were circling with their silver trays.

“Never again,” she countered and shifted in her seat. “Well, not this week anyway.”

The next ninety minutes passed uneventfully in the numbingly lavish room, the pieces on auction coming and going until they blended together in one decorative procession, unreachable for Billie’s bankbook. There was no sign of Adin Brown, even as the carved sideboard that featured in the newspaper advertisement was displayed and sold. The portly Georges Boucher mingled selectively, greeting favored customers, then disappearing into the mysterious realm beyond the black curtains. Billie looked for the couples he’d been with at The Dancers but did not spot them.

Perhaps it was the strange twenty-four hours she’d had, but attending the auction gave Billie strongly conflicting feelings about family, wealth, and property. She couldn’t help but speculate that some of the pieces represented the downfall of once-great families, or the passing away of loved ones whose most beloved possessions were no longer valued by the living, except as objects to fetch a price. There was, for instance, the strangely heart-tugging sale of a Victorian writing box embellished with silver and mother-of-pearl inlays and engraved with the name Rose Cox. Within the velvet-lined box was a card inscribed “In Loving Remembrance” of one Rose Hannah Caroline Klimpton, no doubt the girl’s married name, who’d “Died September 1, 1897, aged 26.” How had this found its way under the hammer? Such occurrences were not rare, Billie supposed, but something about the sadness of the discarded writing box and its once-cherished owner almost compelled Billie to purchase it. Auctions were places of loss or discovery, depending on which end you sat.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked in a low voice. He’d clearly felt, if not actually seen, her tense ruminations.

Billie hoped her mother would not soon be forced here, parting with more of her possessions out of desperation rather than choice. And yet, after the war, what did possessions matter except to feed and to clothe and to ensure a roof over one’s head, if even for another day?

Billie was distracted from her reverie by the movement of those heavy velvet curtains. A black-and-white–clad staff member was slipping through a parting in the all-enveloping drapes around the room, and Billie caught a glimpse of an open door beyond, and a man with his back to the door, his hair as white as snow. The heavy fabric slid back into place and the vision disappeared.

“And here we have lot 664,” the auctioneer announced.

Sam pointed to the open catalog, and he and Billie exchanged a look. This was one of the other pieces shown in the advertisement, a necklace. The auctioneer described it as a rare Art Nouveau piece by the jeweler Georg Kleemann, crafted in silver and featuring opals, freshwater pearls, blue lapis lazuli, and purple amethyst. What made it stand out most, however, was the batwing shape of the main part of the intricate pendant. Kleemann, the auctioneer explained, had been a well-known figure around the turn of the century, working in Germany in the Jugendstil style. Was this something that had caught Adin Brown’s interest? Or was it simply the auction house name, Boucher’s name, that he had reacted to? Billie cast another look around the room and strained to look back at the entrance. There was no sign of the boy. If he was present, he was well hidden. But then, it was a room of hidden things. Billie longed to get behind those curtains.

An auction house employee in an apron and white gloves began walking through the audience, showcasing the necklace, which was pinned elegantly within a velvet-lined frame, to anyone who indicated interest. Several people signaled almost invisibly to him and, observant as all auction house staff were trained to be, he moved smoothly over to them. None of them was familiar to Billie, and she felt sure they had not been at The Dancers either of the previous two evenings. The piece shone in the lights as the auctioneer spoke of the luster of the pearls, the glitter of the amethysts, and the estimated vintage of 1907, the Art Nouveau movement’s peak. As the employee came down their side of the room, Billie raised a finger and he came over. It was indeed a beautiful, very unusual piece of jewelry, something she could imagine the French actress Sarah Bernhardt might have worn. She asked to see the back, and gloved hands turned it for her. Signed on the reverse were the initials GK in a cartouche and the number 935, signifying sterling silver. Two more people called the man over to inspect the necklace, neither of whom Billie recognized. Paddles were raised, money was bid, then, just like that, it was gone. Twelve hundred pounds. That was enough to kill for, certainly, but was that why Con Zervos had died? Money was, after all, one of the primary motivations for murder—part of the triad completed by jealousy and power. But how did that fit in here? With Adin and Con?

After several further pieces did the rounds—rare mantel clocks and pearl necklaces—the lot of rings from the advertisement came up, recognizable by the large Victorian men’s gold ring, set with three round-cut gems—a cognac diamond, a blue sapphire, and a second cognac—that was the advertised showpiece item. Billie called the rings over, examining the Victorian ring and the write-up for it: “One Round Genuine Sapphire weighing approximately .12 cts. and two round Genuine natural brown Cognac Diamonds totaling approximately .20 cts. Total Gem weight approximately .32 cts. Provenance unknown.”

Again nothing unusual appeared to be at play. Perhaps the clipping had been a red herring after all?

Nothing fitted. Surely Zervos hadn’t had the rings or necklace or, for that matter, the sideboard shown in the advertisement. He hadn’t had much at all, and now he was dead, along with whatever he might have been able to tell Billie. Adin didn’t seem to be at the auction, either to bid or to steal. No, the puzzle was still moving, the pieces not yet coming to rest in their logical places.

What about Boucher himself? Could his name alone have been enough to set the kid off? Was it an argument over a love interest? The girl in violet who had seemed too young, out of place at Boucher’s table the other night? Was it only a coincidence that Boucher had been at The Dancers, a place Adin evidently was desperate to get into?