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.