The Fifth House of the Heart Read Online Free PDF

the shaded ceiling lamps gave off a hospital light. None of the employees looked up to note who had arrived. It was as subdued as a library. Sax hated to see the business in this condition, but the whole antiques trade had suffered. Sax himself had taken to stockpiling entire estates he’d bought for the price of haulage with a single bid, knowing that someday, when times were richer, he could portion it out a piece at a time for obscene profit. Probably to the Indians or the Chinese, whoever gentrified first.
    His old friend and sometime rival Jules Amies emerged from a corner office with his hand extended. Jules, a distant relative of the famous British haberdasher Sir Hardy Amies, was a tall, thin man, gray of face, suit, tie, and hair, with heavy black plastic spectacles that appeared to be bolted onto his nose. His one element of plumage was a brilliant scarlet pocket square. Jules had dozens of the things in every imaginable color and pattern. His usual loud greeting was this time muted, affected as he was by the somber atmosphere. Still, Jules shook Sax’s hand and clapped him on the arm as they retreated into his office.
    Sax took the green leather guest’s chair. Jules sat in his incongruous new Herman Miller chair, one of those modern contrivances that appeared to be made of baling wire and showgirl’s stockings. Stoate brought them bottled water, then departed with a bow. Jules opened the bottom drawer of the desk and produced a pair of pony glasses and a liter of Cragganmore whiskey.
    â€œSax,” said Jules.
    â€œWhat’s left of him,” Sax agreed.
    â€œRatio? Business to pleasure?”
    â€œHalf each, dear. It’s my pleasure to come see you—call it an excuse—but there is a matter of some interest I wish to discuss.”
    â€œWho have you already talked to?”
    â€œDon’t be vulgar,” Sax said. “You’re always top of the list.” And then, “Everyone. They think I’m mad.”
    â€œYou are mad,” Jules said, without humor.
    â€œStill, I do have fun. Listen, Jules. I’ve come up against a buyer. European, I think. Works through proxies. Bids outrageous sums for things. Been active the last few months here in New York.”
    â€œDoes this have to do with that clock of yours?” Jules was interested. His drink hung in the air halfway between desktop and lips.
    â€œThat bloody ormolu? Yes. Talk of the town, I know. Cheers.”
    â€œTwenty thousand, I heard.”
    â€œTwenty thousand two hundred. Salt the wound, Jules, salt the wound. I have my reasons, as you know.”
    â€œEveryone has his reasons.”
    â€œNot often. But I do. Here’s what I want to know: Who wanted the thing so much? And don’t tell me it’s that dreadful acquisitions person from Daimler or the Barclay’s woman. It’s nobody I know, you know? But it’s someone who knows what I know, if you know what I mean. A player.”
    â€œSomeone inside your own network?”
    â€œSomeone that shares the same network,” Sax said. “But unknown to me.”
    â€œOr someone familiar to you who has decided to remain anonymous, of course,” Jules said.
    Sax shook his head. There was a hand-colored steel engraving of a long sausage-shaped horse running across the wall behind Jules’s head; the jockey was as small as a monkey, and the horse’s legs were stretched out fore and aft as if it was diving into the sea.
    Sax said, “Most of the people in the, ah, network or circle I’m talking about are either dead, retired, or enjoy the notoriety. Anonymous just isn’t their style. And I should think after about a million years in the business, I could detect the fingerprints of someone known to me. One comes to recognize their appetites. This person, this nemo incognito , has entirely new and eccentric tastes, in my experience. I have here a list of purchases attributable to this