The Rise of John Raymond

Chapter 51: New Connections

The air inside the hall was still heavy with the tension of the missing vase, but the show had to go on. The compere returned to the stage, smiling as though nothing unusual had happened that evening.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to the auction. Apologies for the quick break, but it’s all part of tonight’s entertainment.” His voice carried warmth, but the faint quiver in his tone betrayed the stress of keeping such a crowd satisfied. “Our next item to be auctioned is an original portrait of Clara Brin. This painting is the only existing copy of the great Barnes masterpiece. His other works were all buried in France during World War II, never to be recovered. We are witnessing history tonight, as this is the only copy left in the world.”

The murmurs from the guests softened as two ushers carried the framed painting onto the stage. The canvas glowed under the spotlight — a portrait that seemed to look back at the viewers with eyes full of untold stories.

“This painting,” the compere continued, gesturing toward it, “is titled Grit. It represents Barnes’s continuous struggle for freedom as a gay man in a highly totalitarian state. I hope you all see the freedom in his eyes and embody it. The bidding starts at fifteen million dollars.”

A hush fell over the room. Guests shifted in their seats, eyes darting toward one another, as though silently asking who would dare start the bidding.

The compere waited, his smile tightening.

Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. The silence grew awkward.

At exactly two minutes in, a single card rose in the crowd. The compere’s face lit up instantly, like a boy unwrapping a long-awaited gift.

“I see fifteen million dollars! Can I get fifteen point one million? Anyone?” His eyes scanned the room eagerly.

The crowd’s attention swiveled toward the bidder. Gasps and whispers spread quickly when they saw the raised card belonged to John Raymond.

“How can he want this painting?” someone muttered near the back.

“Is this even worth that much?” another voice chimed in.

“I think he’s doing it as a metaphor,” a man in a navy tux whispered to his companion. “To prove his innocence after that earlier accusation.”

“Oh, that makes a lot of sense,” the companion replied.

The compere paused to let the murmuring die down before calling again. “Can I get fifteen point one million? Going once… going twice… Sold!”

The gavel hit the podium with a sharp thud.

“Congratulations, Mr. John,” the compere announced, his tone full of ceremony. “You are now the owner of this rare piece. And — as per the artist’s dying wish — the painting comes with something else. Barnes left behind a safe filled with gold. His instructions were to give that safe to whoever acquired this painting, with the code hidden within the artwork itself. Once again, congratulations!”

The room erupted in a collective gasp.

No one had expected such a revelation. In a split second, the guests who had dismissed the painting now realized they had passed on a potential fortune. An ounce of gold was worth five million dollars, and the safe, judging by its size, could hold far more than they dared to calculate.

On the side, Mr. King stood with an unreadable expression. But deep inside, he felt a swell of pride. John had passed every subtle test he had laid out for him tonight. In that moment, King decided he would back John fully, just as he had done for his grandfather many years ago.

Two ushers carefully presented John with the painting and the accompanying safe. He ran his fingers along the painting’s frame, remembering the words of advice his grandfather had given him before the auction. Bid not just with your eyes, but with your instincts.

The compere’s voice broke his thoughts.

“We have one final luxury item tonight,” he said, his tone turning playfully sarcastic. “And I hope you don’t miss out on your gold this time.”

A ripple of laughter passed through the audience.

“The last item is a 1990 Beetle sports car,” the compere went on. “With gold-plated side mirrors and handles, and silver engines. This car was made for the president, though it was never driven by him. He cherished it so much that he included it in his will, along with provisions for its maintenance. Talk about devotion. The bidding starts at thirty million dollars. This is a one-of-a-kind piece.”

Before he even finished, hands shot up from every corner of the room.

“Can I get thirty point five million?” the compere asked, his voice lifting with excitement.

“Thirty point six!” an elite guest called from the right side of the hall. A few hands dropped.

“Thirty point nine!” another shouted from the opposite end. More hands went down.

“Thirty-five million!” yet another bidder declared, causing a wave of gasps. The competition was fierce, but the stakes were rising quickly.

Then, from the back, one man leaned toward his friend and whispered urgently. The friend nodded, agreeing to loan him the money until Friday — just enough time to secure the prized car.

“Forty million!” the man yelled, his voice echoing in the hall.

The room fell silent. No other hand rose.

“Forty million has it! Sold!” The compere slammed the gavel again, grinning broadly. “That concludes tonight’s auction. It was a pleasure, and I look forward to our next event.”

Confetti burst from the ceiling in a shower of gold and silver. Ushers hurried to help the winners pose for photographs with their new treasures.

King, as always, remained in the shadows. His presence was known but never flaunted. The unspoken rule was that no one asked for his picture.

John exhaled, feeling the weight of the night pressing on his shoulders. “What a night this has been,” he muttered under his breath. He was ready to go home and collapse into bed.

His painting and the safe were already secured in his car, guarded by two of the auction’s private security officers. Every winner was given an escort until they left the premises — a final assurance that their investments were safe.

John was almost at the exit when a familiar voice stopped him.

“May I have a word, John Raymond?”

It was King.

For a fleeting moment, John suspected King might bring up what he had seen earlier — the cleaners — and ask him to keep it quiet. But when King finally spoke, the words that came out were nothing like what John had expected.