The Modigliani Scandal (13 page)

″No. The newer aristocrats are businessmen and industrialists. Their families have not had time to grow soft with living on inherited wealth.″

They had completed the circuit of the house, and now stood in its shadow at the foot of one of the towers. Lipsey said: ″It is possible to grow soft on earned wealth, Contessa. I′m afraid I do not work very hard for my living.″

″May I ask what you do?″

″I have an antique shop in London. It′s on the Cromwell Road—you must visit next time you are in England. I′m rarely there myself.″

″Are you sure you wouldn′t like to see the inside of the house?″

″Well, if itʹs not too much trouble ...″

″Not at all.″ The Contessa led him through the front door. Lipsey felt the tingle at the back of his neck which always came near the end of a case. He had worked things just right: he had gently given the Contessa the impression that he might be willing to buy something from her. She was obviously in fairly desperate need of cash.

As she led him through the rooms of the house, his sharp eyes flitted quickly around the walls. There were a large number of paintings, mainly oil portraits of previous counts and watercolor landscapes. The furniture was old, but not antique. Some of the rooms smelled unused, their aroma an odd mixture of mothballs and decay.

She led him up the staircase, and he realized that the landing was the showpiece of the place. In its center was a mildly erotic marble of a centaur and a girl in a sensual embrace. The rugs on the highly polished floor were not worn. The walls all around were hung with paintings.

″This is our modest art collection,″ the Contessa was saying. ″It ought to have been sold long ago, but my late husband would not part with it. And I have been postponing the day.″

That was as near an offer to sell as the old lady would come, Lipsey thought. He dropped his pretence of casual interest and began to examine the pictures.

He looked at each one from a distance, narrowing his eyes, searching for hints of the Modigliani style: the elongated face, the characteristic nose which he could not help putting on women, the influence of African sculpture, the peculiar asymmetry. Then he moved closer and scrutinized the signature. He looked at the frames of the pictures for signs of re-framing. He took a very powerful, pencilbeam flashlight from his inside pocket and shone it on the paint, scanning for the giveaway traces of overpainting.

Some of the paintings needed only a glance; others required very close examination. The Contessa watched patiently while he went around the four walls of the landing. Finally he turned to her.

″You have some fine pictures, Contessa,″ he said.

She showed him quickly around the rest of the house, as if they both knew it was only a formality.

When they were back on the landing, she stopped. ″May I offer you some coffee?″

ʺThank you.″

They went downstairs to a drawing room, and the Contessa excused herself to go to the kitchen and order coffee. Lipsey bit his lip as he waited. There was no getting away from it: none of the paintings was worth more than a few hundred pounds, and there were certainly no Modiglianis in the house.

The Contessa returned. ″Smoke if you like,″ she said.

″Thank you. I will.″ Lipsey lit up a cigar. He took a card from his pocket: it bore only his name, business address, and telephone number—no indication of his trade. ″May I give you my address?″ he said. ″When you decide to sell your art collection, I have some acquaintances in London who would like to know.″

Disappointment flashed briefly on the Contessa′s handsome face as she realized that Lipsey was not going to buy anything.

″That is the full extent of your collection, I take it?″ he said.

″Yes.″

″No pictures stored away in attics or basements?″

″Iʹm afraid not.″

A servant came in with coffee on a tray, and the Contessa poured. She asked Lipsey questions about London, and the fashions, and the new shops and restaurants. He answered as best he could.

After exactly ten minutes of idle conversation, he emptied his coffee cup and stood up. ″You have been most kind, Contessa. Please get in touch next time you are in London.″

″I′ve enjoyed your company, Mr. Lipsey.″ She saw him to the front door.

He walked quickly down the drive and got into the car. He reversed into the drive of the château, and caught a glimpse of the Contessa in his mirror, still standing in the doorway, before he pulled away.

He was most disappointed. It seemed the whole thing had been in vain. If there had ever been a lost Modigliani at the chateau, it was not there now.

Of course, there was another possibility: one that, perhaps, he ought to have paid more attention to. The American, Miss Sleign′s boyfriend, might have deliberately sent him on a wild-goose chase.

Could the man have suspected Lipsey? Well, it was a possibility; and Lipsey believed that possibilities were there to be exhausted. He sighed as he made his decision: he would have to keep track of the couple until he was sure that they, too, had given up.

He was not quite sure how to set about trailing them now. He could hardly follow them around, as he might have in a city. He would have to ask after them.

He returned to Poglio by a slightly different route, heading for the third road from the village: the one which entered from the west. About a mile outside Poglio he spotted a house near the road with a beer advertisement in the window. Outside was one small circular iron table. It looked like a bar.

Lipsey was hungry and thirsty. He pulled off the road onto the baked-earth parking lot in front of the place and killed the engine.

II

″YOU FAT LIAR, MIKE!″ exclaimed Dee. Her eyes were wide with pretended horror.

His full lips curled in a grin, but his eyes did not smile. ″You can′t afford scruples when you′re dealing with that type.″

ʺWhat type? I thought he was a rather nice fellow. Bit dull, I suppose.″

Mike sipped at his fifth Campari, and lit a fresh cigarette. He smoked long Pall Malls without filters, and Dee suspected that was how he got his emery-board voice. He blew out smoke and said: ″Just being here at the same time as us was a big coincidence. I mean, nobody would come here, not even a wandering loner. But the picture clinched it. All that stuff about his daughter was a bit of quick improvisation. He was looking for you.″

″I was afraid you′d say that.″ Dee took his cigarette and sucked on it, then handed it back.

″You′re sure you′ve never seen him before?″

″Sure.″

″All right. Now think: who might have known about the Modigliani?″

″Do you think that′s it? Somebody else is after the picture? It′s a bit melodramatic.″

″The hell it is. Listen, darling, in the art world, word of this sort of thing spreads like VD in Times Square. Now who have you told?″

″Well, Claire, I suppose. At least, I may have mentioned it to her while she was in the flat.″

″She doesn′t really count. Did you write home?″

″Oh, God, yes. I wrote to Sammy.″

″Who′s he?″

″The actress—Samantha Winacre.″

″I′ve heard of her. I didn′t know you knew her.″

″I don′t see her a lot, but we get on well when I do. We were at school together. She′s older than me, but she got her schooling late. I think her father went around the world, or something.″

″Is she an art buff?″

″Not as far as I know. But I expect she′s got arty friends.ʺ

″Anybody else?″

″Yes.″ Dee hesitated.

″Shoot.″

″Uncle Charlie.″

″The dealer?″

Dee nodded wordlessly.

ʺjeer,ʺ Mike sighed. ″That ties it up in a ribbon.″

Dee was shocked. ″You think Uncle Charles would really try to find my picture before I do?″

″He′s a dealer, isn′t he? He′d do anything, including trade his mom, for a find.″

″The old sod. Anyway, you′ve sent that undertaker on a wild-goose chase.″

″It ought to keep him busy for a while.″

Dee grinned. ″Is there a château five miles south of here?″

″Hell, I don′t know. He′s sure to find one sooner or later. Then he′ll waste a lot of time trying to get in, and looking for Modiglianis.″ Mike stood up. ″Which gives us a chance to get a start on him.″

He paid the bill and they walked out into the glaring sunshine. Dee said: ″I think the church is the best place to start. Vicars always seem to know everything about everybody.″

″Priests, in Italy,″ Mike corrected her. He had been brought up a Catholic.

They walked hand in hand along the main street. The oppressive heat seemed to impose on them the enervated lifestyle of the village: they moved slowly and spoke little, subconsciously adjusting to the climate.

They arrived at the pretty little church, and stood in its shade for a few minutes, enjoying the cool. Mike said: ″Have you thought about what you′re going to do with the picture if you get it?″

″Yes, I′ve thought a lot,″ she replied. She wrinkled the bridge of her nose in a frown which was all her own. ″Most of all, I want to study it. It ought to provide enough ideas for half a thesis—and the rest is just padding. But ...″

″But what?″

″You tell me but what.″

ʺThe money.″

″Damn right. Oops!″ She caught herself swearing, and looked around the churchyard nervously.

ʺThereʹs a lot of it involved.″

″Money? I know.″ She tossed her hair back over her shoulder. ″I′m not trying to kid myself I′m not interested in cash, either. Perhaps if we could sell it to someone who would let me see it whenever I wanted—maybe a museum.″

Mike said levelly: ʺI notice you said ′we.′ ″

″Of course! Youʹre in this with me, arenʹt you?″

He put his hands on her shoulders. ″You only just invited me.″ He kissed her lips quickly. ″You have just hired an agent. I think you made a very good choice.″

She laughed. ″What do you think I ought to do about marketing it?″

ʺIʹm not sure. I′ve got some ideas kicking around in my mind, but nothing definite. Let′s find the painting first.″

They entered the church and looked around. Dee stepped out of her sandals and squirmed her hot feet on the cold stone floor. At the other end of the nave, a robed priest was performing a solitary ceremony. Dee and Mike waited silently for him to finish.

Eventually he approached them, a welcoming smile on his broad peasant′s face.

Dee murmured: ″I wonder if you can help us, Father.″

When he got close, they realized he was not as young as his boyishly short haircut made him seem from a distance. ″I hope so,″ he said. He spoke at normal volume, but his voice boomed in the still emptiness of the church. ″I suspect it is secular help you want, much as I might wish it otherwise. Am I right?″

Dee nodded.

ʺThen let us step outside.″ He took their elbows, one in each hand, and pushed them gently through the door. Outside, he glanced up into the sky. ʺThank God for wonderful sunshine,″ he said. ″Although you should be careful, my dear, with your complexion. What can I do for you?″

″We′re trying to trace a man,″ Dee began. ″His name was Danielli. He was a rabbi, from Livorno, and we think he moved to Poglio in about 1920. He was ill, and not young, so he probably died soon after.″

The priest frowned and shook his head. ″I have never heard the name. It was certainly before my time—I wasn′t born in 1920. And if he was Jewish, I don′t suppose the Church buried him, so we will have no records.″

″You have never even heard him talked about?″

″No. And there is certainly no Danielli family in Poglio. However, others in the village have longer memories than mine. And no one can hide in such a small place.″ He looked at them hesitantly for a moment, as if making up his mind about something. ″Who told you he came here?″

″Another rabbi—in Livorno.ʺ Dee realized the priest was desperately curious to know why they were interested in the man.

He hesitated again, then asked: ″Are you related to him?″

″No.″ Dee looked at Mike, who gave a quick nod. ʺWeʹre actually trying to trace a picture which we think he had.″

″Ah.″ The priest was satisfied. ″Well, Poglio is an unlikely place to find a masterpiece; but I wish you well.″ He shook their hands, then turned back into his church.

The couple walked back toward the village. ″A nice man,″ Dee said lazily.

ʺAnd a nice church. Dee, shall we get married in a church?″

She stopped and turned to look at him. ″Married?″

ʺDonʹt you want to marry me?″

″You only just invited me—but I think you made a very good choice.″

He laughed, and shrugged his shoulders in embarrassment. ″It just kind of slipped out,″ he said.

Dee kissed him affectionately. ″There was a certain boyish charm about it,″ she said.

″Well, since I seem to have asked you ...″

ʺMike, if it′s anyone, it′s you. But I don′t know whether I want to marry anyone at all.″

″There′s a certain girlish charm about that,″ he said. ″One all.″

She took his hand and they walked on. ″Why don′t you ask for something a bit less ambitious?″

″Such as?ʺ

″Ask me to live with you for a couple of years to see how it works out.″

″So you can have your evil way with me, then leave me without any visible means of support?″

ʺYes.ʺ

This time he stopped her. ″Dee, we always turn everything into a joke. It′s our way of keeping our relationship in an emotionally low key. That′s why we suddenly start talking about our future together at a crazy time like this. But I love you, and I want you to live with me.″

ʺItʹs all because of my picture, isn′t it?″ She smiled.

″C′mon.″

Her face became very serious. She said quietly: ″Yes, Mike, I′d like to live with you.″

He wound his long arms around her and kissed her mouth, slowly this time. A village woman walked by and averted her face from the scandal. Eventually Dee whispered: ″We could get arrested for this.″

They walked even more slowly, his arm around her shoulders and hers about his waist. Dee said: ″Where shall we live?″

Mike looked startled. ″What′s wrong with South Street?″

″It′s a scruffy bachelor pad, that′s what.ʺ

″Nuts. Itʹs big, it′s right in the center of Mayfair.″

She smiled. ″I knew you hadn′t thought much about it. Mike, I want to set up home with you, not just move into your place.″

″Mmm.″ He looked thoughtful.

ʺThe apartment is knee-deep in rubbish, it needs decorating, and the kitchen is pokey. The furniture is all odds and sods—ʺ

″So what would you like? A three-bedroom semi in Fulham? A town house in Ealing? A mansion in Surrey?″

″Somewhere light and spacious, with a view of a park, but near the center.″

″I have a feeling you′ve got somewhere in mind.″

ʺRegentʹs Park.″

Mike laughed. ″Hell, how long have you been planning this?″

ʺDidnʹt you know I was a gold-digger?ʺ She smiled up into his eyes, and he bent his head to kiss her again.

″You shall have it,ʺ he said. ʺA new place—you can get it decorated and furnished when we get back to town—ʺ

ʺSlow down! We don′t know if there′ll be a flat vacant there.″

ʺWeʹll get one.″

They stopped beside the car, and leaned against the hot paintwork. Dee turned her face up to the sun. ″How long ago did you decide ... about this?″

″I don′t think I decided at all. It just gradually grew in my mind—the idea of spending my life with you. By the time I noticed, I was already too far gone to alter it.″

ʺFunny.ʺ

ʺWhy?ʺ

″It was just the reverse with me.″

″When did you decide?″

″When I saw your car outside the hotel at Livorno.

Funny that you should ask me so soon afterward.″ She opened her eyes and lowered her head. ʺIʹm glad you did.″

They looked at each other silently for a minute. Mike said: ʺThis is crazy. We′re supposed to be hot on the trail of an art find, and here we are looking cow-eyed at each other.″

Dee giggled. ″All right. Let′s ask the old man.″

The man with the straw hat and the walking-stick moved with the shade, from the steps of the bar to a doorway around the corner. But he looked so completely still that Dee found herself imagining that he had been levitated from the one place to the other without actually moving a muscle. As they got close to him, they realized that his eyes belied his lifelessness: they were small and darting, and a peculiar shade of green.

Dee said: ″Good morning, sir. Can you tell me whether there is a family named Danielli in Poglio?″

The old man shook his head. Dee was not sure if he meant there was no such family, or simply that he did not know. Mike touched her elbow, then walked quickly around the comer in the direction of the bar.

Dee crouched beside the old man in the doorway and flashed a smile. ″You must have a long memory,″ she said.

He mellowed slightly, and nodded his head.

″Were you here in 1920?″

He gave a short laugh. ″Before then—well before.″

Mike came hurrying back with a glass in his hand. ʺThe barman says he drinks absinthe,″ he explained in English. He handed the glass to the old man, who took it and drained it in one swallow.

Dee also spoke in English. ″It′s a pretty crude form of persuasion,″ she said distastefully.

″Nuts. The barman says he′s been waiting here all morning for some of the tourists to buy him a drink. That′s the only reason he′s sitting there.″

Dee switched to Italian. ″Do you remember back to about 1920?″

″Yes,″ the old man said slowly.

″Was there a Danielli family here then?″ Mike asked impatiently.

ʺNo.ʺ

ʺDo you remember any strangers moving to the village around that time?″

″Quite a few. There was a war, you know.″

Mike looked at Dee in exasperation. He said: ″Are there any Jewish people in the village?″ His skimpy Italian was running out.

″Yes. They keep the bar on the west road out of the village. That′s where Danielli lived when he was alive.″

They looked at the old man in astonishment. Mike turned to Dee and said in English: ″Why in hell didn′t he tell us that at the start?″

″Because you didn′t ask me, you young cunt,″ the man said in English. He cackled merrily, pleased with his joke. He struggled to his feet and hobbled off down the road, still cackling, stopping now and then to bang his stick on the sidewalk and laugh even louder.

Mike′s face was comical, and Dee too burst out laughing. It was infectious, and Mike laughed at himself. ʺTalk about a sucker,″ he said.

″I suppose we′d better find the bar on the west road out of town,″ Dee suggested.

″It′s hot. Let′s have a drink first.″

″Twist my arm.″

They walked into the cool of the bar again. The young barman was waiting behind the bar. When he saw them his face split in a wide grin.

″You knew!″ Dee accused him.

″I confess it,″ he said. ″He wasn′t really waiting to be bought drinks. He was waiting to play that trick. We have tourists here only about once a year, and it′s the high spot of the year for him. Tonight he will be in here, telling the story to anyone who′ll listen.″

ʺTwo Camparis, please,″ Mike said.