The Modigliani Scandal (14 page)

III

THE PRIEST STOOPED ON the cobbled churchyard path to pick up a piece of litter: a stray candy bar wrapper. He crumpled it in his hand, and stood up slowly to placate the nagging rheumatism in his knee. The pain came from sleeping alone in an old house through many damp Italian winters, he knew: but priests ought to be poor. For how could a man be a priest if there was one man in the village who was poorer? The thought was a liturgy of his own invention, and by the time he had run through it in his mind, the pain had eased.

He left the yard to walk across the road to his house. In the middle of the street the rheumatism stabbed him again: a vicious, angry shaft of pain which made him stumble. He made it to the house and leaned on the wall, resting his weight on his good leg.

Looking down the road toward the center of the village he saw the youngsters whom he had spoken to earlier. They walked very slowly, their arms around each other; looking and smiling at each other. They seemed very much in love—more so than they had half an hour earlier. The understanding which the priest had gained through many years of listening to confessions told him that a change had been wrought in the relationship within the last few minutes. Perhaps it had something to do with their visit to the house of God: maybe he had given them spiritual help, after all.

He had sinned, almost certainly, in lying to them about Danielli. The untruth had come automatically, by force of a habit he had got into during the war. Then, when he had felt it imperative to conceal the Jewish family from all inquirers, the whole village had lied with his blessing. To tell the truth would have been sinful.

Today, when a couple of complete strangers had arrived out of the blue, and asked for Danielli by name, they had touched an old, raw nerve in the priest; and he had protected the Jews again. The inquiry was bound to be quite innocent: the Fascisti were thirty-five years in the past, and no longer worth sinning about. Still, he had not had time to think—which was the reason for most sins, and a poor excuse.

He toyed with the idea of going after them, apologizing, explaining, and telling the truth. It would expiate him a little. But there was little point: someone in the village would send them to the bar on the outskirts of Poglio where the Jews eked out their living.

His pain had gone. He went into the little house, treading on the loose flagstone at the foot of the stairs with the twinge of affection he reserved for familiar nuisances: like the rheumatism, and the unfailing sins he heard week after week from the irreformable black sheep in his little flock. He gave them a rueful paternal nod of acknowledgment, and granted absolution.

In the kitchen he took out a loaf and cut it with a blunt knife. He found the cheese and scraped off the mold; then he ate his lunch. The cheese tasted good—it was the better for the effect of the mold. There was something he would have not discovered if he had been rich.

When he had eaten the meal he wiped the plate with a towel and put it back into the wooden cupboard. The knock at the door surprised him.

People did not usually knock at his door: they opened it and called to him. A knock indicated a formal visit—but in Poglio, one always knew well in advance if someone was going to pay a formal visit. He went to the door with a pleasant sensation of curiosity.

He opened the door to a short man in his twenties, with straight fair hair growing over his ears. He was peculiarly dressed, by the priest′s standards, in a businessman′s suit and a bow tie. In poor Italian he said: ″Good morning, Father.″

A stranger, thought the priest. That explained the knock. It was most unusual to have so many strangers in the village.

The man said: ″May I talk to you for a few moments?″

″Surely.″ The priest ushered the stranger into the bare kitchen and offered him a hard wooden seat. ″Do you speak English?″

The priest shook his head regretfully.

″Ah. Well, I am an art dealer from London,″ the man continued haltingly. ʺI am looking for old paintings.″

The priest nodded wonderingly. Clearly, this man and the couple in the church were on the same mission. That two sets of people should come to Poglio on the same day looking for paintings was just too much of a coincidence to be credible.

He said: ″Well, I have none.″ He waved a hand at the bare walls of the room, as if to say that he would buy bare essentials first, if he had any money.

ʺPerhaps in the church?″

″No, the church has no paintings.″

The man thought for a moment, searching for words. ″Is there a museum in the village? Or perhaps someone with a few paintings in his house?″

The priest laughed. ″My son, this is a poor village. No one buys paintings. In good times, when they have a little extra money, they eat meat—or perhaps drink wine. There are no art collectors here.″

The stranger looked disappointed. The priest wondered whether to tell him about his rivals. But then he would be forced to mention Danielli, and he would have to give this man information he had withheld from the couple.

That seemed unfair. However, he would not lie again. He decided to tell the man about Danielli if he asked: otherwise, he would not volunteer the information.

The next question surprised him.

″Is there a family named Modigliani here?″

The priest raised his eyebrows. Quickly, the stranger said: ″Why does the question shock you?″

″Young man, do you really think there is a Modigliani here in Poglio? I am no student of these things, but even I know that Modigliani was the greatest Italian painter of this century. It is hardly likely that one of his works lies unnoticed anywhere in the world, let alone Poglio.″

″And there is no Modigliani family here,ʺ the man persisted.

″No.″

The man sighed. He stayed in his seat for a moment, staring at the toe of his shoe and wrinkling his brow. Then he stood up.

ʺThank you for your help,″ he said.

The priest saw him to the door. ʺI am sorry I could not give the answers you wanted to hear,″ he said. ″God bless you.″

When the door shut behind him, Julian stood outside the priest′s house for a moment, blinking in the sunshine and breathing the fresh air. God, the place was smelly. The poor old sod had probably never learned to look after himself—Italian men were used to being waited on hand and foot by their mothers and their wives, he seemed to recall reading.

It was amazing Italy could find enough priests, what with that and the celibacy ... He grinned as the thought reminded him of the recent abrupt end to his own celibacy. The elation which had come with the discovery of his own potency was still with him. He had proved it had all been Sarah′s fault. The bitch had tried to pretend she was not enjoying it at first, but the act had not lasted. What with that, and the sale of her car, and the Modigliani—maybe he was finding his form again.

But he did not have the picture yet. That last stroke of genius was essential, to put the crowning touch to his personal renaissance. The postcard from the girl who signed herself ʺDʺ was a shaky foundation on which to build his hopes, he knew: yet it was by following up dubious leads that great finds were made.

The prospect of the Modigliani had receded a long way during the interview with the priest. If it was here in Poglio it was going to be hard to find. There was one consolation: it looked as if Julian was the first here. For if a painting had been bought in a little place like this, every villager would know about it within hours.

He stood beside his rented baby Fiat, wondering what was the next step. He had entered the village from the south, and the church was one of the first buildings he had come across. He could look around for a public building: a village hall, maybe, or a police station. The priest had said there was no museum.

He decided on a quick reconnaissance, and jumped into the little car. Its engine whirred tinnily as he started it and drove slowly into the village. In less than five minutes he had looked at every building. None of them looked promising. The blue Mercedes coupe parked outside the bar must belong to a rich man: the owner obviously did not live in the village.

He drove back to his first parking-spot and got out of the car. There was nothing else for it: he would have to knock on doors. If he went to every house in the village, it could not take all afternoon.

He looked at the small, whitewashed houses: some set back behind kitchen-gardens, others shoulder-to-shoulder at the roadside. He wondered where to start. Since they were equally improbable places to find a Modigliani, he chose the nearest and walked to the door.

There was no knocker, so he banged on the brown paintwork with his knuckles and waited.

The woman who came to the door had a baby in one arm, its small fist clenched in her unwashed brown hair. Her eyes were set close together about a high, narrow nose, giving her a shifty look.

Julian said: ″I am an art dealer from England, looking for old paintings. Have you any pictures I could look at, please?″

She stared at him silently for a long minute, a look of disbelief and wariness on her face. Then she shook her head silently and closed the door.

Julian turned away dispirited. He wanted very badly to give up the door-to-door stratagem—it made him feel like a salesman. The next house confronted him forbiddingly. Small windows on either side of a narrow door reminded him of the face of the woman with the child.

He willed his legs to carry him forward. This door had a knocker: an ornate one, in the shape of a lion′s head. The paintwork was new and the windows clean.

A man came, in shirtsleeves and an open waistcoat, smoking a pipe with a badly chewed stem. He was about fifty. Julian repeated his question.

The man frowned; then his face cleared as he penetrated Julian′s bad Italian. ″Come in,″ he smiled. Inside, the house was dean and prettily furnished: the floors were scrubbed and the paintwork gleamed. The man sat Julian down.

″You want to see some pictures?″ The man spoke slowly and a little too loudly, as if talking to someone who was deaf and senile. Julian assumed his accent was the cause of this. He nodded dumbly.

The man raised a finger in a gesture meaning ″Wait″ and left the room. He came back a moment later with a pile of framed photographs, brown with age and obscured by dust.

Julian shook his head. ″I mean paintings,″ he said, miming the act of brushing paint onto canvas.

Puzzlement and a trace of exasperation crossed the man′s face, and he fingered his mustache. He lifted a small, cheap print of Christ from a nail on the wail and offered it.

Julian took it, pretended to examine it, shook his head, and handed it back. ʺAny more?″

ʺNo.ʺ

Julian stood up. He tried to put gratitude into his smile. ″I am sorry,″ he said. ″You have been kind.″

The man shrugged, and opened the door.

Julian′s reluctance to go on was even greater now. Disconsolate and indecisive, he stood in the street and felt the hot sun on his neck. He would have to take care not to get burned, he thought inconsequentially.

He considered going for a drink. The bar was a few dozen yards down the road, by the blue Mercedes. But a drink would not progress matters.

A girl came out of the bar and opened the car door. Julian looked at her. Was she a bitch like Sarah? Any girl rich enough to own one of those had a right to be a bitch. She tossed her hair over one shoulder as she climbed in. The spoiled daughter of a wealthy man, Julian thought.

A man came out of the bar and got into the other side of the car, and the girl said something to him. Her voice carried up the street.

Suddenly Julian′s mind clicked into gear.

He had assumed that the girl was going to drive, but now that he looked more carefully he could see that the steering wheel was on the right-hand side of the car.

The girl′s words to the man had sounded like English.

The car had British registration plates.

The Mercedes came to life with a throaty chuckle. Julian turned on his heel and walked briskly to where his Fiat was parked. The other car passed him as he keyed the ignition, and he did a three-point turn.

A wealthy English girl in a British car in Poglio: it had to be the girl who sent the postcard.

Julian could not take the chance that it was not.

He raced after the Mercedes, letting the tiny engine of the Fiat scream in low gear. The blue car took a right turn, following the west road out of the village. Julian took the same turning.

The driver of the Mercedes went fast, handling the powerful car with skill. Julian soon lost the flashing brakelights in the bends of the lane. He squeezed the last ounce of speed from his car.

When he shot past the Mercedes he almost missed it. He braked to a halt at a crossroads and reversed.

The other car had pulled in off the road. The building it was outside looked at first like a farmhouse, until Julian saw the beer advertisement in the window.

The young couple had got out and were entering the door to the bar. Julian drove the Fiat in next to their car.

On the other side of the Mercedes was a third car: another Fiat, only this was a big, prestige model, painted a hideous metallic green. Julian wondered who it could belong to.

He got out of his car and followed the others into the bar.

IV

PETER USHER PUT DOWN his safety razor, dipped his washcloth in hot water and washed the remains of the shaving cream off his face. He studied himself in the mirror.

He picked up a comb and drew his long hair back off his face, so that it lay flat above his ears and on top of his head. He combed it carefully down the back of his neck and tucked the long ends under his shirt collar.

Without the beard and mustache his face took on a different appearance. His hooked nose and pointed, receding chin gave him the look of a spiv, especially with his hair slicked back.

He put the comb down and picked up his jacket. It would do. It was only a precaution, anyway.

He walked from the bathroom into the kitchen of the little house. The ten canvases were there, bound in newspapers and tied with string, stacked up against the wall. He stepped around them and went out through the kitchen door.

Mitch′s van was parked in the lane at the bottom of the garden. Peter opened the rear doors and wedged them with a pair of planks. Then he began loading the paintings.

The morning was still cool, although the sun was bright and the day promised to be warm. Some of the precautions they were taking were a bit extreme, Peter thought as he lugged a heavy frame down the cracked garden path. Still, it was a good plan: dozens of possible snags had been foreseen and taken care of. Each of them was changing his or her appearance slightly. Of course, if it ever came to an identification lineup the disguises would not be enough—but there was no way it could come to that.

With the last canvas loaded, he closed the van doors, locked up the house and drove off. He threaded his way patiently through the traffic, resigned to the tedious journey up to the West End.

He found his way to a large college campus in Bloomsbury. He and Mitch had chosen the exact spot a couple of days earlier. The college occupied a block 200 yards wide and almost half a mile long, much of it converted Victorian houses. It had many entrances.

Peter parked on a double yellow line in a little drive which led to one of the college gates. A curious warden would assume he was delivering to the college building beside the gate—but he was on a public road, so college officials would not be able to ask him his business. Anyone else would see a young man, presumably a student, unloading junk from an old van

He opened the rear doors and took the paintings out one by one, leaning them against the railings. When the job was done he closed the van.

There was a telephone box right beside the gates—one of the reasons they had chosen this spot. Peter went in and dialed the number of a taxi firm. He gave his exact location, and was promised a cab within five minutes.

It came sooner. The cabbie helped Peter load the canvases into the taxi. They took up most of the backseat. Peter told the driver: ″Hilton Hotel, for a Mr. Eric Clapton.″ The false name was a joke which had appealed to Mitch. Peter gave the cabbie 50 pence for helping load the paintings, then waved him goodbye.

He got into the van when the taxi was out of sight, turned it around, and headed for home. Now there was no way the fakes could be connected with the little house in Clapham.

Anne felt on top of the world as she looked around the suite at the Hilton. Her hair had been styled by Sassoon, and her dress, coat, and shoes came from a madly expensive boutique in Sloane Street. A trace of French perfume was detectable in the air around her.

She lifted her arms and spun around in a circle, like a child showing off a party dress. ″If I go to jail for life, this will have been worth it,″ she said.

ʺMake the most of it—those clothes have to be burned tomorrow,″ said Mitch. He sat in a plush chair opposite her. His clenched, busy hands betrayed the strain he felt and gave the lie to his easy smile. He was dressed in flared jeans, a sweater, and a knitted bobble cap, like a faggot playing at being a workman, he had said. His hair was piled under the cap to conceal its length, and he wore plastic-rimmed National Health glasses with plain lenses.

There was a tentative tap at the door. A room service waiter came in with coffee and cream cakes on a tray.

″Your coffee, madam,″ he said, and put the tray down on a low table. ʺThere is a taxi outside with a number of parcels for you, Mr. Clapton,ʺ he added, looking at Mitch.

″Oh, Eric, that will be the paintings. Go and see to it, would you?″ Anne spoke in a perfect imitation of French-accented upper-class English, and Mitch had to conceal his surprise at the sound.

He went down to the ground floor in the elevator, and out through the foyer to the waiting taxi. ″Keep the meter running, chief—madam can afford it,ʺ he said.

He turned back to the doorman and pressed two pound notes into his hand. ″See if you can get me a luggage trolley, or something, and a helping hand,″ he said.

The flunky stepped inside the hotel, and emerged a couple of minutes later with a uniformed bellhop pushing a trolley. Mitch wondered whether any of the tip found its way into the bellhop′s pocket.

The two of them put five of the paintings on the trolley, and the bellhop disappeared with it. Mitch unloaded the remainder and paid off the cabbie. The empty trolley returned, and Mitch took the rest of the paintings up to the suite. He gave the bellhop a pound—might as well spread the largesse, he thought.

He closed the door and sat down to coffee. He realized that the first stage of the plan had been completed successfully; and with the realization came tension, seeping into his muscles and stringing his nerves tautly. Now there was no turning back. He lit a short cigarette from the packet in his shirt pocket, thinking it would help him relax. It did not—it never did, but he never ceased thinking it would. He tasted his coffee. It was too hot, and he could not summon the patience to wait for it to cool.

He asked Anne: ʺWhatʹs that?″

She looked up from the clipboard she was scribbling on. ″Our list. Name of the picture, artist, gallery or dealer it′s for, their phone number, name of the man in charge and his deputy.″ She scribbled something, then flicked pages in the telephone directory on her lap.

″Efficient.″ Mitch swallowed his coffee hot, burning his throat. With his cigarette between his lips he began to unpack the paintings.

He piled the discarded newspapers and string in a corner. They had two leather portfolios, one large and one small, for taking the works to the galleries. He had not wanted to buy ten, for fear of the purchase being conspicuous.

When he had finished, he and Anne sat at the large table in the center of the room. There were two telephones on it, by request. Anne placed her list by his side, and they began phoning.

Anne dialed a number and waited. A girl′s voice said: ″Claypole and Company, good morning,ʺ all in one breath.

″Good morning,″ said Anne. ″Mr. Claypole, please.″ Her French accent had gone.

″One moment.″ There was a hum, and a click, then a second girl.

″Mr. Claypole′s office.ʺ

″Good morning. Mr. Claypole, please,″ Anne repeated.

″I′m afraid he′s in conference. Who′s calling?″

″I have Monsieur Renalle of Agence Arts Nancy. Perhaps Mr. de Lincourt is available?″

″If you will hold, I′ll see.″

There was a pause, and then a male voice came on the line. ″De Lincourt speaking.″

″Good morning, Mr. de Lincourt. I have Monsieur Renalle of Agence Arts Nancy for you.″ Anne nodded to Mitch. As she replaced the receiver of her telephone, he lifted his.

ʺMr. de Lincourt?″ he said.

″Good morning, Monsieur Renalle.″

″Good morning to you. I am sorry I could not write to you in advance, Mr. de Lincourt, but my company is representing the estate of a collector and there is a little urgency.″ Mitch pronounced ″t″ with his tongue on the roof of his mouth, made ″c″ at the back of his throat, and softened the ″g″ in ʺurgency.ʺ

″What can I do to help you?″ the dealer asked politely.

″I have a picture which ought to interest you. It′s a rather early van Gogh, entitled
The Gravedigger,
seventy-five centimeters by ninety-six. It′s rather fine.ʺ

″Splendid. When can we have a look at it?″

″I am in London now, at the Hilton. Perhaps my assistant could pay you a visit this afternoon or tomorrow morning?″

ʺThis afternoon. Shall we say two-thirty?ʺ

ʺ
Bien
—very good. I have your address.″

″Have you a figure in mind, Monsieur Renalle?″

″We price the work at about ninety thousand pounds.″

″Well, we can discuss that later.″

″Certainly. My assistant is empowered to come to an agreement.″

″I look forward to two-thirty, then.″

″Goodbye, Mr. de Lincourt.ʺ

Mitch replaced the receiver and sighed heavily.

Anne said: ″God, you′re sweating.″

He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. ″I didn′t think I′d get to the end of it. That bloody accent—I wish I′d practiced more.″

″You were marvelous. I wonder what the slimy Mr. de Lincourt is thinking right now?″

Mitch lit a cigarette. ″I know. He′s delighted to be dealing with a provincial French agent who doesn′t know the price of a van Gogh.″

ʺThe line about representing the estate of a dead collector is great. That makes it plausible that a minor dealer in Nancy should be arranging the sale.″

″And hell be in a hurry to close the deal in case one of his rivals hears about the sucker and gets in first.ʺ Mitch smiled grimly. ″Okay, let′s do the next on the list.ʺ

Anne picked up the phone and began to dial.

The taxi stopped outside the plate-glass windows of Crowforth′s in Piccadilly. Anne paid the driver while Mitch lugged the canvas, in its heavy leather case, into the art dealerʹs splendid premises.

A broad, open staircase of Scandinavian pine ran up from the ground-floor showroom to the offices above. Anne led the way up, and knocked on a door.

Ramsey Crowforth turned out to be a wiry, white-haired Glaswegian of about sixty. He peered at Anne and Mitch over his spectacles as he shook hands and offered Anne a seat. Mitch stayed standing, the portfolio clutched in his arms.

His room was paneled in the same pine as the staircase, and his carpet was an orange-brown mixture. He stood in front of his desk, his weight on one foot, with one arm dangling at his side and the other on his hip, pushing his jacket back to reveal Lurex suspenders. He was an authority on the German Expressionists, but he had awful taste, Anne thought.

″So you′re Mademoiselle Renalle,ʺ he said in his high-pitched Scots accent. ″And the Monsieur Renalle I spoke to this morning was ...″

″My father,″ Anne supplied, avoiding Mitch′s eyes.

″Right. Let′s see what you′ve got.″

Anne gestured to Mitch. He took the painting out of the case and stood it on a chair. Crowforth folded his arms and gazed at it.

″An early work,″ he said softly, speaking as much to himself as the others. ″Before Munch′s psychoses really took hold. Fairly typical ...ʺ He turned away from the picture. ″Would you like a glass of sherry?″ Anne nodded. ″And your er ... assistant?″ Mitch declined, with a shake of his head.

As he poured, he asked: ″I gather you′re acting for the estate of a collector, is that right?″

″Yes.″ Anne realized that he was making small talk, to let the impact of the painting sink in before he made a decision. ″His name was Roger Dubois—a businessman. His company made agricultural machinery. His collection was small, but very well-chosen.″

″Obviously.″ Crowforth handed her a glass and leaned back against his desk, studying the picture again. ʺThis isn′t quite my period, you know. I specialize in Expressionists in general, rather than Munch in particular: and his early work isn′t Expressionist, obviously.″ He gestured toward the canvas with his glass. ″I like this, but I would want another opinion on it.″

Anne felt a spasm of tension between her shoulders, and tried to control the blush which began at her throat. ʺI would be happy to leave it with you overnight, if you wish,″ she said. ″However, there is a provenance.″ She opened her briefcase and took out a folder containing the document she had forged back in the studio. It had Meunierʹs letterhead and stamp. She handed it to Crowforth.

″Oh!″ he exclaimed. He studied the certificate. ʺThis puts a different complexion on matters, of course. I can make you an immediate offer.″ He studied the picture again for a long moment. ″What was the figure you mentioned this morning?″

Anne controlled her elation. ″Thirty thousand.″

Crowforth smiled, and she wondered whether he, too, was controlling his elation. ʺI think we can meet that sum.″

To Anne′s astonishment, he took a checkbook from his desk drawer and began to write. Just like that! she thought. Aloud she said: ″Would you make it out to Hollows and Cox, our London representatives.″ Crowforth looked mildly surprised, so she added: ʺThey are simply an accounting firm, who arrange the transfer of funds to France.″ That satisfied him. He tore out the check and handed it to her.

″Are you in London long?″ he inquired politely.

ʺJust a few days.″ Anne was itching to get away now, but she did not want to arouse suspicion. She had to persist with the small talk for the sake of appearances.

ʺThen I hope to see you next time you come.″ Crowforth held out his hand.

They left the office and walked down the stairs, Mitch carrying the empty case. Anne whispered excitedly: ″He didn′t recognize me!″

″Not surprising. He′s only ever seen you from a distance. Besides, then you were the dowdy, mouselike wife of a flamboyant painter. Now you′re a vivacious French blonde.″

They caught a taxi just outside, and directed the driver to the Hilton. Anne sat back in the seat and looked at the check from Crowforth.

″Oh my God, we did it,″ she said quietly. Then she began to sob.

″Let′s clear out of here as quickly as we can,″ said Mitch briskly.

It was one o′clock on the day after they had moved into the Hilton. The last forged masterpiece had just been delivered to a gallery in Chelsea, and there were ten checks in Anne′s genuine lizard-skin handbag.