The Modigliani Scandal (18 page)

He said: ″I suppose we ought to be careful in these days of bag bombs. Do you think the IRA consider us a target?″

Lampeth laughed. ″I don′t think they use Fairy Snow in their bombs.″ He crossed over the room, and hefted one of the bags.

The wet paper broke, and the contents of the bag spilled over the floor. Willow gave a grunt of exclamation and bent down.

Beneath the soap powder and lettuce was a bundle wrapped in newspaper. Inside the newspaper was a pile of stiff cards and sheets of heavyweight paper. Willow sorted through and examined a few.

″They′re stocks and bonds,″ he said finally. ″Open-faced securities—certificates of ownership, negotiable on signature. I′ve never seen so much money in all my life.″

Lampeth smiled. ″The forger paid up,″ he said. ″The deal is done. I suppose we ought to tell the newspapers.″ He stared at the securities for a moment. ʺHalf a million pounds,″ he said quietly. ″Do you realize, Willow—if you snatched those bags and ran away now, you could live well for the rest of your life in South America?″

Willow was about to reply when the gallery door opened.

″I′m afraid we′re closed,″ Lampeth called out.

A man came in. ″It′s all right, Mr. Lampeth,″ he said. ″My name′s Louis Broom—we met the other day. I′ve had a call to say that the half-a-million has been paid back. Is that true?″

Lampeth looked at Willow, and they both smiled. Lampeth said: ″Goodbye, South America.″

Willow shook his head in awe. ″I have to hand it to our friend Renalle. He thought of everything.″

IV

JULIAN DROVE SLOWLY THROUGH the quiet Dorset village, steering the hired Cortina carefully along the narrow road. All he had by way of an address was Gaston Moore, Dunroamin, Cramford. Dunroamin! It was a mystery how the most discriminating art expert in the country could have called his retirement home such a banal name. Perhaps it was a joke.

Moore was certainly eccentric. He refused to come to London, he had no telephone, and he never answered letters. When the bigwigs of the art world required his services, they had to trek down to this village and knock on his door. And they had to pay his fees in crisp one-pound notes. Moore had no bank account.

There never seemed to be anyone around in villages, Julian reflected. He turned a bend and braked hard. A herd of cattle was crossing the road. He killed the engine and got out. He would ask the cowhand.

He expected to see a young man with a pudding-basin haircut chewing a stalk of grass. The cowhand was young; but he had a trendy haircut, a pink sweater, and purple trousers tucked into his Wellington boots.

The man said: ″You lookinʹ for the painter man?″ The accent was a pleasantly rich burr.

″How did you guess?″ Julian wondered aloud.

″Most furriners want ′un.″ The cowhand pointed. ″Back the way you come, turn down the road by the white house. ʺTis a bungalow.″

ʺThank you.″ Julian got back into the car and reversed down the road until he reached the white house. There was a rutted track beside it. He followed the track until he reached a wide gate. ʺDunroamin″ was written in faded Gothic lettering on the peeling white paintwork.

Julian patted his pocket to make sure the wad of notes was still there; then he took the carefully packed painting from the backseat and maneuvered it out of the car. He opened the gate and walked up the short path to the door.

Moore′s home was a pair of ancient thatched workingmen′s cottages which had been knocked into one. The roof was low, the windows small and leaded, the mortar between the stones crumbling. Julian would not have called it a bungalow.

His knock was answered, after a long wait, by a bent man with a cane. He had a shock of white hair, thick-lensed spectacles, and a birdlike tilt to his head.

″Mr. Moore?″ Julian said.

″What if it is?″ the man replied in a Yorkshire accent.

ʺJulian Black, of the Black Gallery. I wonder if you would authenticate a picture for me.″

ʺDid you bring cash?″ Moore was still holding the door, as if ready to slam it.

″I did.″

″Come on then.″ He led the way inside the house. ″Mind your head,″ he said unnecessarily—julian was too short to be bothered by the low beams.

The living room seemed to occupy most of one of the cottages. It was crammed with oldish furniture, among which a brand-new, very big color television stuck out like a sore thumb. It smelled of cats and varnish.

″Let′s have a look at it, then.″

Julian began to unpack the painting, taking off the leather straps, the polystyrene sheets, and the cotton wool.

″No doubt it′s another forgery,ʺ Moore said. ″All I see these days is fakes. There′s so much of it going on. I see on the telly some smart-alec got them all chasing their behinds the other week. I had to laugh.″

Julian handed him the canvas. ″I think youʹll find this one is genuine,″ he said. ″I just want your seal of approval.″

Moore took the painting, but did not look at it. ″Now you must realize something,ʺ he said. ″I can′t prove a painting is genuine. The only way to do that is to watch the artist paint it, from start to finish, then take it away with you and lock it in a safe. Then you can be sure. All I do is try to prove it′s a fake. There are all sorts of ways in which a forgery
might
reveal itself, and I know most of them. But if I can find nothing wrong, the artist could still turn around tomorrow and say he never painted it, and you′d have no argument. Understood?″

″Sure,″ said Julian.

Moore continued to look at him, the painting face-down on his knees.

″Well, are you going to examine it?″

″You haven′t paid me yet.″

ʺSorry.ʺ Julian reached into his pocket for the money.

″Two hundred pounds.″

″Right.″ Julian handed over two wads of notes. Moore began to count them.

As he watched, Julian thought how well the old man had chosen to spend his retirement. He lived alone, in peace and quiet, conscious of a life′s work expertly done. He cocked a snook at the pressures and snobbery of London, giving sparingly of his great skill, forcing the art world princes to make a tiresome pilgrimage to his home before he would grant them audience. He was dignified and independent. Julian rather envied him.

Moore finished counting the money and tossed it casually into a drawer. At last he looked at the painting.

Straightaway he said: ″Well, if it′s a forgery, it′s a bloody good one.″

″How can you tell so quickly?″

″The signature is exactly right—not too perfect. That′s a mistake most forgers make—they reproduce the signature so exactly it looks contrived. This one flows freely.″ He ran his eye over the canvas. ″Unusual. I like it. Well, would you like me to do a chemical test?″

ʺWhy not?″

″Because it means marking the canvas. I have to take a scraping. It can be done in a place where the frame will normally hide the mark, but I always ask anyway.″

″Go ahead.″

Moore got up. ″Come along.″ He led Julian back through the hallway into the second cottage. The smell of varnish became stronger. ʺThis is the laboratory, ʺ Moore said.

It was a square room with a wooden workbench along one wall. The windows had been enlarged, and the walls painted white. A fluorescent strip light hung from the ceiling. On the bench were several old paint cans containing peculiar fluids.

Moore took out his false teeth with a swift movement, and dropped them in a Pyrex beaker. ″Can′t work with them in,″ he explained. He sat down at his bench and laid the painting in front of him.

He began to dismantle the frame. ″I′ve got a feeling about you, lad,″ he said as he worked. ″I think you′re like me. They don′t accept you as one of them, do they?″

Julian frowned in puzzlement. ″I don′t think they do.″

″You know, I always knew more about painting than the people I worked for. They used my expertise, but they never really respected me. That′s why I′m so bloody-minded with them nowadays. You′re like a butler, you know. Most good butlers know more about food and wine than their masters. Yet they′re still looked down on. It′s called class distinction I spent my life trying to be one of them. I thought being an art expert was the way, but I was wrong. There is no way!ʺ .

″How about marrying in?″ Julian suggested.

″Is that what you did? You′re worse off than me, then. You can′t drop out of the race. I feel sorry for you, son.″

One arm of the frame was now free, and Moore slid the glass out. He took a sharp knife, like a scalpel, from a rack in front of him. He peered closely at the canvas, then delicately ran the blade of the knife across a millimeter of paint.

″Oh,″ he grunted.

what?ʺ

″When did Modigliani die?″

ʺIn 1920.″

ʺOh.ʺ

ʺWhy?ʺ

ʺPaintʹs a bit soft, is all. Doesn′t mean anything. Hold on.″

He took a bottle of clear liquid from a shelf, poured a little into a test tube, and dipped the knife in. Nothing happened for a couple of minutes. To Julian it seemed an age. Then the paint on the knife began to dissolve and seep through the liquid.

Moore looked at Julian. ʺThat settles it.″

ʺWhat have you proved?″

ʺThe paint is no more than three months old, young man. You′ve got a fake. How much did you pay for it?″

julian looked at the paint dissolving in the test tube. ″It cost me just about everything,ʺ he said quietly.

He drove back to London in a daze. How it had happened he had no idea. He was trying to figure out what to do about it.

He had gone down to Moore simply with the idea of adding to the value of the painting. It had been a sort of afterthought; there had been no doubt in his mind about the authenticity of the work. Now he wished he had not bothered. And the question he was turning over in his mind, playing with as a gambler rolls the dice between his palms, was: could he pretend he had not seen Moore?

He could still put the picture up in the gallery. No one would know it was not genuine. Moore would never see it, never know it was in circulation.

The trouble was, he might mention it casually. It could be years later. Then the truth would come out: Julian Black had sold a painting he knew to be a fake. That would be the end of his career.

It was unlikely. Good God, Moore would die anyway within a few years—he must be pushing seventy. If only the old man would die soon.

Suddenly Julian realized that, for the first time in his life, he was contemplating murder. He shook his head, as if to dear it of confusion. The idea was absurd. But alongside such a drastic notion, the risk of showing the picture diminished. What was there to lose? Without the Modigliani, Julian hardly had a career anyway. There would be no more money from his father-in-law, and the gallery would probably be a flop.

It was decided, then. He would forget about Moore. He would show the picture.

The essential thing now was to act as if nothing had happened. He was expected for dinner at Lord Cardwellʹs. Sarah would be there, and she was planning to stay the night. Julian would spend the night with his wife: what could be more normal? He headed for Wimbledon.

When he arrived, a familiar dark blue Daimler was in the drive alongside his father-in-lawʹs Rolls. Julian transferred his fake Modigliani to the boot of the Cortina before going to the door.

ʺEvening, Sims,″ he said as the butler opened the door. ″Is that Mr. Lampethʹs car in the drive?″

″Yes, sir. They are all in the gallery.″

Julian handed over his short coat and mounted the stairs. He could hear Sarah′s voice coming from the room at the top.

He stopped short as he entered the gallery. The walls were bare.

Cardwell called: ″Come in, Julian, and join in the commiserations. Charles here has taken all my paintings away to sell them.″

Julian walked over, shook hands, and kissed Sarah. ″It′s a bit of a shock,″ he said. ʺThe place looks naked.ʺ

″Doesn′t it?″ Cardwell agreed heartily. ″We′re going to have a damn good dinner and forget about it. Sorry, Sarah.″

″You don′t have to watch your language with me, you know that,″ his daughter said.

″Oh, my God,ʺ Julian breathed. He was staring at one painting left on the wall.

″What is it?″ said Lampeth. ″You look as if you′ve seen a ghost. That′s just a little acquisition of mine I brought along to show you all. Can′t have a gallery with no pictures at all.″

Julian turned away and walked to the window. His mind was in a turmoil. The picture Lampeth had brought was an exact copy of his fake Modigliani.

The bastard had the real one while Julian had a dud. He almost choked with hatred.

Suddenly a wild, foolhardy plan was born in his mind. He turned around quickly.

They were looking at him, expressions of slightly concerned puzzlement on their faces.

Cardwell said: ″I was just telling Charles that you, too, have a new Modigliani, Julian.″

Julian forced a smile. ʺThatʹs why this is such a shock. It′s exactly like mine.″

″Good Lord!″ Lampeth said. ″Have you had it authenticated?″

″No,″ Julian lied. ″Have you?″

″Afraid not. Lord, I thought there was no doubt about this one.″

Cardwell said: ʺWell, one of you has a forgery. It seems there are more forgeries than genuine works in the art world these days. Personally, I hope Julian′s is the one—Iʹve got a stake in it.″ He laughed heartily.

″They could both be genuine,″ Sarah said. ″Lots of painters repeated themselves.″

Julian asked Lampeth: ″Where did you get yours?″ ″I bought it from a man, young Julian.″

Julian realized he had trespassed on the ethics of the profession. ″Sorry,″ he mumbled.

The butler rang the bell for dinner.

Samantha was flying. Tom had given her the funny little flat tin that evening, and she had taken six of the blue capsules. Her head was light, her nerves tingled, and she was bursting with excitement.

She sat in the front seat of the van, squashed between Tom and Eyes Wright. Tom was driving. There were two other men in the back.

Tom said: ″Remember, if we′re very quiet we should have it off without waxing anybody. If someone does catch us bang to rights, pull a shooter on him, and tie him up. No violence. Quiet now, we′re there.″

He switched the engine off and let the van coast the last few yards. He stopped it just outside the gate of Lord Cardwell′s house. He spoke over his shoulder to the men in the back: ″Wait for the word.″

The three in the front got out. They had stocking masks, pulled up to their foreheads, ready to cover their faces if they were seen by the occupants of the house.

They walked carefully up the drive. Tom stopped at a manhole and whispered to Wright, ʺBurglar alarm.ʺ

Wright bent down and inserted a tool into the manhole cover. He lifted it easily and shone a pencil flashlight inside. ″Piece of cake,″ he said.

Samantha watched, fascinated, as he bent down and put his gloved hands into the tangle of wires. He separated two white ones.

From his little case he took a wire with crocodile clips at either end. The white wires emerged from one side of the manhole and disappeared on the other. Wright clipped the extra wire from his case onto the two terminals on the side of the manhole farthest from the house. Then he disconnected the wires at the opposite pair of terminals. He stood up. ″Direct line to the local nick,″ he whispered. ʺShortcircuited now.″

The three of them approached the house. Wright shone his flashlight carefully around a window frame. ʺJust the one,″ he whispered. He delved in his bag again and came up with a glass cutter.

He cut three sides of a small rectangle in the window near the inside handle. He pulled a strip of tape from a roll and bit it off with his teeth. He wound one end of the tape around his thumb, and pressed the other against the glass. Then he cut the fourth side of the rectangle and lifted the glass out on the end of the tape. He placed it carefully on the ground.