The Modigliani Scandal Part 22

Woolworths do.

And look at the quality of their stuff. No, Willow. The forger may have his heart in the right place, but he wont change anything. We lose prestige for a while-a long while, I expect-but before too long everything will be back to normal, simply because that is the way it has to be.

Ive no doubt youre right, said Willow. He finished his drink. Well, theyre closing up downstairs. Are you ready to go?

Yes. Lampeth stood up, and Willow helped him on with his coat. By the way, what did the police say in the paper?

"They said that since the complaints had been withdrawn, they had no option but to suspend inquiries. But they gave the impression they would still like to get hold of Renalle.

Lampeth walked out of the door and Willow followed him. Lampeth said: I dont think we'll ever hear from Renalle again.

The two men were silent as they walked down the stairs and through the empty gallery. Lampeth looked out of the windows and said: My cars not here yet. Look at the rain.

"I'll press on.

No, wait. Ill give you a lift. We must talk about the Modigliani exhibition. We havent had time these last few days.

Willow pointed across the gallery. Somebodys left their shopping," he said.

Lampeth looked. In a comer, underneath a rather poor charcoal drawing, were two large Sainsburys tote bags. A carton of soap powder stuck out of the top of one. Willow walked over and looked more closely.

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 dont 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.

Theyre stocks and bonds, he said finally. Open-faced securities-certificates of owners.h.i.+p, negotiable on signature. Ive 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. "Half a million pounds, he said quietly. Do you realize, Willow-if you s.n.a.t.c.hed 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.

Im afraid were closed, Lampeth called out.

A man came in. Its all right, Mr. Lampeth, he said. My names Louis Broom-we met the other day. Ive 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 ba.n.a.l 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 gra.s.s. 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 lookin' 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. "Tis a bungalow.

"Thank 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. "Dunroamin 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.

Moores home was a pair of ancient thatched workingmens 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 Yorks.h.i.+re accent.

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

"Did 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.

Lets 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 its another forgery," Moore said. All I see these days is fakes. Theres 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 you'll 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," he said. I cant 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 its a fake. There are all sorts of ways in which a forgery might 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 youd have no argument. Understood? 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 youd 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 havent paid me yet.

"Sorry." 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 lifes work expertly done. He c.o.c.ked a snook at the pressures and sn.o.bbery 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 its a forgery, its a b.l.o.o.d.y good one.

How can you tell so quickly?

The signature is exactly right-not too perfect. Thats 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?

"Why not?

Because it means marking the canvas. I have to take a sc.r.a.ping. 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. "This is the laboratory, " 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. Cant 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. Ive got a feeling about you, lad, he said as he worked. I think youre like me. They dont accept you as one of them, do they?

Julian frowned in puzzlement. I dont 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. Thats why Im so b.l.o.o.d.y-minded with them nowadays. Youre like a butler, you know. Most good butlers know more about food and wine than their masters. Yet theyre still looked down on. Its called cla.s.s 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!" .

How about marrying in? Julian suggested.

Is that what you did? Youre worse off than me, then. You cant drop out of the race. I feel sorry for you, son.

One arm of the frame was now free, and Moore slid the gla.s.s 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?"

When did Modigliani die?

"In 1920.

"Oh."

"Why?"

"Paint's a bit soft, is all. Doesnt 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. "That settles it.

"What have you proved?

"The paint is no more than three months old, young man. Youve 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," 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 G.o.d, Moore would die anyway within a few years-he must be pus.h.i.+ng 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 Cardwell's. 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-law's Rolls. Julian transferred his fake Modigliani to the boot of the Cortina before going to the door.

"Evening, Sims, he said as the butler opened the door. Is that Mr. Lampeth's 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 Sarahs 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. Its a bit of a shock, he said. "The place looks naked."

Doesnt it? Cardwell agreed heartily. Were going to have a d.a.m.n good dinner and forget about it. Sorry, Sarah.