The Modigliani Scandal Part 20

Yes, but what about this: 'The forger covered his trail so well that Scotland Yard believe he must have had the help of an experienced criminal. I reckon Im the brilliant forger and youre the experienced criminal."

Mitch put the newspaper down and blew on his coffee to cool it. It just shows how easily it can be done-which is what we set out to prove.

Heres a good bit: 'The forgers masterstroke was to provide each painting with a provenance-which is the art worlds equivalent of a pedigree, and is normally thought to guarantee the authenticity of a work. The provenances were on the official paper of Meuniers, the Paris artists agents, and had the companys stamp. Both paper and stamp must have been stolen. I like that-the masterstroke. Peter folded his paper and threw it across the room.

Mitch reached out for Annes guitar and began to play a simple blues tune. Peter said: I hope Arnaz is laughing-he paid for the joke.

I dont think he really believed we could pull it off.

Nor did I, Peter laughed.

Mitch put the guitar down suddenly, causing the soundbox to boom. We havent done the most important bit yet. Lets get on with it.

Peter swallowed the rest of his coffee and got up. The two put on their jackets, called goodbye to Anne, and went out.

They walked along the street and squeezed into the telephone booth on the comer.

Somethings worrying me, said Peter as he picked up the phone.

That bit about Scotland Yard?

"Right."

"It's bothering me, too, said Mitch. They might be all set to trace our call to the newspaper. They could get down here to the kiosk, throw a cordon around the area, and question everyone until they found someone connected with art.

So what do we do?

"Let's just phone another newspaper. They'll all know about the story by now.

"Okay." Peter lifted the directory from the rack and looked under D for Daily.

Which one? he said.

Mitch closed his eyes and stuck a finger on the page. Peter dialed the number, and asked to speak to a reporter.

When he got through he asked: "Do you take shorthand?

The voice replied testily: Of course.

"Then take. I am Renalle, the master forger, and I am about to tell you why I did it. I wanted to prove that the London art scene, in its concentration on masterpieces and dead painters, is phony. The best ten dealers in London cannot tell a forgery when they see one. They are motivated by greed and sn.o.bbery, rather than love of art. Because of them the money going into art is diverted away from the artists themselves, who really need it.

"Slow down, the reporter protested.

Peter ignored him. I am now offering the dealers their money back, minus my expenses which come to about one thousand pounds. The conditon is that they set aside one-tenth of the cash-that will be about fifty thousand pounds-to provide a building in Central London where young, unknown artists can rent studios at low prices. The dealers must get together, and set up a trust fund to buy and manage the building. The other condition is that all police inquiries are dropped. I will look for their reply to my offer in the columns of your newspaper.

The reporter said quickly: Are you a young painter yourself?"

Peter put the phone down.

Mitch said: You forgot the French accent.

Oh, f.u.c.k, Peter swore. They left the phone booth.

As they walked back to the house, Mitch said: What the h.e.l.l, I dont suppose it makes any difference. Now they know it was not a French job. That narrows their field to the whole of the UK. So what?

Peter bit his lip. It shows were getting slack, thats what. We had better be careful not to count our chickens before theyve paid up.

Hatched.

f.u.c.k proverbs.

Anne was in the front garden, playing with Vibeke in the sunshine, when they got back.

The sun is shining-let's go out, she said.

Peter looked at Mitch. Why not?

A deep American voice came from the sidewalk outside. How are the happy forgers?

Peter whitened and turned around. He relaxed when he saw the stocky figure and white teeth of Arnaz. The man had a parcel under his arm.

You scared me, Peter said.

Still smiling, Arnaz opened the rotting wooden gate and walked in. Peter said: Come on inside.

The three men went up to the studio. When they had sat down Arnaz waved a copy of the newspaper. I congratulate you two, he said. I couldnt have done a better job myself. I laughed my a.s.s off in bed this morning.

Mitch got up and pretended to stare at Arnazs behind. How did you get it back on again?

Peter laughed. Mitch, dont get manic again.

Amaz went on: It was a brilliant operation. And the forgeries were good. I happened to see the van Gogh in Claypoles last week. I almost bought it.

I suppose its safe for you to come here, Peter said thoughtfully.

I think so. Besides, its necessary if Im to make a profit on this deal.

Mitchs voice was hostile. I thought you were in this for the laughs.

"That too. Arnaz smiled again. "But mainly, I wanted to see just how good the two of you were.

What the h.e.l.l are you getting at, Arnaz? Peter was becoming uneasy now.

"Like I said, I want to see a profit on my investment. So I want you to do one more forgery each. For me.

No deal, Arnaz," said Peter. We did this to make a point, not to make money. Were on the verge of getting away with it. No more forgeries.

Mitch said quietly: I dont think we're going to have any choice.

Arnaz gave him a nod of acknowledgment. He spread his hands in a gesture of appeal. Look, you guys, theres no danger. No one will know about these extra forgeries. The people who buy em will never let on theyve been conned, because theyll be implicating themselves in something shady by buying them in the first place. And n.o.body but me will know you did the forging.

Not interested, said Peter.

Arnaz said: Mitch knows youre going to do it, dont you, Mitch?

Yes, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

So tell Pete here.

Amaz has us by the b.a.l.l.s, Peter, Mitch said. Hes the one person in the world who can finger us for the police. All it would take would be one anonymous phone call. And we havent got our deal with the art dealers yet.

So? If he fingers us, why cant we finger him? Mitch replied: Because theres no proof against him. He had no part in the operation-n.o.body saw him, whereas loads of people saw me. We can be put up on ident.i.ty lineups, asked to account for our movements on the day in question, and Christ knows what. All he did was give us money-and it was cash, remember? He can deny everything.

Peter turned to Arnaz. When do you want the forgeries?

Good lad. I want you to do them now, while I wait.

Anne looked around the door with the baby in her arms. Hey, you lot, are we going to the common or not?"

Im sorry, darling," Peter replied. It wont be possible now. Weve got to do something else.

Annes expression was unreadable. She left the room.

Mitch said: What sort of paintings do you want, Amaz?"

The man picked up the parcel he had brought with him. I want two copies of this. He handed it to Mitch.

Mitch unwrapped the parcel and took out a framed painting. He looked at it with puzzlement in his eyes. Then he read the signature, and whistled.

Good G.o.d, he said in amazement. Where did you get this?

II.

SAMANTHA TOYED WITH HER china coffee cup and watched Lord Cardwell delicately eating a cracker piled high with Blue Stilton. She liked the man, despite herself: he was tall, and white-haired, with a long nose and laugh-lines in the comers of his eyes. Throughout the dinner he had asked her intelligent questions about an actresss work, and had seemed to be genuinely interested-and occasionally scandalized-by the stories she told.

Tom sat opposite her, and Julian at the lower end of the table. The four of them were alone, apart from the butler, and Samantha wondered briefly where Sarah was. Julian had not mentioned her. He was talking enthusiastically now, about a picture he had bought. His eyes shone, and he waved his arm in the air as he spoke. Perhaps the picture was the reason for his transformation.

Modigliani gave it away! he was saying. He gave it to a rabbi in Livorno, who retired to a potty little village in Italy and took it with him. Its been there all these years-hanging on the wall of some peasants hut!

Are you sure its genuine? Samantha asked.

Perfectly. It has characteristic touches, it's signed by him, and we know its history. You cant ask more. Besides, Im having it looked at by one of the top men shortly.

It had better be genuine, Lord Cardwell said. He popped a last crumb of cheese into his mouth and sat back in the high dining chair. Samantha watched the butler glide forward and remove his plate. It cost us enough money.

"Us?" Samantha was curious.

My father-in-law financed the operation, Julian said quickly.

"Funny-a friend of mine was talking about a lost Modigliani," Samantha said. She frowned with the effort of remembering-her memory was terrible these days. I think she wrote to me about it. Dee Sleign is her name.

Must have been another one, Julian said.

Lord Cardwell sipped his coffee. You know, Julian would never have pulled off this great coup of his without some sound advice from me. You wont mind if I tell this story, Julian.

Samantha guessed he would mind, from the look on his face, but Cardwell carried on.

He came to me for some money to buy paintings. I told him Im a businessman, and that if he wants money from me he has to show me how I can make a profit on the deal. I suggested he go away and dig up a real find-then I would risk my money on him. And that's what he did.

Julians smile to Samantha implied: Let the old fool ramble on.

Tom said: How did you come to be a businessman? "

Cardwell smiled. It goes back to my rip-roaring youth. By the time I reached twenty-one I had done just about everything: gone around the world, got sent down from college, raced horses and airplanes-not to mention the traditional wine, women and song.

He stopped for a moment, gazing into his coffee cup, then went on: At the age of twenty-one I came into my money, and I also got married. In no time at all, or sooner, there was a young un on the way-not Sarah, of course, she was much later. All of a sudden I realized that tearing about was a rather limited occupation. And I did not want to manage the estates, or work in a firm owned by my father. So I took my money to the City of London, where I discovered no one knew much more about finance than I did. That was about the time the Stock Exchange was falling around everyones ears. They were all terrified. I bought some companies which, as far as I could see, didnt need to give a toot what happened to the stock market. I was right. When the world got on its feet again, I was four times as rich as I had been at the start. Since then progress has been slower.

Samantha nodded. It was much as she had guessed. Are you glad you went into business? she asked.

Not sure. There seemed to be a note of heaviness in the old mans voice. "There was a time, you know, when I wanted to change the world, like you young people. I thought I might use my wealth to do somebody some good. But somehow, when you get involved in the business of actually surviving, holding companies together, satisfying shareholders-you lose interest in such grand schemes.

There was a pause. Besides, the world cant be all that bad when there are cigars like these. He gave a tired smile.

And pictures like yours, Samantha put in.

Julian said: Are you going to show Sammy and Tom the gallery?

Of course. The old man got up. I might as well show em off while theyre here.

The butler moved Samanthas chair away as she got up from the table. She followed Cardwell out of the dining room into the hall, then up the double staircase to the first floor.

At the top of the stairs Cardwell lifted a large Chinese vase and took a key from under it. Samantha looked sideways at Tom and noticed that he was taking everything in, his eyes moving quickly from side to side. Something near the bottom of the doorpost seemed to have caught his attention.

Cardwell opened the stout door and ushered them in. The picture gallery occupied a comer room- probably a drawing room originally, Samantha thought. The windows were wire-reinforced.

Cardwell showed obvious pleasure as he walked her along the rows of paintings, telling a little about how he had acquired each one.

She asked him: Have you always liked paintings?

He nodded. Its one of the things a cla.s.sical education teaches you. However, theres a lot it leaves out-like the cinema, for example.

They stopped beside a Modigliani. It was of a naked woman kneeling on the floor-a real woman, Samantha thought, with a plain face, untidy hair, jutting bones and imperfect skin. She liked it.

Cardwell was such a pleasant, charming man, that she began to feel guilty about planning to rob him. Still, he was losing the pictures anyway, and his insurance would pay up. Besides, the Sheriff of Nottingham was probably quite charming.

She wondered, sometimes, whether she and Tom were slightly mad-whether his madness was an infection he had pa.s.sed on to her-a s.e.xually transmitted disease. She suppressed a grin. G.o.d, she had not felt so alive for years.