by Ken Follett
''Not interested,'' said Peter.
Arnaz said: ''Mitch knows you're going to do it, don't you, Mitch?''
''Yes, you bastard.''
''So tell Pete here.''
''Amaz has us by the balls, Peter,'' Mitch said. ''He's 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 haven't got our deal with the art dealers yet.''
''So? If he fingers us, why can't we finger him?'' Mitch replied: ''Because there's no proof against him. He had no part in the operation--nobody saw him, whereas loads of people saw me. We can be put up on identity 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?"
''I'm sorry, darling," Peter replied. ''It won't be possible now. We've got to do something else.''
Anne's 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 God,'' 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 actress's 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. It's been there all these years--hanging on the wall of some peasant's hut!''
''Are you sure it's genuine?'' Samantha asked.
''Perfectly. It has characteristic touches, it's signed by him, and we know its history. You can't ask more. Besides, I'm 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 won't 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 I'm 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.''
Julian's 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 everyone's ears. They were all terrified. I bought some companies which, as far as I could see, didn't 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 man's 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 can't 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 they're here.''
The butler moved Samantha's 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. ''It's one of the things a classical education teaches you. However, there's 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 passed on to her--a sexually transmitted disease. She suppressed a grin. God, she had not felt so alive for years.
As they walked out of the gallery she said: ''I'm surprised you're selling the pictures--you seem so fond of them.''
Cardwell smiled ruefully. ''Yes. But needs must, when the Devil drives.''
''I know what you mean,'' Samantha replied.
III
"THIS IS BLOODY AWFUL, Willow," said Charles Lampeth. He felt the language was justified. He had come in to his office on Monday morni
ng, after a weekend in a country house with no telephone and no worries, to find his gallery in the thick of a scandal.
Willow stood stiffly in front of Lampeth's desk. He took an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and dropped it on the desk. ''My resignation.''
''There's absolutely no need for it,'' Lampeth said. ''Every major gallery in London was fooled by these people. Lord, I saw the picture myself and I was taken in."
''It might be better for the gallery if I did go,'' Willow persisted.
''Nonsense. Now, you've made the gesture and I've refused to accept your resignation, so let's forget it. Sit down, there's a good chap, and tell me exactly what happened."
"It's all in there," Willow replied, pointing at the newspapers on Lampeth's desk. ''The story of the forgery in yesterday's paper, and the terms we're being offered in today's.'' He sat down and lit a slim cigar.
"Tell me anyway.''
''It was while you were in Cornwall. I got a phone call from this chap Renalle, who said he was at the Hilton. Said he had a Pissarro which we might like. I knew we didn't have any Pissarros, of course, so I was quite keen. He came round with the picture that afternoon.''
Lampeth interrupted: ''I thought it was a woman who took the pictures to the galleries?".
''Not this one. It was the chap himself.''
''I wonder whether there's a reason for that,'' Lampeth mused. ''Anyway, carry on.''
''Well, the painting looked good. It looked like Pissarro, it was signed, and there was a provenance from Meunier's. I thought it was worth eighty-five thousand pounds. He asked sixty-nine thousand, so I jumped at it. He said he was from an agency in Nancy, so it seemed quite likely he would undervalue a picture. I assumed he was simply not used to handling high-priced works. You came back a couple of days later and approved the purchase, and we put the work on display.''
"Thank God we didn't sell it,'' Lampeth said fervently. ''You've taken it down, now, of course."
''First thing this morning."
''What about this latest development?''
''The ransom, you mean? Well, we would get most of our money back. It is humiliating, of course: but nothing compared with the embarrassment of being duped in the first place. And this idea of theirs--low-rent studios for artists--is really quite laudable.''
''So what do you suggest?''
"I think the first step must be to get all the dealers together for a meeting.''
''Fine.''
''Might we hold it here?''
''I don't see why not. Only get the whole thing over with as soon as possible. The publicity is appalling.''
''It will get worse before it improves. The police are coming around later this morning.''
''Then we had better get some work done before they arrive.'' Lampeth reached across his desk, lifted the telephone, and said: ''Some coffee, please, Mavis.'' He unbuttoned his jacket and put a cigar between his teeth. ''Are we ready for the Modigliani exhibition?''
''Yes. I think it will go well.''
"What have we got?''
''There are Lord Cardwell's three, of course.''
''Yes. They'll be picked up within the next few days.''
''Then we've got the drawings I bought right at the start. They have arrived safely.''
"What about dealing pictures?"
''We've done quite well. Dixon is lending us two portraits, the Magi have some sculptures for us, and we've got a couple of oil-and-crayon nudes from Deside's. There are more which I have to confirm.''
''What commission did Dixon want?''
''He asked for twenty-five percent but I knocked him down to twenty.''
Lampeth grunted. ''I wonder why he goes to the trouble of trying it on. Anyone would think we were a shop front in Chelsea instead of a leading gallery.''
Willow smiled. ''We always try it on with him.''
"True."
''You said you had something up your sleeve.''
''Ah, yes." Lampeth looked at his watch. ''An undiscovered one. I have to go and see about it this morning. Still, it can wait until I've had my coffee.''
Lampeth thought about the forger as his taxi threaded its way through the West End toward the City. The man was a lunatic, of course: but a lunatic with altruistic motives. It was easy to be philanthropic with other people's money.
Undoubtedly, the sensible thing would be to give in to his demands. Lampeth just hated to be blackmailed.
The cab pulled into the forecourt of the agency and Lampeth entered the building. An assistant helped him with his overcoat, which he had worn because of the chill breezes of early September.
Lipsey was waiting for him in his office, the inevitable glass of sherry ready on the table. Lampeth settled his bulk into a chair. He sipped the sherry to warm him.
''So you've got it.''
Lipsey nodded. He turned to the wall and swung aside a section of bookcase to reveal a safe. With a key attached by a thin chain to the waist of his trousers, he unlocked the door.
''It's as well I've a big safe," he said. He reached in with both hands and took out a framed canvas about four feet by three feet. He propped it on his desk where Lampeth could see it, and stood behind it, supporting it.
Lampeth stared for a minute. Then he put down his sherry glass, got up, and came closer. He took a magnifier from his pocket and studied the brush-work. Then he stood back and looked again.
''What did you have to give for it?' he asked.
''I'm afraid I forked out fifty thousand pounds.''
''It's worth double that.''
Lipsey moved the painting to the floor and sat down again. ''I think it's hideous,'' he said.
''So do I. But it's absolutely unique. Quite astonishing. There's no doubt it's Modigliani--but no one knew he ever painted stuff like this.''
''I'm glad you're pleased,'' said Lipsey. His tone said he wanted to introduce a more businesslike note into the conversation.
''You must have put a good man on it,'' Lampeth mused.
"The best.'' Lipsey suppressed a grin. ''He went to Paris, Livorno, Rimini ...''
''And he beat my niece to it.''
''Not exactly. What happened--"
''I don't want to know the details,'' Lampeth cut in. ''Have you got a bill ready for me? I'd like to pay it right away.''
''Certainly.'' Lipsey went to the office door and spoke to his secretary. He came back with a sheet of paper in his hand.
Lampeth read the bill. Apart from the PS50,000 for the painting, it came to PS1,904. He took out his personal checkbook and wrote the amount in.
''You'll get an armored truck to deliver it?''
''Of course,'' Lipsey said. "That's in the bill. Is everything else satisfactory?''
Lampeth ripped out a check and handed it to the detective. ''I consider I've got a bargain,'' he said.
The New Room was closed to the public, and a long conference table had been brought in and set in the center. All around the walls were dark, heavy Victorian landscapes. They seemed appropriate to the somber mood of the men in the room.
The representatives of nine other galleries were there. They sat at the table, while the assistants and solicitors they had brought with them sat in occasional chairs nearby. Willow was at the head of the table with Lampeth beside him. Rain pattered tirelessly against the high, narrow windows in the wall. The air was thick with cigar smoke.
''Gentlemen,'' Willow began, ''we have all lost a good deal of money and been made to look rather foolish. We cannot retrieve our pride, so we are here to discuss getting our money back.''
"It's always dangerous to pay a blackmailer." The high Scots accent belonged to Ramsey Crowforth. He twanged his suspenders and looked over the top of his spectacles at Willow. ''If we cooperate with these people, they--or someone else--could try the same stunt again."
The mild, quiet voice of John Dixon cut in. "I don't think so, Ramsey. We're all going to be a lot more careful from now on--especially about provenances. This is the kind of trick you ca
n't play twice.''
''I agree with Dixon,'' a third man said. Willow looked down the table to see Paul Roberts, the oldest man in the room, talking around the stem of a pipe. He went on: "I don't think the forger has anything to lose. From what I read in the press, it seems he has covered his tracks so well that the police have little or no hope of finding him, regardless of whether we call them off or not. If we refuse to cooperate, all the villain does is pocket his half a million pounds.''
Willow nodded. Roberts was probably the most respected dealer in London--something of a grand old man of the art world--and his word would carry weight.
Willow said, ''Gentlemen, I have made some contingency plans so that, if we do decide to consent to these demands, the thing can be done quickly." He took a sheaf of papers from his briefcase on the floor beside him. ''I've got Mr. Jankers here, our solicitor, to draw up some papers for the setting up of a trust fund.''
He took the top folder from the pile and passed the rest down the table. ''Perhaps you would have a look at these. The important clause is on page three. It says that the trust will do nothing until it receives approximately five hundred thousand pounds from one Monsieur Renalle. At that time it will pay ninety percent of the money to the ten of us, in proportion to the stated amounts we paid for the forgeries. I think you will find those figures correct.''
Crowforth said: ''Somebody's got to run the trust.''
''I have made some tentative arrangements on that point too,'' said Willow. ''They are subject to your approval, quite naturally. However, the Principal of the West London College of Art, Mr. Richard Pink-man, has agreed to be chairman of the trustees if we so require. I think the vice-chairman should be one of us--perhaps Mr. Roberts.
''We would each have to sign a form of agreement withdrawing any claim on the money apart from the arrangement with the trust. And we would have to agree to withdraw our complaint to the police against Monsieur Renalle and his associates.''
Crowforth said: ''I want my solicitor to study all these papers before signing anything.''
Willow nodded. ''Of course.''
Roberts said: ''I agree--but all the same, we want this business over with quickly. Could we not agree in principle today? The rest could be done by our solicitors over the next day or two, unless there are any snags.''