by Ken Follett
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, "Burglar alarm."
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. "Shortcircuited now.''
The three of them approached the house. Wright shone his flashlight carefully around a window frame. "Just 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.
Tom reached through the opening and undid the catch. He swung the window wide and climbed in.
Wright took Samantha's arm and led her to the front door. After a moment it opened silently, and Tom appeared.
The three of them crossed the hall and climbed the stairs. Outside the gallery, Tom took Wright's arm and pointed at the foot of the doorpost.
Wright put down his bag and opened it. He took out an infrared lamp, turned it on, and beamed it at the tiny photoelectric cell embedded in the woodwork. With his free hand he took out a tripod, set it under the lamp, and adjusted its height. Finally he put the lamp gently on the tripod. He stood up.
Tom took the key from under the vase and opened the gallery door.
Julian lay awake listening to Sarah's breathing. They had decided to stay the night at Lord Cardwell's house after the dinner party. Sarah had been sound asleep for some time. He looked at the luminous hands of his watch: it was 2:30 A.M.
Now was the time. He pulled the sheet off him and sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His stomach felt as if someone had tied a knot in it.
It was a simple plan. He would go down to the gallery, take Lampeth's Modigliani, and put it in the trunk of the Cortina. Then he would put the fake Modigliani in the gallery and come back to bed.
Lampeth would never know. The pictures were almost identical. Lampeth would find that his was a fake, and assume that Julian had had the real one all along.
He put on the dressing gown and slippers which had been provided by Sims, and opened the bedroom door.
Creeping around a house at the dead of night was all very well in theory: one thought of how unconscious one would be of anyone else doing it. In reality it seemed full of hazards. Suppose one of the old men got up for the lavatory? Suppose one fell over something?
As he tiptoed along the landing Julian thought of what he would say if he were caught. He was going to compare Lampeth's Modigliani with his own--that would do.
He reached the gallery door and froze. It was open.
He frowned. Cardwell always locked it. Tonight, Julian had watched the man turn the key in the door and put it in its hiding place.
Therefore someone else had got up in the middle of the night to go to the gallery.
He heard a whispered: ''Damn!''
Another voice hissed: ''The bloody things must have been taken away today.''
Julian's eyes narrowed in the darkness. Voices meant thieves. But they had been foiled: the pictures were gone.
There was a faint creak, and he pressed himself up against the wall behind a grandfather clock. Three figures came out of the gallery. One carried a picture.
They were taking the real Modigliani.
Julian drew in his breath to shout--then one of the figures passed through a shaft of moonlight from a window. He recognized the famous face of Samantha Winacre. He was too astonished to call out.
How could it possibly be Sammy? She--she must have wanted to come to dinner to case the joint! But how had she got mixed up with crooks? Julian shook his head. It hardly mattered. His own plan was awry now.
Julian thought fast to cope with the new situation. There was no longer any need to stop the thieves--he knew where the Modigliani was going. But his own plan was completely spoiled.
Suddenly he smiled in the darkness. No, it was not spoiled at all.
A faint breath of cold air told him the thieves had opened the front door. He gave them a minute to get away.
Poor Sammy, he thought.
He went softly down the stairs and out of the open front door. He opened the trunk of the Cortina quietly, and took the fake Modigliani out. As he turned back to the house, he saw a rectangle cut in the glass of the dining room window. The window was open. That was how they had got in.
He closed the car trunk and went back into the house, leaving the front door open as the thieves had. He climbed to the gallery and hung the fake Modigliani where the real one had been.
Then he went to bed.
He woke early in the morning, although he had slept very little. He bathed and dressed quickly, and went to the kitchen. Sims was already there, eating his own breakfast while the cook prepared the meal for the master of the house and his guests.
''Don't disturb yourself,'' Julian said to Sims as the butler rose from his seat. ''I'm off early--I'd just like to share your coffee, if I may. Cook can see to it.''
Sims piled bacon, egg and sausage onto his fork and finished the meal in one mouthful. ''When one is up early, the rest soon follow, I find, Mr. Black,'' he said. ''I better lay up.''
Julian sat down and sipped his coffee while the butler went away. The shout of surprise came a minute later. Julian had been expecting it.
Sims came quickly into the kitchen. ''I think we've been burgled, sir,'' he said.
Julian faked surprise. ''What?'' he exclaimed. He stood up.
''A hole has been cut in the dining room window, and the window is open. I noticed this morning that the front door was open, but I thought Cook had done it. The gallery door was ajar, too--but Mr. Lampeth's painting is still there.''
''Let's have a look at this window,'' said Julian. Sims followed him across the hall and into the dining room.
Julian looked at the hole for a moment. ''I suppose they came for the pictures, and were disappointed. They must have decided the Modigliani was worthless. It's an unusual one--they might not recognize it. First thing is to phone the police, Sims. Then rouse Lord Cardwell. Then begin checking the house to see whether anything at all is missing.''
''Very good, sir.''
Julian looked at his watch. ''I feel I ought to stay, but I've an important appointment. I think I'll go, as it seems nothing has been taken. Tell Mrs. Black I will telephone later.''
Sims nodded and Julian went out.
He drove very fast across London in the early morning. It was windy, but the roads were dry. He was guessing that Sammy and her accomplices--who presumably included the boyfriend he had met--would keep the painting at least until today.
He stopped outside the Islington house and jumped out of the car, leaving the ignition keys in. There were too many assumptions and guesses in this plan. He was impatient.
He banged hard on the knocker and waited. When there was no reply for a couple of minutes, he banged hard again.
Eventually Samantha came to the door. There was ill-concealed fear in her eyes.
''Thank God,'' Julian said, and pushed past her into the house.
Tom s
tood in the hall, a towel around his waist. ''What the hell do you think you're doing, barging--"
''Shut up," Julian said crisply. "Let's talk downstairs, shall we?''
Tom and Samantha looked at one another. Samantha gave a slight nod, and Tom opened the door to the basement stairs. Julian went down.
He sat on the couch and said: ''I want my paint . ing back.''
Samantha said: ''I haven't the faintest idea--"
''Forget it, Sammy,'' Julian interrupted. ''I know. You broke into Lord Cardwell's house last night to steal his pictures. They were gone, so you stole the one that was there. Unfortunately, it wasn't his. It was mine. If you give it back to me I won't go to the police.''
Silently, Samantha got up and went to a cupboard. She opened the door and took out the painting. She handed it to Julian.
He looked at her face. It was almost haggard: cheeks drawn, eyes wide with something which was neither anxiety nor surprise, hair uncared-for. He took the picture from her.
A sense of relief overwhelmed him. He felt quite weak.
Tom would not speak to Samantha. He had been sitting in the chair for three or four hours, smoking, gazing at nothing. She had taken him the cup of coffee Anita made, but it lay cold, untouched, on the low table.
She tried again. ''Tom, what does it matter? We shan't be caught--he promised not to go to the police. We've lost nothing. It was just a lark, anyway.''
There was no reply.
Samantha laid her head back and closed her eyes. She felt drained, exhausted with a nervous kind of tiredness which would not let her relax. She wanted some pills, but they were all gone. Tom could go out and get her more, if only he would come out of his trance.
There was a knock at the front door. At last Tom moved. He looked at the doorway, warily, like a trapped animal. Samantha heard Anita's footsteps along the hall. There was a muted conversation.
Suddenly several pairs of feet were coming down the stairs. Tom stood up.
The three men did not look at Samantha.
Two of them were heavily built, and carried themselves gracefully like athletes. The third was short. He wore a coat with a velvet collar.
It was the short one who spoke. ''You've let the governor down, Tom. He's less than pleased. He wants words with you.''
Tom moved fast, but the two big men were faster. As he went for the door, one of them stuck out a foot and the other pushed Tom over it.
They picked him up, each holding an arm. There was a curious, almost sexual smile on the short man's face. He punched Tom's stomach with both fists, many times. He carried on long after Tom had slumped, eyes closed, in the grip of the other two.
Samantha opened her mouth wide, but she could not scream.
The little man slapped Tom's face until his eyes opened. The four of them left the room.
Samantha heard the front door slam. Her phone rang. She picked it up automatically, and listened.
"Oh, Joe,'' she said. "Joe, thank God you're there.'' Then she began to cry.
For the second time in two days, Julian knocked on the door of Dunroamin. Moore looked surprised when he opened up.
''This time I've got the original," Julian said.
Moore smiled. ''I hope you have,'' he said. ''Come in, lad.''
This time he led the way to the laboratory without preamble. ''Give it here, then.''
Julian handed the picture over. ''I had a stroke of luck."
''I'll bet you did. I think you'd better not tell me the details.'' Moore took out his teeth and dismantled the frame of the painting. ''It looks exactly like yesterday's.''
''Yesterday's was a copy.''
''And now you want the Gaston Moore seal of approval.'' Moore picked up his knife and scraped a minuscule quantity of paint off the edge of the canvas. He poured the liquid into the test tube and dipped the knife in.
They both waited in silence.
''Looks as though it's all right," said Julian after a couple of minutes.
''Don't rush.''
They watched again.
''No!'' Julian shouted.
The paint was dissolving in the fluid, just like yesterday.
''Another disappointment. I'm sorry, lad.''
Julian banged his fist on the bench in fury. ''How?'' he hissed. "I can't see how!''
Moore put his teeth in again. ''Look here, lad. A forgery is a forgery. But no one copies it. Someone's gone to the trouble of making two of these. There's almost certain to be an original somewhere, I reckon. Maybe you could find it. Could you look for it?'
Julian stood up straight. The emotion had washed out of his face now, and he looked defeated, yet dignified--as if the battle no longer mattered, because he had worked out how it had been lost.
''I know exactly where it is,'' he said. ''And there's absolutely nothing I can do about it.''
V
DEE WAS LYING IN a sack chair, naked, when Mike walked into the Regent's Park flat and shrugged off his coat.
''I think it's sexy,'' she said.
''It's just a coat,'' he replied.
''Mike Arnaz, you are insufferably narcissistic,'' she laughed. ''I meant the picture.''
He dropped his coat on the carpet and came to sit on the floor beside her. They both gazed at the painting on the wall.
The women were unmistakably Modigliani's women: they had long, narrow faces, the characteristic noses, the inscrutable expressions. But that was where the similarity to the rest of his work ended.
They were thrown together in a jumble of limbs and torsos, distorted and tangled, and mixed up with bits of background: towels, flowers, tables. So far, it prefigured the work Picasso was doing--but keeping secret--in the last years of Modigliani's life. What was different again was the coloring. It was psychedelic: startling pinks, oranges, purples, and greens, painted hard and dear, quite out of period. The color bore no relation to the objects colored: a leg could be green, an apple blue, a woman's hair turquoise.
''It doesn't turn me on,'' Mike said finally. ''Not that-away, anyhow.'' He turned away from the picture and laid his head on Dee's thigh. ''This, however, does.''
She touched his curly hair with her hand. ''Mike, do you think much about it?''
''Nope.''
''I do. I think what a terrible, loathsome, brilliant pair of crooks you and I are. Look what we've got: this beautiful painting, for practically nothing; material for my thesis; and fifty thousand pounds each.'' She giggled.
Mike closed his eyes. ''Sure, honey.''
Dee shut her eyes, and they both remembered a peasant bar in an Italian village.
Dee entered the bar first, and saw with a shock that the short, dark-haired, dapper man they had sent on a wild-goose chase that morning was already there.
Mike thought faster. He hissed in her ear: ''If I leave, keep him talking.''
Dee recovered her composure quickly and walked up to the dapper man's table. ''I'm surprised you're still here,'' she said pleasantly.
The man stood up. ''So am I,'' he said. ''Will you join me?''
The three of them sat around the table. ''What will it be?'' the man asked.
''My turn, I think,'' Mike said. He turned to the back of the bar. ''Two whiskies, one beer,'' he called.
''My name is Lipsey, by the way.''
''I am Michael Arnaz and this is Dee Sleign.''
''How do you do?'' There was a flicker of surprise in Lipsey's eyes at the name Arnaz.
Another man had come into the bar. He looked over at their table.
He hesitated, then said: ''I saw the English number plates. May I join you?
''I'm Julian Black,'' the third man said, and they all introduced themselves.
''It's strange to find so many English people in a little out-of the-way place like this,'' Black said.
Lipsey smiled. ''These two are looking for a lost masterpiece,'' he said indulgently.
Black said: ''Then you must be Dee Sleign. I'm looking for the same picture.''
Mike cut
in quickly. ''And Mr. Lipsey is also looking for the picture, although he's the only one who hasn't been candid about it.'' Lipsey opened his mouth to speak, but Mike forestalled him. ''However, you're both too late. I have the picture already. It's in the trunk of my car. Would you like to see it?''
Without waiting for a reply he got up and left the bar. Dee covered up her astonishment and remembered her instructions.
Lipsey said: ''Well, well, well.''
''Tell me,'' Dee said. ''It was only chance that led me to this picture. How did you two get on to it?''
''I'm going to be honest with you,'' Black said. ''You wrote a postcard to a mutual friend of ours--Sammy Winacre--and I saw it. I'm setting up my own gallery right now, and I couldn't resist the temptation to have a go.''
Dee turned to Lipsey. ''So you were sent by my uncle.''
''No,'' he said. ''You're quite wrong. I happened to meet an old man in Paris who told me about it. I think he also told you about it.''
There was a shout from the house, and the barman went back to see what it was his wife wanted.
Dee wondered what on earth Mike was up to. She tried to keep the conversation going. ''But the old man sent me to Livorno,'' she said.
''Me too,'' Lipsey acknowledged. ''But by that time all I had to do was follow your trail and hope I might overtake you. I see I failed."
''Indeed.''
The door opened, and Mike came back in. Dee was flabbergasted to see that he had a canvas under his arm.
He propped it on the table. ''There it is, gentlemen,'' he said. ''The painting you came all this way to see.''
They all stared at it.
Eventually Lipsey said: ''What are you planning to do with it, Mr. Arnaz?"
''I'm going to sell it to one of you two,'' Mike replied. ''Since you so nearly beat me to the punch, I will offer you a special deal.''
''Go on,'' Black said.
''The point is, this has to be smuggled out of the country. The Italian laws do not permit export of works of art without permission, and if we asked for permission they would try to take it from us. I propose to take the painting to London. This means I have to break the laws of two countries--since I shall have to smuggle it into Britain. In order to cover myself, I will require whichever of you bids highest to sign a piece of paper saying that the money was paid to me to cancel a gambling debt.''