The Modigliani Scandal (1976)

by Ken Follett

  ″Let′s clear out of here as quickly as we can,″ said Mitch briskly.

  It was one o′clock on the day after they had moved into the Hilton. The last forged masterpiece had just been delivered to a gallery in Chelsea, and there were ten checks in Anne′s genuine lizard-skin handbag.

  They packed their small suitcases and cleared the room of the pens, papers, and personal possessions they had left around. Mitch took a towel from the bathroom and wiped the telephones and the shiny surfaces of the furniture.

  ″The rest doesn′t matter,ʺ he said. ″The odd single print on a wall or a window will be no use at all to the police.″ He threw the towel into the sink. ″Besides, there will be so many other prints everywhere by the time they cotton on, it will be a life′s work sorting them all out.″

  Five minutes later they checked out. Mitch paid the bill with a check on the bank where he had opened the account in the names of Hollows and Cox.

  They took a taxi to Harrods. Inside the store they separated. Anne found the ladies′ and entered a cubicle. She put her case down on the toilet, opened it, and took out a raincoat and sou′wester-style hat. When she had them on she closed the case and left the cubicle.

  She looked at herself in the mirror. The coat covered her expensive clothes, and the inelegant hat hid her dyed-blonde hair. A wave of relief swept over her as she realized it no longer mattered whether anyone recognized her.

  That possibility had kept her on edge right throughout the operation. She did not know any of the people in that stratum of the art world: Peter knew them, of course, but she had always kept out of his relationships with them. She had gone to the odd gallery party, where nobody had bothered to speak to her. Still, her face—her normal face—might have been vaguely familiar to someone.

  She sighed, and began to clean off her makeup with a tissue. For a day and a half she had been a glamorous woman of the world. Heads had turned as she crossed the street. Middle-aged men had become slightly undignified in her presence, flattering her and opening doors for her. Women had gazed enviously at her clothes.

  Now she was back to being—what had Mitch called it? The ″dowdy, mouselike wife of a flamboyant painter.″

  She would never be quite the same, she felt. In the past she had never been much interested in clothes, makeup and perfume. She had thought of herself as plain, and she had been content to be a wife and a mother. Now she had tried the high life. She had been a successful, beautiful villainess—and something hidden, from the depths of her personality, had responded to the role. The ghost had escaped from its prison in her heart, and now it would never go back.

  She wondered how Peter would react to it.

  She dropped the lipstick-stained tissue in a waste-paper basket and left the powder room. She left the store by a side entrance. The van was waiting at the curb, with Peter at the wheel. Mitch was already in the back.

  Anne climbed into the passenger seat and kissed Peter.

  ″Hello, darling,″ he said. He started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

  His face was already shadowed with bristles: in a week he would have a respectable beard, she knew. His hair fell around his face and down to his shoulders again—the way she liked it.

  She closed her eyes and slumped in her seat as they crawled home. The release of tension was a physical pleasure.

  Peter pulled up outside a large, detached house in Balham. He went to the door and knocked. A woman with a baby opened it. Peter took the baby and walked back down the path, past the sign which said ″Greenhill Day Nursery,ʺ and jumped into the van. He plunked Vibeke on Anne′s lap.

  She hugged the baby tight. ″Darling, did you miss Mummy last night?″

  ʺAllo,ʺ said Vibeke.

  Peter said: ″We had a good time, didn′t we, Vibeke? Porridge for tea and cake for breakfast.″

  Anne felt the pressure of tears, and fought them back.

  When they arrived home, Peter took a bottle of champagne from the fridge and announced a celebration. They sat around in the studio drinking the sparkling wine, giggling as they recalled the worrying moments of the escapade.

  Mitch began to fill out a bank deposit slip for the checks. When he had added up the total he said: ″Five hundred and forty-one thousand pounds, my friends.″

  The words seemed to drain Anne′s elation. Now she felt tired. She stood up. ″I′m going to dye my hair mouse-colored again,″ she said. ″See you later.″

  Mitch also stood up. ″I′ll go to the bank before they close. The sooner we get these checks in, the better.ʺ

  ″What about the portfolios?″ Peter asked. ″Should we get rid of those?″

  ″Throw them in the canal tonight,″ Mitch replied. He went downstairs, took off his polo-necked sweater, and put on a shirt, tie, and jacket.

  Peter came down. ″Are you taking the van?″

  ″No. Just in case there are small boys taking car numbers, I′ll go on the Tube.″ He opened the front door. ″See you.″

  It took him just forty minutes to get to the bank in the City. The total on the deposit slip did not even raise the cashier′s eyebrows. He checked the figures, stamped the check stub, and handed the book back to Mitch.

  ″I′d like a word with the manager, if I may,″ Mitch said.

  The cashier went away for a couple of minutes. When he came back he unlocked the door and beckoned Mitch. It′s that easy to get behind the bullet-proof screen, Mitch thought. He grinned as he realized he was beginning to think like a criminal. He had once spent three hours arguing with a group of Marxists that crooks were the most militant section of the working class.

  The bank manager was short, round-faced and genial. He had a slip of paper in front of him with a name and a row of figures on it. ″I′m glad you′re making use of our facilities, Mr. Hollows,″ he said to Mitch. ″I see you′ve deposited over half a million.″

  ″A business operation that went right,″ said Mitch. ʺLarge sums are involved in the art world these days.″

  ″You and Mr. Cox are university teachers, if I remember aright.″

  ʺYes. We decided to use our expertise in the market, and as you can see, it went rather well.″

  ″Splendid. Well now, is there something else we can do for you?″

  ″Yes. As these checks are cleared, I would like you to arrange the purchase of negotiable securities.″

  ʺCertainly. There is a fee of course.″

  ″Of course. Spend five hundred thousand pounds on the securities and leave the rest in the account to cover the fee and any small checks my partner and I have drawn.″

  The manager scribbled on the sheet of paper.

  ″One other thing,″ Mitch continued. ″I would like to open a safe deposit box.″

  ″Surely. Would you like to see our vault?″

  Christ, they make it easy for robbers, Mitch thought. ʺNo, that won′t be necessary. But if I could take the key with me now.″

  The manager picked up the phone on his desk and spoke into it. Mitch stared out of the window.

  ″It′s on its way,″ said the manager.

  ″Good. When you have completed the purchase of securities, put them in the safe deposit.″

  A young man came in and handed the manager a key. The manager gave it to Mitch. Mitch stood up and shook hands.

  ʺThank you for your help.″

  ″My pleasure, Mr. Hollows.″

  A week later Mitch telephoned the bank and confirmed that the securities had been bought and deposited in the safe. He took an empty suitcase and went to the bank on the Tube.

  He went down to the vault, opened his box, and put all the securities in the suitcase. Then he left.

  He walked around the corner to another bank, where he arranged to have another safe deposit box. He paid for the privilege with a check of his own, and put the new box in his own name. Then he put the suitcase full of securities in the new box.

  On the way home he stopped at a phone booth and telephoned a Sunday new
spaper.

  V

  SAMANTHA STEPPED INTO THE Black Gallery and looked around in wonder. The place was transformed. Last time she had been here, it had been full of workmen, rubble, paint cans and plastic sheeting. Now it looked more like an elegant apartment: richly carpeted, tastefully decorated, with interesting futuristic furniture and a jungle of bright aluminum spotlights growing out of the low ceiling.

  Julian sat at a chrome-and-glass desk just beside the door. When he saw her he got up and shook hands, giving a perfunctory nod to Tom.

  He said to Sammy: ″I′m thrilled you′re going to do the opening for me. Shall I show you around?″

  ″If you can spare the time from your work,″ Samantha said politely.

  He made a pushing-aside gesture with his hand. ″Just looking at the bills, and trying to make them go away by telepathy. Come on.″

  Julian had changed, Samantha thought. She studied him as he showed them the paintings and talked about the artists. His earlobe-length fair hair had been layered and styled, losing the public-schoolboy look to a more natural, fashionable cut. He spoke now with confidence and authority, and his walk was more sure and aggressive. Samantha wondered whether it was the wife problem or the money problem which had been solved: perhaps it was both.

  She liked his taste in art, she decided. There was nothing breathtakingly original on display—unless you counted the wriggling mass of fiberglass sculpture in the alcove—but the works were modem and somehow well-done. The kind of thing I might have on my wall, she thought and found that the expression suited how she felt.

  He took them around quickly, as if afraid they might get bored. Samantha was grateful: it was all very nice, but these days all she wanted to do was get high or sleep. Tom had started to refuse her the pills occasionally, like in the mornings. Without them her moods changed fast.

  They came full circle to the door. Samantha said: ″I have a favor to ask you, Julian.″

  ″Your servant, ma′am.″

  ʺWill you get us invited to your father-in-lawʹs house for dinner?″

  He raised his eyebrows. ″Why would you want to meet that old shit?″

  ″He fascinates me. Who would build a million-pound art collection, then sell it? Besides, he sounds like my type.″ She fluttered her eyelashes.

  Julian shrugged. ″If you really want to, it′s easy. I′ll take you—Sarah and I go to dinner a couple of times a week anyway. It saves cooking. Iʹll give you a ring.″

  ʺThank you.ʺ

  ″Now then, you know that date of the opening. I′d be grateful if you could get here at about six-thirty.″

  ʺJulian, I′m glad to help, but I can′t be anything but the last to arrive, you know.″

  He laughed. ″Of course not. I forget you′re a star. The official start is seven-thirty or eight, so perhaps eight o′clock would be best.″

  ʺOkay. But dinner with Lord Cardwell first, right?″

  ʺRight.ʺ

  They shook hands again. As they left Julian returned to his desk and his bills.

  Tom moved sideways through the packed crowd in the street market. It never seemed to be half full: unless it was jammed solid it appeared empty. Street markets were meant to be crowded—the people liked it, and so did the stallholders. Not to mention the pickpockets.

  The familiarity of the market made Tom feel uncomfortable. The crockery stall, the secondhand clothes, the noise, the accents—all represented a world he was glad to have left behind. In the circles he now moved in, he exploited his working-class origins—they were quite fashionable—but he had no fond memories. He looked at the beautiful Asian women in saris, the fat West Indian mothers, the Greek youngsters with their smooth olive skin, the old cockneys in cloth caps, the tired young women with babies, the unemployed lads in the latest stolen bell-bottoms: and he uneasily resisted a sense of belonging.

  He pushed on through the crowd, aiming for the pub at the end of the street. He heard a singsong voice from a man selling jewelry off an upturned orange crate: ″Stolen property, don′t say a word—ʺ He grinned to himself. Some of the goods in the market were stolen, but most of the bargains were just factory rejects, too poor in quality to go to the stores. People assumed that if the goods were stolen, they must be good quality.

  He came out of the market crowd and entered the Cock. It was a traditional pub: dim, smoky, and slightly smelly, with a concrete floor and hard upright benches along the wall. He went up to the bar.

  ″Whisky and soda, please. Is Bill Wright here?″

  ″Old Eyes Wright?″ the barman said. He pointed: ″Over there. He′s drinking Guinness.″

  ″One for him, then.″

  He paid and carried the drinks to a three-legged table on the far side of the room. ″Morning, Sergeant-Major.ʺ

  Wright glared up at him over a pint glass. ″Cheeky young pup. I hope you′ve bought me a drink.″

  ″Of course.″ Tom sat down. With typical cockney complexity, ″Eyes″ Wright′s nickname was a double joke: not only was he a former professional soldier, but he had bulging eyes of a curious orange color.

  Tom sipped his drink and studied the man. The head was shorn to a white bristle, except for a small round patch of oiled brown hair right on top. He was deeply tanned, for he spent six weeks every summer and winter in the Caribbean. The money for these holidays he earned as a safe-breaker—the career he had taken up when he had left the Army. He had a reputation for being a skilled workman. He had only been caught once, and that through incredibly bad luck—a burglar had broken into the house Wright was robbing and set off the alarm.

  Tom said: ″A lovely day for villainry, Mr. Wright.″

  Wright emptied his glass and picked up the one Tom had bought ʺYou know what the Bible do say: ʹThe Lord sendeth his sunshine and his rain on the wicked as well as the just.′ Always been a great consolation to me, that verse.″ He drank again. ″You can′t be all bad, son, if you buy a drink for a poor old man.″

  Tom raised his glass to his lips. ″Good luck.″ He reached over and touched Wright′s lapel. ″Like the suit. Savile Row?″

  ″Yes, lad. You know what the Bible do say: ′Avoid the appearance of evil.′ Good advice. Now what copper could bring himself to arrest an old sergeant-major with short hair and a quality suit?″

  ″Let alone one that could quote the Bible at him.″

  ʺHmmm.ʺ Wright took several large gulps of stout ʺWell, young Thomas, itʹs about time you stopped beating about the bush. What is it you want?″

  Tom lowered his voice. ″I′ve got a job for you.″

  Wright narrowed his eyes. ″What is it?″

  ″Pictures.″

  ʺPorn? You can′t get—ʺ

  ″No,″ Tom interrupted. ″Works of art, you know. Rare stuff.″

  Wright shook his head. ʺNot my field. I wouldn′t know where to get rid.″

  Tom made an impatient gesture. ″I′m not doing it on my own. I′ll need finance anyway.″

  ″Who′s in with you?″

  ″Well, that′s another reason I′ve come to you. What about Mandingo?″

  Wright nodded thoughtfully. ″You′re splitting it a lot of ways, now. How much is the job worth?″

  ″A million, all told.″

  Wright′s sandy eyebrows lifted. ″I tell you what—if Mandingo backs it, I′m in.″

  ″Great. Let′s go see him.″

  They left the pub and crossed the road to where a new, mustard-colored Citröen was parked on a double yellow line. As Wright opened the door, a bearded old man in a stained overcoat came up. Wright gave him some money and got in.

  ″He looks after the warden for me,″ Wright explained as he pulled away. ″You know what the Bible do say: ′Do not muzzle the ox that grindeth the corn.′ Wardens are oxen.″

  Tom tried to figure out why the quote was relevant as Wright guided the car south and west. He gave up when they stopped in a narrow street in theater-land, near Trafalgar Square.

  ″He lives her
e?″ Tom said in surprise.

  ″He does well for himself. ʹLo, how the wicked are raised up!′ He should be rich, the percentage he takes.″ Wright got out of the car.

  They went down a narrow street and into a nondescript entrance. An elevator took them to the top floor of the building. There was a spyhole in the door Wright knocked on.

  It was opened by a dark-skinned young man in matador pants, a loud shirt, and beads.

  Wright said: ″Morning, Mandingo.″

  ʺHey, man, c′mon in,″ said Mandingo. He waved them in with a slim hand from which a long cigarette drooped.

  The flat was luxuriously decorated in red and black, and cluttered with expensive furniture. The costly electric toys of a man who has more money than he knows how to spend were scattered around: a spherical transistor radio, one large color TV and another portable one, a digital dock, a mass of hi-fi equipment, and an incongruous antique telephone. A pale blonde girl wearing sunglasses lounged in a deep armchair, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She nodded at Wright and Tom, and negligently flicked ash on the deep-pile carpet.

  ʺHey, man, what gives?″ Mandingo asked as they sat down.

  Wright said: ʺTom here would like you to finance a little blagging.″

  Tom thought how disparate the two men were, and wondered why they worked together.

  Mandingo looked at him. ʺTom Copper, ain′t it? So you fancy yourself as a draftsman. Last I heard you was kiting.″

  ″This is a big job, Mandingo.″ Tom was resentful. He did not like to be reminded of his days as a petty check-forger.

  ″Give, give.″

  ″You read in the papers about Lord Cardwell′s art collection?″

  Mandingo nodded.

  ″I′ve got an in.″

  Mandingo pointed at him. ″I am impressed. Maybe you′ve come a long way, Tom. Where is it kept?″

  ″His house in Wimbledon.″

  ″I don′t know if I can fix the police that far out.″

  ″No need,″ said Tom. ″There are only thirty paintings. I′ll have the whole thing sussed out beforehand. Bill here is working with me. The job will take maybe quarter of an hour.″