The Modigliani Scandal

IV

PETER USHER PUT DOWN his safety razor, dipped his washcloth in hot water and washed the remains of the shaving cream off his face. He studied himself in the mirror.

He picked up a comb and drew his long hair back off his face, so that it lay flat above his ears and on top of his head. He combed it carefully down the back of his neck and tucked the long ends under his shirt collar.

Without the beard and mustache his face took on a different appearance. His hooked nose and pointed, receding chin gave him the look of a spiv, especially with his hair slicked back.

He put the comb down and picked up his jacket. It would do. It was only a precaution, anyway.

He walked from the bathroom into the kitchen of the little house. The ten canvases were there, bound in newspapers and tied with string, stacked up against the wall. He stepped around them and went out through the kitchen door.

Mitch′s van was parked in the lane at the bottom of the garden. Peter opened the rear doors and wedged them with a pair of planks. Then he began loading the paintings.

The morning was still cool, although the sun was bright and the day promised to be warm. Some of the precautions they were taking were a bit extreme, Peter thought as he lugged a heavy frame down the cracked garden path. Still, it was a good plan: dozens of possible snags had been foreseen and taken care of. Each of them was changing his or her appearance slightly. Of course, if it ever came to an identification lineup the disguises would not be enough—but there was no way it could come to that.

With the last canvas loaded, he closed the van doors, locked up the house and drove off. He threaded his way patiently through the traffic, resigned to the tedious journey up to the West End.

He found his way to a large college campus in Bloomsbury. He and Mitch had chosen the exact spot a couple of days earlier. The college occupied a block 200 yards wide and almost half a mile long, much of it converted Victorian houses. It had many entrances.

Peter parked on a double yellow line in a little drive which led to one of the college gates. A curious warden would assume he was delivering to the college building beside the gate—but he was on a public road, so college officials would not be able to ask him his business. Anyone else would see a young man, presumably a student, unloading junk from an old van

He opened the rear doors and took the paintings out one by one, leaning them against the railings. When the job was done he closed the van.

There was a telephone box right beside the gates—one of the reasons they had chosen this spot. Peter went in and dialed the number of a taxi firm. He gave his exact location, and was promised a cab within five minutes.

It came sooner. The cabbie helped Peter load the canvases into the taxi. They took up most of the backseat. Peter told the driver: ″Hilton Hotel, for a Mr. Eric Clapton.″ The false name was a joke which had appealed to Mitch. Peter gave the cabbie 50 pence for helping load the paintings, then waved him goodbye.

He got into the van when the taxi was out of sight, turned it around, and headed for home. Now there was no way the fakes could be connected with the little house in Clapham.

Anne felt on top of the world as she looked around the suite at the Hilton. Her hair had been styled by Sassoon, and her dress, coat, and shoes came from a madly expensive boutique in Sloane Street. A trace of French perfume was detectable in the air around her.

She lifted her arms and spun around in a circle, like a child showing off a party dress. ″If I go to jail for life, this will have been worth it,″ she said.

ʺMake the most of it—those clothes have to be burned tomorrow,″ said Mitch. He sat in a plush chair opposite her. His clenched, busy hands betrayed the strain he felt and gave the lie to his easy smile. He was dressed in flared jeans, a sweater, and a knitted bobble cap, like a faggot playing at being a workman, he had said. His hair was piled under the cap to conceal its length, and he wore plastic-rimmed National Health glasses with plain lenses.

There was a tentative tap at the door. A room service waiter came in with coffee and cream cakes on a tray.

″Your coffee, madam,″ he said, and put the tray down on a low table. ʺThere is a taxi outside with a number of parcels for you, Mr. Clapton,ʺ he added, looking at Mitch.

″Oh, Eric, that will be the paintings. Go and see to it, would you?″ Anne spoke in a perfect imitation of French-accented upper-class English, and Mitch had to conceal his surprise at the sound.

He went down to the ground floor in the elevator, and out through the foyer to the waiting taxi. ″Keep the meter running, chief—madam can afford it,ʺ he said.

He turned back to the doorman and pressed two pound notes into his hand. ″See if you can get me a luggage trolley, or something, and a helping hand,″ he said.

The flunky stepped inside the hotel, and emerged a couple of minutes later with a uniformed bellhop pushing a trolley. Mitch wondered whether any of the tip found its way into the bellhop′s pocket.

The two of them put five of the paintings on the trolley, and the bellhop disappeared with it. Mitch unloaded the remainder and paid off the cabbie. The empty trolley returned, and Mitch took the rest of the paintings up to the suite. He gave the bellhop a pound—might as well spread the largesse, he thought.

He closed the door and sat down to coffee. He realized that the first stage of the plan had been completed successfully; and with the realization came tension, seeping into his muscles and stringing his nerves tautly. Now there was no turning back. He lit a short cigarette from the packet in his shirt pocket, thinking it would help him relax. It did not—it never did, but he never ceased thinking it would. He tasted his coffee. It was too hot, and he could not summon the patience to wait for it to cool.

He asked Anne: ʺWhatʹs that?″

She looked up from the clipboard she was scribbling on. ″Our list. Name of the picture, artist, gallery or dealer it′s for, their phone number, name of the man in charge and his deputy.″ She scribbled something, then flicked pages in the telephone directory on her lap.

″Efficient.″ Mitch swallowed his coffee hot, burning his throat. With his cigarette between his lips he began to unpack the paintings.

He piled the discarded newspapers and string in a corner. They had two leather portfolios, one large and one small, for taking the works to the galleries. He had not wanted to buy ten, for fear of the purchase being conspicuous.

When he had finished, he and Anne sat at the large table in the center of the room. There were two telephones on it, by request. Anne placed her list by his side, and they began phoning.

Anne dialed a number and waited. A girl′s voice said: ″Claypole and Company, good morning,ʺ all in one breath.

″Good morning,″ said Anne. ″Mr. Claypole, please.″ Her French accent had gone.

″One moment.″ There was a hum, and a click, then a second girl.

″Mr. Claypole′s office.ʺ

″Good morning. Mr. Claypole, please,″ Anne repeated.

″I′m afraid he′s in conference. Who′s calling?″

″I have Monsieur Renalle of Agence Arts Nancy. Perhaps Mr. de Lincourt is available?″

″If you will hold, I′ll see.″

There was a pause, and then a male voice came on the line. ″De Lincourt speaking.″

″Good morning, Mr. de Lincourt. I have Monsieur Renalle of Agence Arts Nancy for you.″ Anne nodded to Mitch. As she replaced the receiver of her telephone, he lifted his.

ʺMr. de Lincourt?″ he said.

″Good morning, Monsieur Renalle.″

″Good morning to you. I am sorry I could not write to you in advance, Mr. de Lincourt, but my company is representing the estate of a collector and there is a little urgency.″ Mitch pronounced ″t″ with his tongue on the roof of his mouth, made ″c″ at the back of his throat, and softened the ″g″ in ʺurgency.ʺ

″What can I do to help you?″ the dealer asked politely.

″I have a picture which ought to interest you. It′s a rather early van Gogh, entitled The Gravedigger, seventy-five centimeters by ninety-six. It′s rather fine.ʺ

″Splendid. When can we have a look at it?″

″I am in London now, at the Hilton. Perhaps my assistant could pay you a visit this afternoon or tomorrow morning?″

ʺThis afternoon. Shall we say two-thirty?ʺ

ʺBien—very good. I have your address.″

″Have you a figure in mind, Monsieur Renalle?″

″We price the work at about ninety thousand pounds.″

″Well, we can discuss that later.″

″Certainly. My assistant is empowered to come to an agreement.″

″I look forward to two-thirty, then.″

″Goodbye, Mr. de Lincourt.ʺ

Mitch replaced the receiver and sighed heavily.

Anne said: ″God, you′re sweating.″

He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. ″I didn′t think I′d get to the end of it. That bloody accent—I wish I′d practiced more.″

″You were marvelous. I wonder what the slimy Mr. de Lincourt is thinking right now?″

Mitch lit a cigarette. ″I know. He′s delighted to be dealing with a provincial French agent who doesn′t know the price of a van Gogh.″

ʺThe line about representing the estate of a dead collector is great. That makes it plausible that a minor dealer in Nancy should be arranging the sale.″

″And hell be in a hurry to close the deal in case one of his rivals hears about the sucker and gets in first.ʺ Mitch smiled grimly. ″Okay, let′s do the next on the list.ʺ

Anne picked up the phone and began to dial.

The taxi stopped outside the plate-glass windows of Crowforth′s in Piccadilly. Anne paid the driver while Mitch lugged the canvas, in its heavy leather case, into the art dealerʹs splendid premises.

A broad, open staircase of Scandinavian pine ran up from the ground-floor showroom to the offices above. Anne led the way up, and knocked on a door.

Ramsey Crowforth turned out to be a wiry, white-haired Glaswegian of about sixty. He peered at Anne and Mitch over his spectacles as he shook hands and offered Anne a seat. Mitch stayed standing, the portfolio clutched in his arms.

His room was paneled in the same pine as the staircase, and his carpet was an orange-brown mixture. He stood in front of his desk, his weight on one foot, with one arm dangling at his side and the other on his hip, pushing his jacket back to reveal Lurex suspenders. He was an authority on the German Expressionists, but he had awful taste, Anne thought.

″So you′re Mademoiselle Renalle,ʺ he said in his high-pitched Scots accent. ″And the Monsieur Renalle I spoke to this morning was ...″

″My father,″ Anne supplied, avoiding Mitch′s eyes.

″Right. Let′s see what you′ve got.″

Anne gestured to Mitch. He took the painting out of the case and stood it on a chair. Crowforth folded his arms and gazed at it.

″An early work,″ he said softly, speaking as much to himself as the others. ″Before Munch′s psychoses really took hold. Fairly typical ...ʺ He turned away from the picture. ″Would you like a glass of sherry?″ Anne nodded. ″And your er ... assistant?″ Mitch declined, with a shake of his head.

As he poured, he asked: ″I gather you′re acting for the estate of a collector, is that right?″

″Yes.″ Anne realized that he was making small talk, to let the impact of the painting sink in before he made a decision. ″His name was Roger Dubois—a businessman. His company made agricultural machinery. His collection was small, but very well-chosen.″

″Obviously.″ Crowforth handed her a glass and leaned back against his desk, studying the picture again. ʺThis isn′t quite my period, you know. I specialize in Expressionists in general, rather than Munch in particular: and his early work isn′t Expressionist, obviously.″ He gestured toward the canvas with his glass. ″I like this, but I would want another opinion on it.″

Anne felt a spasm of tension between her shoulders, and tried to control the blush which began at her throat. ʺI would be happy to leave it with you overnight, if you wish,″ she said. ″However, there is a provenance.″ She opened her briefcase and took out a folder containing the document she had forged back in the studio. It had Meunierʹs letterhead and stamp. She handed it to Crowforth.

″Oh!″ he exclaimed. He studied the certificate. ʺThis puts a different complexion on matters, of course. I can make you an immediate offer.″ He studied the picture again for a long moment. ″What was the figure you mentioned this morning?″

Anne controlled her elation. ″Thirty thousand.″

Crowforth smiled, and she wondered whether he, too, was controlling his elation. ʺI think we can meet that sum.″

To Anne′s astonishment, he took a checkbook from his desk drawer and began to write. Just like that! she thought. Aloud she said: ″Would you make it out to Hollows and Cox, our London representatives.″ Crowforth looked mildly surprised, so she added: ʺThey are simply an accounting firm, who arrange the transfer of funds to France.″ That satisfied him. He tore out the check and handed it to her.

″Are you in London long?″ he inquired politely.

ʺJust a few days.″ Anne was itching to get away now, but she did not want to arouse suspicion. She had to persist with the small talk for the sake of appearances.

ʺThen I hope to see you next time you come.″ Crowforth held out his hand.

They left the office and walked down the stairs, Mitch carrying the empty case. Anne whispered excitedly: ″He didn′t recognize me!″

″Not surprising. He′s only ever seen you from a distance. Besides, then you were the dowdy, mouselike wife of a flamboyant painter. Now you′re a vivacious French blonde.″

They caught a taxi just outside, and directed the driver to the Hilton. Anne sat back in the seat and looked at the check from Crowforth.

″Oh my God, we did it,″ she said quietly. Then she began to sob.

″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 newspaper.