The Modigliani Scandal

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, itʹs 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.″

ʺUs?ʺ Samantha was curious.

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

ʺFunny—a friend of mine was talking about a lost Modigliani,ʺ 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 thatʹs 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? ʺ

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. ʺThere 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.