The Modigliani Scandal

III

ʺTHIS IS BLOODY AWFUL, Willow,ʺ said Charles Lampeth. He felt the language was justified. He had come in to his office on Monday morning, 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.ʺ

″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.ʺ

ʺItʹs all in there,ʺ 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.

ʺTell 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?ʺ.

″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.″

ʺThank God we didn′t sell it,″ Lampeth said fervently. ″You′ve taken it down, now, of course.ʺ

″First thing this morning.ʺ

″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?″

ʺI 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.″

ʺWhat 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.″

ʺWhat about dealing pictures?ʺ

″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.″

ʺTrue.ʺ

″You said you had something up your sleeve.″

″Ah, yes.ʺ 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,ʺ 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.

ʺThe best.″ Lipsey suppressed a grin. ″He went to Paris, Livorno, Rimini ...″

″And he beat my niece to it.″

″Not exactly. What happened—ʺ

″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 £50,000 for the painting, it came to £1,904. He took out his personal checkbook and wrote the amount in.

″You′ll get an armored truck to deliver it?″

″Of course,″ Lipsey said. ʺThatʹs 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.″

ʺItʹs always dangerous to pay a blackmailer.ʺ 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.ʺ

The mild, quiet voice of John Dixon cut in. ʺI 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 can′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: ʺI 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.ʺ 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.″

″A good idea,″ Willow approved. ″Perhaps our Mr. Jankers could coordinate the solicitors′ activities? ʺ Jankers bowed his head in acknowledgment.

″Are we all agreed, then, gentlemen?″ Willow looked around the table for dissenters. There were none. ″All that remains, then, is a statement to the press. Will you be happy to leave that with me?″ He paused for dissent again. ″Very well. In that case I will release a statement immediately. If you will excuse me, I will leave you in Mr. Lampeth′s hands. I believe he has organized some tea.″

Willow got up and left the room. He went to his own office and sat down by the telephone. He picked up the receiver—then paused, and smiled to himself.

″I think you′ve redeemed yourself, Willow,ʺ he said quietly.

Willow walked into Lampeth′s office with an evening newspaper in his hand. ″It seems it′s all over, Lampeth,″ he said. ″Jankers has told the press that all the agreements are signed.″

Lampeth looked at his watch. ʺTime for a gin,″ he said. ″Have one?″

″Please.″

Lampeth opened the cabinet and poured gin into two glasses. ″As for its being all over, I′m not sure. We haven′t got our money yet.″ He opened a bottle of tonic and poured half into each glass.

″Oh, weʹll get the money. The forgers would hardly have bothered to set this up just to cause trouble. Besides, the sooner they give us the cash, the sooner the police lay off.ʺ

″It′s not just the money.″ Lampeth sat down heavily and swallowed half his drink. ″It will be years before the art world recovers from a blow like this. The public now thinks we′re all frauds who don′t know the difference between a masterpiece and a seaside postcard.″

″I must say, er ... ʺ Willow hesitated.

″Well?″

″I can′t help feeling they have proved a point. Quite what it is I don′t know. But something very profound.″

″On the contrary—itʹs simple. They′ve proved that the high prices paid for great works of art reflect snobbery rather than artistic appreciation. We all knew that already. They′ve proved that a real Pissarro is worth no more than an expert copy. Well, it′s the public who inflate the price, not the dealers.″

Willow smiled and gazed out of the window. ″I know. Still, we make our percentage on the inflation.″

″What do they expect? We couldn′t make a living out of fifty-pound canvases.″

″Woolworth′s do.″

″And look at the quality of their stuff. No, Willow. The forger may have his heart in the right place, but he won′t change anything. We lose prestige for a while—a long while, I expect—but before too long everything will be back to normal, simply because that is the way it has to be.″

″I′ve no doubt you′re right,″ said Willow. He finished his drink. ″Well, they′re closing up downstairs. Are you ready to go?″

″Yes.″ Lampeth stood up, and Willow helped him on with his coat. ″By the way, what did the police say in the paper?″

ʺThey said that since the complaints had been withdrawn, they had no option but to suspend inquiries. But they gave the impression they would still like to get hold of Renalle.″

Lampeth walked out of the door and Willow followed him. Lampeth said: ″I don′t think weʹll ever hear from Renalle again.″

The two men were silent as they walked down the stairs and through the empty gallery. Lampeth looked out of the windows and said: ″My car′s not here yet. Look at the rain.″

ʺIʹll press on.″

″No, wait. I′ll give you a lift. We must talk about the Modigliani exhibition. We haven′t had time these last few days.″

Willow pointed across the gallery. ″Somebody′s left their shopping,ʺ he said.

Lampeth looked. In a comer, underneath a rather poor charcoal drawing, were two large Sainsbury′s tote bags. A carton of soap powder stuck out of the top of one. Willow walked over and looked more closely.

He said: ″I suppose we ought to be careful in these days of bag bombs. Do you think the IRA consider us a target?″

Lampeth laughed. ″I don′t think they use Fairy Snow in their bombs.″ He crossed over the room, and hefted one of the bags.

The wet paper broke, and the contents of the bag spilled over the floor. Willow gave a grunt of exclamation and bent down.

Beneath the soap powder and lettuce was a bundle wrapped in newspaper. Inside the newspaper was a pile of stiff cards and sheets of heavyweight paper. Willow sorted through and examined a few.

″They′re stocks and bonds,″ he said finally. ″Open-faced securities—certificates of ownership, negotiable on signature. I′ve never seen so much money in all my life.″

Lampeth smiled. ″The forger paid up,″ he said. ″The deal is done. I suppose we ought to tell the newspapers.″ He stared at the securities for a moment. ʺHalf a million pounds,″ he said quietly. ″Do you realize, Willow—if you snatched those bags and ran away now, you could live well for the rest of your life in South America?″

Willow was about to reply when the gallery door opened.

″I′m afraid we′re closed,″ Lampeth called out.

A man came in. ″It′s all right, Mr. Lampeth,″ he said. ″My name′s Louis Broom—we met the other day. I′ve had a call to say that the half-a-million has been paid back. Is that true?″

Lampeth looked at Willow, and they both smiled. Lampeth said: ″Goodbye, South America.″

Willow shook his head in awe. ″I have to hand it to our friend Renalle. He thought of everything.″