The Modigliani Scandal

IV

JULIAN DROVE SLOWLY THROUGH the quiet Dorset village, steering the hired Cortina carefully along the narrow road. All he had by way of an address was Gaston Moore, Dunroamin, Cramford. Dunroamin! It was a mystery how the most discriminating art expert in the country could have called his retirement home such a banal name. Perhaps it was a joke.

Moore was certainly eccentric. He refused to come to London, he had no telephone, and he never answered letters. When the bigwigs of the art world required his services, they had to trek down to this village and knock on his door. And they had to pay his fees in crisp one-pound notes. Moore had no bank account.

There never seemed to be anyone around in villages, Julian reflected. He turned a bend and braked hard. A herd of cattle was crossing the road. He killed the engine and got out. He would ask the cowhand.

He expected to see a young man with a pudding-basin haircut chewing a stalk of grass. The cowhand was young; but he had a trendy haircut, a pink sweater, and purple trousers tucked into his Wellington boots.

The man said: ″You lookinʹ for the painter man?″ The accent was a pleasantly rich burr.

″How did you guess?″ Julian wondered aloud.

″Most furriners want ′un.″ The cowhand pointed. ″Back the way you come, turn down the road by the white house. ʺTis a bungalow.″

ʺThank you.″ Julian got back into the car and reversed down the road until he reached the white house. There was a rutted track beside it. He followed the track until he reached a wide gate. ʺDunroamin″ was written in faded Gothic lettering on the peeling white paintwork.

Julian patted his pocket to make sure the wad of notes was still there; then he took the carefully packed painting from the backseat and maneuvered it out of the car. He opened the gate and walked up the short path to the door.

Moore′s home was a pair of ancient thatched workingmen′s cottages which had been knocked into one. The roof was low, the windows small and leaded, the mortar between the stones crumbling. Julian would not have called it a bungalow.

His knock was answered, after a long wait, by a bent man with a cane. He had a shock of white hair, thick-lensed spectacles, and a birdlike tilt to his head.

″Mr. Moore?″ Julian said.

″What if it is?″ the man replied in a Yorkshire accent.

ʺJulian Black, of the Black Gallery. I wonder if you would authenticate a picture for me.″

ʺDid you bring cash?″ Moore was still holding the door, as if ready to slam it.

″I did.″

″Come on then.″ He led the way inside the house. ″Mind your head,″ he said unnecessarily—julian was too short to be bothered by the low beams.

The living room seemed to occupy most of one of the cottages. It was crammed with oldish furniture, among which a brand-new, very big color television stuck out like a sore thumb. It smelled of cats and varnish.

″Let′s have a look at it, then.″

Julian began to unpack the painting, taking off the leather straps, the polystyrene sheets, and the cotton wool.

″No doubt it′s another forgery,ʺ Moore said. ″All I see these days is fakes. There′s so much of it going on. I see on the telly some smart-alec got them all chasing their behinds the other week. I had to laugh.″

Julian handed him the canvas. ″I think youʹll find this one is genuine,″ he said. ″I just want your seal of approval.″

Moore took the painting, but did not look at it. ″Now you must realize something,ʺ he said. ″I can′t prove a painting is genuine. The only way to do that is to watch the artist paint it, from start to finish, then take it away with you and lock it in a safe. Then you can be sure. All I do is try to prove it′s a fake. There are all sorts of ways in which a forgery might reveal itself, and I know most of them. But if I can find nothing wrong, the artist could still turn around tomorrow and say he never painted it, and you′d have no argument. Understood?″

″Sure,″ said Julian.

Moore continued to look at him, the painting face-down on his knees.

″Well, are you going to examine it?″

″You haven′t paid me yet.″

ʺSorry.ʺ Julian reached into his pocket for the money.

″Two hundred pounds.″

″Right.″ Julian handed over two wads of notes. Moore began to count them.

As he watched, Julian thought how well the old man had chosen to spend his retirement. He lived alone, in peace and quiet, conscious of a life′s work expertly done. He cocked a snook at the pressures and snobbery of London, giving sparingly of his great skill, forcing the art world princes to make a tiresome pilgrimage to his home before he would grant them audience. He was dignified and independent. Julian rather envied him.

Moore finished counting the money and tossed it casually into a drawer. At last he looked at the painting.

Straightaway he said: ″Well, if it′s a forgery, it′s a bloody good one.″

″How can you tell so quickly?″

″The signature is exactly right—not too perfect. That′s a mistake most forgers make—they reproduce the signature so exactly it looks contrived. This one flows freely.″ He ran his eye over the canvas. ″Unusual. I like it. Well, would you like me to do a chemical test?″

ʺWhy not?″

″Because it means marking the canvas. I have to take a scraping. It can be done in a place where the frame will normally hide the mark, but I always ask anyway.″

″Go ahead.″

Moore got up. ″Come along.″ He led Julian back through the hallway into the second cottage. The smell of varnish became stronger. ʺThis is the laboratory, ʺ Moore said.

It was a square room with a wooden workbench along one wall. The windows had been enlarged, and the walls painted white. A fluorescent strip light hung from the ceiling. On the bench were several old paint cans containing peculiar fluids.

Moore took out his false teeth with a swift movement, and dropped them in a Pyrex beaker. ″Can′t work with them in,″ he explained. He sat down at his bench and laid the painting in front of him.

He began to dismantle the frame. ″I′ve got a feeling about you, lad,″ he said as he worked. ″I think you′re like me. They don′t accept you as one of them, do they?″

Julian frowned in puzzlement. ″I don′t think they do.″

″You know, I always knew more about painting than the people I worked for. They used my expertise, but they never really respected me. That′s why I′m so bloody-minded with them nowadays. You′re like a butler, you know. Most good butlers know more about food and wine than their masters. Yet they′re still looked down on. It′s called class distinction I spent my life trying to be one of them. I thought being an art expert was the way, but I was wrong. There is no way!ʺ .

″How about marrying in?″ Julian suggested.

″Is that what you did? You′re worse off than me, then. You can′t drop out of the race. I feel sorry for you, son.″

One arm of the frame was now free, and Moore slid the glass out. He took a sharp knife, like a scalpel, from a rack in front of him. He peered closely at the canvas, then delicately ran the blade of the knife across a millimeter of paint.

″Oh,″ he grunted.

what?ʺ

″When did Modigliani die?″

ʺIn 1920.″

ʺOh.ʺ

ʺWhy?ʺ

ʺPaintʹs a bit soft, is all. Doesn′t mean anything. Hold on.″

He took a bottle of clear liquid from a shelf, poured a little into a test tube, and dipped the knife in. Nothing happened for a couple of minutes. To Julian it seemed an age. Then the paint on the knife began to dissolve and seep through the liquid.

Moore looked at Julian. ʺThat settles it.″

ʺWhat have you proved?″

ʺThe paint is no more than three months old, young man. You′ve got a fake. How much did you pay for it?″

julian looked at the paint dissolving in the test tube. ″It cost me just about everything,ʺ he said quietly.

He drove back to London in a daze. How it had happened he had no idea. He was trying to figure out what to do about it.

He had gone down to Moore simply with the idea of adding to the value of the painting. It had been a sort of afterthought; there had been no doubt in his mind about the authenticity of the work. Now he wished he had not bothered. And the question he was turning over in his mind, playing with as a gambler rolls the dice between his palms, was: could he pretend he had not seen Moore?

He could still put the picture up in the gallery. No one would know it was not genuine. Moore would never see it, never know it was in circulation.

The trouble was, he might mention it casually. It could be years later. Then the truth would come out: Julian Black had sold a painting he knew to be a fake. That would be the end of his career.

It was unlikely. Good God, Moore would die anyway within a few years—he must be pushing seventy. If only the old man would die soon.

Suddenly Julian realized that, for the first time in his life, he was contemplating murder. He shook his head, as if to dear it of confusion. The idea was absurd. But alongside such a drastic notion, the risk of showing the picture diminished. What was there to lose? Without the Modigliani, Julian hardly had a career anyway. There would be no more money from his father-in-law, and the gallery would probably be a flop.

It was decided, then. He would forget about Moore. He would show the picture.

The essential thing now was to act as if nothing had happened. He was expected for dinner at Lord Cardwellʹs. Sarah would be there, and she was planning to stay the night. Julian would spend the night with his wife: what could be more normal? He headed for Wimbledon.

When he arrived, a familiar dark blue Daimler was in the drive alongside his father-in-lawʹs Rolls. Julian transferred his fake Modigliani to the boot of the Cortina before going to the door.

ʺEvening, Sims,″ he said as the butler opened the door. ″Is that Mr. Lampethʹs car in the drive?″

″Yes, sir. They are all in the gallery.″

Julian handed over his short coat and mounted the stairs. He could hear Sarah′s voice coming from the room at the top.

He stopped short as he entered the gallery. The walls were bare.

Cardwell called: ″Come in, Julian, and join in the commiserations. Charles here has taken all my paintings away to sell them.″

Julian walked over, shook hands, and kissed Sarah. ″It′s a bit of a shock,″ he said. ʺThe place looks naked.ʺ

″Doesn′t it?″ Cardwell agreed heartily. ″We′re going to have a damn good dinner and forget about it. Sorry, Sarah.″

″You don′t have to watch your language with me, you know that,″ his daughter said.

″Oh, my God,ʺ Julian breathed. He was staring at one painting left on the wall.

″What is it?″ said Lampeth. ″You look as if you′ve seen a ghost. That′s just a little acquisition of mine I brought along to show you all. Can′t have a gallery with no pictures at all.″

Julian turned away and walked to the window. His mind was in a turmoil. The picture Lampeth had brought was an exact copy of his fake Modigliani.

The bastard had the real one while Julian had a dud. He almost choked with hatred.

Suddenly a wild, foolhardy plan was born in his mind. He turned around quickly.

They were looking at him, expressions of slightly concerned puzzlement on their faces.

Cardwell said: ″I was just telling Charles that you, too, have a new Modigliani, Julian.″

Julian forced a smile. ʺThatʹs why this is such a shock. It′s exactly like mine.″

″Good Lord!″ Lampeth said. ″Have you had it authenticated?″

″No,″ Julian lied. ″Have you?″

″Afraid not. Lord, I thought there was no doubt about this one.″

Cardwell said: ʺWell, one of you has a forgery. It seems there are more forgeries than genuine works in the art world these days. Personally, I hope Julian′s is the one—Iʹve got a stake in it.″ He laughed heartily.

″They could both be genuine,″ Sarah said. ″Lots of painters repeated themselves.″

Julian asked Lampeth: ″Where did you get yours?″ ″I bought it from a man, young Julian.″

Julian realized he had trespassed on the ethics of the profession. ″Sorry,″ he mumbled.

The butler rang the bell for dinner.

Samantha was flying. Tom had given her the funny little flat tin that evening, and she had taken six of the blue capsules. Her head was light, her nerves tingled, and she was bursting with excitement.

She sat in the front seat of the van, squashed between Tom and Eyes Wright. Tom was driving. There were two other men in the back.

Tom said: ″Remember, if we′re very quiet we should have it off without waxing anybody. If someone does catch us bang to rights, pull a shooter on him, and tie him up. No violence. Quiet now, we′re there.″

He switched the engine off and let the van coast the last few yards. He stopped it just outside the gate of Lord Cardwell′s house. He spoke over his shoulder to the men in the back: ″Wait for the word.″

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, ʺBurglar alarm.ʺ

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. ʺShortcircuited now.″

The three of them approached the house. Wright shone his flashlight carefully around a window frame. ʺJust 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 stood in the hall, a towel around his waist. ″What the hell do you think you′re doing, barging—ʺ

″Shut up,ʺ Julian said crisply. ʺLet′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—ʺ

″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.

ʺOh, Joe,″ she said. ʺJoe, 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,ʺ 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.ʺ

″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,ʺ 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. ʺI 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.″