Ken Follett - The Modigliani Scandal (1976)

When they were back on the landing, she stopped. ″May I offer you some coffee?″

ʺThank you.″

They went downstairs to a drawing room, and the Contessa excused herself to go to the kitchen and order coffee. Lipsey bit his lip as he waited. There was no getting away from it: none of the paintings was worth more than a few hundred pounds, and there were certainly no Modiglianis in the house.

The Contessa returned. ″Smoke if you like,″ she said.

″Thank you. I will.″ Lipsey lit up a cigar. He took a card from his pocket: it bore only his name, business address, and telephone number—no indication of his trade. ″May I give you my address?″ he said. ″When you decide to sell your art collection, I have some acquaintances in London who would like to know.″

Disappointment flashed briefly on the Contessa′s handsome face as she realized that Lipsey was not going to buy anything.

″That is the full extent of your collection, I take it?″ he said.

″Yes.″

″No pictures stored away in attics or basements?″

″Iʹm afraid not.″

A servant came in with coffee on a tray, and the Contessa poured. She asked Lipsey questions about London, and the fashions, and the new shops and restaurants. He answered as best he could.

After exactly ten minutes of idle conversation, he emptied his coffee cup and stood up. ″You have been most kind, Contessa. Please get in touch next time you are in London.″

″I′ve enjoyed your company, Mr. Lipsey.″ She saw him to the front door.

He walked quickly down the drive and got into the car. He reversed into the drive of the château, and caught a glimpse of the Contessa in his mirror, still standing in the doorway, before he pulled away.

He was most disappointed. It seemed the whole thing had been in vain. If there had ever been a lost Modigliani at the chateau, it was not there now.

Of course, there was another possibility: one that, perhaps, he ought to have paid more attention to. The American, Miss Sleign′s boyfriend, might have deliberately sent him on a wild-goose chase.

Could the man have suspected Lipsey? Well, it was a possibility; and Lipsey believed that possibilities were there to be exhausted. He sighed as he made his decision: he would have to keep track of the couple until he was sure that they, too, had given up.

He was not quite sure how to set about trailing them now. He could hardly follow them around, as he might have in a city. He would have to ask after them.

He returned to Poglio by a slightly different route, heading for the third road from the village: the one which entered from the west. About a mile outside Poglio he spotted a house near the road with a beer advertisement in the window. Outside was one small circular iron table. It looked like a bar.

Lipsey was hungry and thirsty. He pulled off the road onto the baked-earth parking lot in front of the place and killed the engine.

II

″YOU FAT LIAR, MIKE!″ exclaimed Dee. Her eyes were wide with pretended horror.

His full lips curled in a grin, but his eyes did not smile. ″You can′t afford scruples when you′re dealing with that type.″

ʺWhat type? I thought he was a rather nice fellow. Bit dull, I suppose.″

Mike sipped at his fifth Campari, and lit a fresh cigarette. He smoked long Pall Malls without filters, and Dee suspected that was how he got his emery-board voice. He blew out smoke and said: ″Just being here at the same time as us was a big coincidence. I mean, nobody would come here, not even a wandering loner. But the picture clinched it. All that stuff about his daughter was a bit of quick improvisation. He was looking for you.″

″I was afraid you′d say that.″ Dee took his cigarette and sucked on it, then handed it back.

″You′re sure you′ve never seen him before?″

″Sure.″

″All right. Now think: who might have known about the Modigliani?″

″Do you think that′s it? Somebody else is after the picture? It′s a bit melodramatic.″

″The hell it is. Listen, darling, in the art world, word of this sort of thing spreads like VD in Times Square. Now who have you told?″

″Well, Claire, I suppose. At least, I may have mentioned it to her while she was in the flat.″

″She doesn′t really count. Did you write home?″

″Oh, God, yes. I wrote to Sammy.″

″Who′s he?″

″The actress—Samantha Winacre.″

″I′ve heard of her. I didn′t know you knew her.″

″I don′t see her a lot, but we get on well when I do. We were at school together. She′s older than me, but she got her schooling late. I think her father went around the world, or something.″

″Is she an art buff?″

″Not as far as I know. But I expect she′s got arty friends.ʺ

″Anybody else?″

″Yes.″ Dee hesitated.

″Shoot.″

″Uncle Charlie.″

″The dealer?″

Dee nodded wordlessly.

ʺjeer,ʺ Mike sighed. ″That ties it up in a ribbon.″

Dee was shocked. ″You think Uncle Charles would really try to find my picture before I do?″

″He′s a dealer, isn′t he? He′d do anything, including trade his mom, for a find.″

″The old sod. Anyway, you′ve sent that undertaker on a wild-goose chase.″

″It ought to keep him busy for a while.″

Dee grinned. ″Is there a château five miles south of here?″

″Hell, I don′t know. He′s sure to find one sooner or later. Then he′ll waste a lot of time trying to get in, and looking for Modiglianis.″ Mike stood up. ″Which gives us a chance to get a start on him.″

He paid the bill and they walked out into the glaring sunshine. Dee said: ″I think the church is the best place to start. Vicars always seem to know everything about everybody.″

″Priests, in Italy,″ Mike corrected her. He had been brought up a Catholic.

They walked hand in hand along the main street. The oppressive heat seemed to impose on them the enervated lifestyle of the village: they moved slowly and spoke little, subconsciously adjusting to the climate.

They arrived at the pretty little church, and stood in its shade for a few minutes, enjoying the cool. Mike said: ″Have you thought about what you′re going to do with the picture if you get it?″

″Yes, I′ve thought a lot,″ she replied. She wrinkled the bridge of her nose in a frown which was all her own. ″Most of all, I want to study it. It ought to provide enough ideas for half a thesis—and the rest is just padding. But ...″

″But what?″

″You tell me but what.″

ʺThe money.″

″Damn right. Oops!″ She caught herself swearing, and looked around the churchyard nervously.

ʺThereʹs a lot of it involved.″

″Money? I know.″ She tossed her hair back over her shoulder. ″I′m not trying to kid myself I′m not interested in cash, either. Perhaps if we could sell it to someone who would let me see it whenever I wanted—maybe a museum.″

Mike said levelly: ʺI notice you said ′we.′ ″

″Of course! Youʹre in this with me, arenʹt you?″

He put his hands on her shoulders. ″You only just invited me.″ He kissed her lips quickly. ″You have just hired an agent. I think you made a very good choice.″

She laughed. ″What do you think I ought to do about marketing it?″

ʺIʹm not sure. I′ve got some ideas kicking around in my mind, but nothing definite. Let′s find the painting first.″

They entered the church and looked around. Dee stepped out of her sandals and squirmed her hot feet on the cold stone floor. At the other end of the nave, a robed priest was performing a solitary ceremony. Dee and Mike waited silently for him to finish.

Eventually he approached them, a welcoming smile on his broad peasant′s face.