Ken Follett - The Modigliani Scandal (1976)

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.

V

SAMANTHA STEPPED INTO THE Black Gallery and looked around in wonder. The place was transformed. Last time she had been here, it had been full of workmen, rubble, paint cans and plastic sheeting. Now it looked more like an elegant apartment: richly carpeted, tastefully decorated, with interesting futuristic furniture and a jungle of bright aluminum spotlights growing out of the low ceiling.

Julian sat at a chrome-and-glass desk just beside the door. When he saw her he got up and shook hands, giving a perfunctory nod to Tom.

He said to Sammy: ″I′m thrilled you′re going to do the opening for me. Shall I show you around?″

″If you can spare the time from your work,″ Samantha said politely.

He made a pushing-aside gesture with his hand. ″Just looking at the bills, and trying to make them go away by telepathy. Come on.″

Julian had changed, Samantha thought. She studied him as he showed them the paintings and talked about the artists. His earlobe-length fair hair had been layered and styled, losing the public-schoolboy look to a more natural, fashionable cut. He spoke now with confidence and authority, and his walk was more sure and aggressive. Samantha wondered whether it was the wife problem or the money problem which had been solved: perhaps it was both.

She liked his taste in art, she decided. There was nothing breathtakingly original on display—unless you counted the wriggling mass of fiberglass sculpture in the alcove—but the works were modem and somehow well-done. The kind of thing I might have on my wall, she thought and found that the expression suited how she felt.

He took them around quickly, as if afraid they might get bored. Samantha was grateful: it was all very nice, but these days all she wanted to do was get high or sleep. Tom had started to refuse her the pills occasionally, like in the mornings. Without them her moods changed fast.

They came full circle to the door. Samantha said: ″I have a favor to ask you, Julian.″

″Your servant, ma′am.″

ʺWill you get us invited to your father-in-lawʹs house for dinner?″

He raised his eyebrows. ″Why would you want to meet that old shit?″

″He fascinates me. Who would build a million-pound art collection, then sell it? Besides, he sounds like my type.″ She fluttered her eyelashes.

Julian shrugged. ″If you really want to, it′s easy. I′ll take you—Sarah and I go to dinner a couple of times a week anyway. It saves cooking. Iʹll give you a ring.″

ʺThank you.ʺ

″Now then, you know that date of the opening. I′d be grateful if you could get here at about six-thirty.″

ʺJulian, I′m glad to help, but I can′t be anything but the last to arrive, you know.″