Ken Follett - The Modigliani Scandal (1976)

″Which one?″ he said.

Mitch closed his eyes and stuck a finger on the page. Peter dialed the number, and asked to speak to a reporter.

When he got through he asked: ʺDo you take shorthand?″

The voice replied testily: ″Of course.″

ʺThen take. I am Renalle, the master forger, and I am about to tell you why I did it. I wanted to prove that the London art scene, in its concentration on masterpieces and dead painters, is phony. The best ten dealers in London cannot tell a forgery when they see one. They are motivated by greed and snobbery, rather than love of art. Because of them the money going into art is diverted away from the artists themselves, who really need it.″

ʺSlow down,″ the reporter protested.

Peter ignored him. ″I am now offering the dealers their money back, minus my expenses which come to about one thousand pounds. The conditon is that they set aside one-tenth of the cash—that will be about fifty thousand pounds—to provide a building in Central London where young, unknown artists can rent studios at low prices. The dealers must get together, and set up a trust fund to buy and manage the building. The other condition is that all police inquiries are dropped. I will look for their reply to my offer in the columns of your newspaper.″

The reporter said quickly: ″Are you a young painter yourself?ʺ

Peter put the phone down.

Mitch said: ″You forgot the French accent.″

″Oh, fuck,″ Peter swore. They left the phone booth.

As they walked back to the house, Mitch said: ″What the hell, I don′t suppose it makes any difference. Now they know it was not a French job. That narrows their field to the whole of the UK. So what?″

Peter bit his lip. ″It shows we′re getting slack, that′s what. We had better be careful not to count our chickens before they′ve paid up.″

″Hatched.″

″Fuck proverbs.″

Anne was in the front garden, playing with Vibeke in the sunshine, when they got back.

″The sun is shining—letʹs go out,″ she said.

Peter looked at Mitch. ″Why not?″

A deep American voice came from the sidewalk outside. ″How are the happy forgers?″

Peter whitened and turned around. He relaxed when he saw the stocky figure and white teeth of Arnaz. The man had a parcel under his arm.

″You scared me,″ Peter said.

Still smiling, Arnaz opened the rotting wooden gate and walked in. Peter said: ″Come on inside.″

The three men went up to the studio. When they had sat down Arnaz waved a copy of the newspaper. ″I congratulate you two,″ he said. ″I couldn′t have done a better job myself. I laughed my ass off in bed this morning.″

Mitch got up and pretended to stare at Arnaz′s behind. ″How did you get it back on again?″

Peter laughed. ″Mitch, don′t get manic again.″

Amaz went on: ″It was a brilliant operation. And the forgeries were good. I happened to see the van Gogh in Claypole′s last week. I almost bought it.″

″I suppose it′s safe for you to come here,″ Peter said thoughtfully.

″I think so. Besides, it′s necessary if I′m to make a profit on this deal.″

Mitch′s voice was hostile. ″I thought you were in this for the laughs.″

ʺThat too.″ Arnaz smiled again. ʺBut mainly, I wanted to see just how good the two of you were.″

″What the hell are you getting at, Arnaz?″ Peter was becoming uneasy now.

ʺLike I said, I want to see a profit on my investment. So I want you to do one more forgery each. For me.″

″No deal, Arnaz,ʺ said Peter. ″We did this to make a point, not to make money. We′re on the verge of getting away with it. No more forgeries.″

Mitch said quietly: ″I don′t think weʹre going to have any choice.″

Arnaz gave him a nod of acknowledgment. He spread his hands in a gesture of appeal. ″Look, you guys, there′s no danger. No one will know about these extra forgeries. The people who buy ′em will never let on they′ve been conned, because they′ll be implicating themselves in something shady by buying them in the first place. And nobody but me will know you did the forging.″

″Not interested,″ said Peter.

Arnaz said: ″Mitch knows you′re going to do it, don′t you, Mitch?″

″Yes, you bastard.″

″So tell Pete here.″

″Amaz has us by the balls, Peter,″ Mitch said. ″He′s the one person in the world who can finger us for the police. All it would take would be one anonymous phone call. And we haven′t got our deal with the art dealers yet.″

″So? If he fingers us, why can′t we finger him?″ Mitch replied: ″Because there′s no proof against him. He had no part in the operation—nobody saw him, whereas loads of people saw me. We can be put up on identity lineups, asked to account for our movements on the day in question, and Christ knows what. All he did was give us money—and it was cash, remember? He can deny everything.″

Peter turned to Arnaz. ″When do you want the forgeries?″

″Good lad. I want you to do them now, while I wait.″

Anne looked around the door with the baby in her arms. ″Hey, you lot, are we going to the common or not?ʺ

″I′m sorry, darling,ʺ Peter replied. ″It won′t be possible now. We′ve got to do something else.″

Anne′s expression was unreadable. She left the room.

Mitch said: ″What sort of paintings do you want, Amaz?ʺ

The man picked up the parcel he had brought with him. ″I want two copies of this.″ He handed it to Mitch.

Mitch unwrapped the parcel and took out a framed painting. He looked at it with puzzlement in his eyes. Then he read the signature, and whistled.

″Good God,″ he said in amazement. ″Where did you get this?″

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.″