Ken Follett - The Modigliani Scandal (1976)

″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.″