Ken Follett - The Modigliani Scandal (1976)

″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.″