The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [10]
″Good. Well, I have the right man for the job available at the moment. We can get on to it immediately.″
Lampeth stood up, hesitated, and frowned, as if he did not quite know how to put what he was about to say. Lipsey waited patiently.
″Ah—it′s important that the girl should not know that I have initiated the inquiry, you realize?″
″Of course,″ Lipsey said smoothly. ″It goes without saying.ʺ
The gallery was full of people chatting, clinking glasses, and dropping cigar ash on the carpet. The reception was to publicize a small collection of various German Expressionists which Lampeth had acquired in Denmark: he disliked the paintings, but they were a good buy. The people were clients, artists, critics, and art historians. Some had come simply to be seen at the Belgrave, to tell the world that this was the kind of circle they moved in; but they would buy, eventually, to prove that they did not come merely to be seen there. Most of the critics would write about the show, for they could not afford to ignore anything the Belgrave did. The artists came for the canapes and the wine—free food and drink, and some of them needed it. Perhaps the only people who were genuinely interested in the paintings were the art historians and a few serious collectors.
Lampeth sighed, and looked furtively at his watch. It would be another hour before he could respectabiv leave. His wife had long ago given up attending gallery receptions. She said they were a bore, and she was right. Lampeth would like to be at home now, with a glass of port in one hand and a book in the other; sitting on his favorite chair—the old learner one, with the hard horsehair upholstery and the burn mark on the arm where he always put his pipe—with his wife opposite him and Siddons coming in to make up the fire for the last time.
″Wishing you were home, Charlie?″ The voice came from beside him and broke his daydream. ″Rather be sitting in front of the telly watching Barlow?″
Lampeth forced a smile. He rarely watched television, and he resented being called Charlie by any but his oldest friends. The man he smiled at was not even a friend: he was the art critic of a weekly journal, perceptive enough about art, especially sculpture, but a terrible bore. ″Hello, Jack, glad you could come,″ Lampeth said. ″Actually, I am a bit tired for this sort of bash.″
″Know how you feel,″ the critic said. ″Hard day? Tough time knocking some poor painter′s price down a couple of hundred?″
Lampeth forced another smile, but deigned to reply to the jocular insult. The journal was a left-wing one, he remembered, and it felt the need to be disapproving of anyone who actually made money out of culture.
He saw Willow easing through the crowd toward him, and felt gratitude toward his junior partner. The journalist seemed to sense this, and excused himself.
″Thank you for rescuing me,″ Lampeth said to Willow in a low voice.
″No trouble, Lampeth. What I actually came to say was, Peter Usher is here. Do you want to handle him yourself?″
″Yes. Listen, I′ve decided to do a Modigliani show. We′ve got Lord Cardwell′s three, the sketches, and another possibility came up this morning. That′s enough for a nucleus. Will you find out who′s got what?″
″Of course. That means Usher′s one-man has had it.″
″I′m afraid so. There isn′t another slot for that sort of thing for months. I′ll tell him. He won′t like it, but it won′t harm him all that much. His talent will tell in the long run, whatever we do.″
Willow nodded and moved away, and Lampeth went in search of Usher. He found him at the far end of the gallery, sitting in front of some of the new paintings. He was with a woman, and they had filled a tray with food from the buffet.
″May I join you?″ Lampeth said.
″Of course. The sandwiches are delicious,″ Usher said. ″I haven′t had caviar for days.″
Lampeth smiled at the sarcasm, and helped himself to a tiny square of white bread. The woman said: ″Peter tries to play the part of the angry young man, but he′s too old.″
″You haven′t met my mouthy wife, have you?″ Usher said.