The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [38]
″You′re an early bird,″ he said pleasantly. He had a heavy East End accent.
Julian said: ″Is the boss around?″
The man′s manner chilled perceptibly. ″Speaking,″ he said.
Julian indicated the car with a wave of his hand. ″What price would you offer me for this?″
″Trade-in?″
″No, cash.″
The man looked again at the car, made a sour face, and shook his head from side to side. ″Very hard to get rid of, these,″ he said.
″It′s a beautiful car,″ Julian protested.
The man kept his skeptical face. ″What is she, two-year-old?″
″Eighteen months.″
The car dealer walked slowly around, examining the bodywork. He fingered a scratch in the door, looked closely at the fenders, and felt the tires.
″It′s a beautiful car,″ Julian repeated.
″That may be, but it don′t mean I can sell it,″ the man said. He opened the driver′s door and got behind the wheel.
Julian felt exasperated. This was ridiculous. He knew very well the dealer could sell the Mercedes in the trade if not on his own lot. It was just a question of how much the man would pay.
″I want cash,″ he said.
″I haven′t offered you shirt buttons for it yet, mate,″ the dealer replied. He turned the ignition key and the engine fired. He turned it off, let the engine die, and turned it on again. He repeated the process several times.
″The mileage is very low,″ Julian offered.
″But is it right?″
″Of course.″
The man got out of the car and shut the door. ″I don′t know,″ he said.
″Do you want to drive it?″
″Nah.″
″How the hell can you tell what it′s worth without driving it?″ Julian burst out.
The man remained cool. ″What business you in?″
″I own an art gallery.″
″Right, then. I′ll stick to motors and you stick to bleed′n paintings.″
Julian controlled his temper. ″Well, are you going to make me an offer?″
″I suppose I could give you fifteen hundred for it, doing you a favor.″
″That′s ridiculous! It must have cost five or six thousand new!″ There was a flash of triumph in the dealer′s eyes at that. Julian realized he had given away the fact that he did not know the original price of the car.
The dealer said: ″I suppose it is yours to sell?″
″Of course.″
″Got the log-book?″ Julian fished it out of his in side pocket and handed it over.
The dealer said: ″Funny name for a bloke, Sarah.″
″Thatʹs my wife.″ Julian took out a card and handed it over. This is my name.″
The man put the card in a pocket. ″Pardon me asking, but she does know you′re selling it?″
Julian inwardly cursed the man′s canniness. How could he guess? No doubt he figured that for an art dealer to come to the East End to sell a nearly new Mercedes for cash there must be something faintly underhanded going on.
He said: ″My wife died recently.″
″Fair enough.″ The dealer obviously did not believe the story. ″Well, I′ve told you what it′s worth to me.″
″I couldn′t let it go for much less than three thousand,″ Julian said with a show of determination.
″I′ll say sixteen hundred, and thatʹs my top price.″
Julian decided he was expected to haggle. ″Twofive,″ he said.
The dealer turned his back and began to walk away.
Julian panicked. ″All right,″ he called out. ″Two thousand.″
″Sixteen-fifty, take it or leave it.″
″Cash?ʺ
″What else?″
Julian sighed. ″Very well.″
″Come into the office.″
Julian followed the man across the yard and into the old shop building which faced the main road. He sat at a battered wooden desk and signed a sale certificate while the dealer opened an old iron safe and counted out £1,650 in used five-pound notes.
When he made to leave, the dealer offered a handshake. Julian snubbed him and walked out. He was convinced he had been robbed.
He walked west, looking out for a taxi. He let the unpleasant encounter drift out of his mind, to be replaced by cautious elation. At least he had the money—£1,65O in fivers! It was plenty for his trip. He felt as if he had already started out.
He went over the story he would tell Sarah. He could say he had been to see the decorators—no, it had better be someone she did