The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [44]
The black eyes twinkled. ″I suppose you might be telling the truth,″ he said.
Lipsey made a mental note. The man had given away the fact that he was not in constant touch with the girl: for if he had been, he would have known that she had not disappeared.
Unless she really had disappeared, Lipsey thought with a shock. Lord, the walking had tired him—he was not thinking clearly.
″When did you see her?″
″I have decided not to tell you.″
″This is very important.″
″I thought so.″
Lipsey sighed. He would have to be a little rough. In the few minutes he had been in the room, he had detected the smell of cannabis. ″Very well, old man. If you will not tell me, I shall have to inform the police that this room is being used for drug-taking.″
The man laughed with genuine amusement. ″Do you think they do not know that already?″ he said. His papery chuckle ran its course, and he coughed. The twinkle had gone from his eyes when he spoke again. ″To be trickled into giving information to a policeman, that would be foolish. But to be blackmailed into it would be dishonorable. Please get out now.″
Lipsey saw that he had lost. He felt disappointed, and a little ashamed. He went out and closed the door on the old man′s papery cough.
At least there was no trudging to be done, Lipsey thought. He sat in a small restaurant, after a superb 12-franc lunch, smoking his second small cigar of the day. The steak, and the glass of red wine he had drunk with it, had made the world seem a little less depressing. Looking back, he realized that the moming had ruffled him, and he wondered again if he were too old for fieldwork.
He ought to be philosophical about such setbacks now, he told himself. The break always came, if you waited long enough for it. Still, he had run into a dead end. He now had only one line of inquiry, instead of two. His hand was forced.
He had to chase the girl, rather than the picture. He dropped his cigar in the ashtray, paid his bill, and left the restaurant.
A taxi pulled up at the curb outside, and a young man got out. Lipsey grabbed the cab while the man was paying. He looked a second time at the young face, and realized he had seen it before.
He gave the driver the address at which Miss Sleign had been staying since June. As the car pulled away, he puzzled over the familiar face of the young man. Putting names to faces was an obsession with Lipsey. If he could not match them, he felt a distinct professional unease, as if his ability was thrown into doubt.
He racked his brains for a few moments, then came up with a name: Peter Usher. He was a successful young artist, and had some connection with Charles Lampeth. Ah yes, Lampeth′s gallery showed his pictures. It was of no consequence. Feeling easier, Lipsey dismissed the young man from his mind.
The taxi dropped him outside a small apartment block, about ten years old, and not very impressive. Lipsey went in and bent his head to the concierge′s window.
″Is there anyone at home in number nine?″ he asked with a smile.
″They are away,″ the woman said, giving the information begrudgingly.
″Oh, good,″ Lipsey said. ″I am an interior decorator from England, and they asked me to give them an estimate for the place. They said I was to ask you for the key, and look over the place while they were away. I was not sure if they would be gone yet.″
″I cannot give you the key. Besides, they have no right to redecorate without permission.″
″Of course!″ Lipsey gave her his smile again, and turned on a certain middle-aged charm which he knew he was capable of. ″Miss Sleign was most emphatic that I should consult you, to get your advice and opinions.″ As he spoke, he fumbled some notes out of his wallet and into an envelope. ″She asked me to pass this to you, for your trouble.″ He handed the envelope through the window, bending it slightly in his hand to make the money crackle.
She took the bribe. ″You must not take very long, because I will