The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [46]
″Ah!″ It was a small gasp of satisfaction from Lipsey.
″She booked a phone call to Paris when she was here. I think that is all I can tell you.″
″You don′t know just where in the city she went?″
″No.″
″How many days was she here?″
″Only one.″
″Did she say anything about where she was going next?″
″Ah! Of course,″ the man said. He paused to puff life into the dying cigarette in his mouth and grimaced at the taste of the smoke. ″They came in and asked for a map.″
Lipsey leaned forward. Another lucky break, so soon, was almost too much to hope for. ″Go on.″
″Let me see. They were going to take the autostrada to Firenze, then go across country to the Adriatic coast—somewhere near Rimini. They mentioned the name of a village—Oh! Now I remember. It was Poglio.″
Lipsey took out his notebook. ″Spell it?″
The proprietor obliged.
Lipsey got up. ″I am most grateful to you,″ he said.
Outside, he stopped at the curb to breathe in the warm evening air. So soon! he thought. He lit a small cigar to celebrate.
V
THE NEED TO PAINT was like the smoker′s craving for a cigarette: Peter Usher was reminded of the time he had tried to give it up. There was an elusive irritation, distinctly physical, but unattached to any specific part of his body. He knew, from past experience, that it was there because he had not worked for several days, and that the smell of a studio, the slight drag on his fingers of oils being brushed across canvas, and the sight of a new work taking place, were the only way of scratching it. He felt bad because he had not painted for several days.
Besides, he was frightened.
The idea which had struck him and Mitch simultaneously, that drunken evening in Clapham, had burst with all the freshness and glory of a tropical dawn. It had seemed simple, too: they would paint some fakes, sell them at astronomical prices, then tell the world what they had done.
It would be a gigantic raspberry blown at the art world and its stuffed shirts; a surefire publicity stunt; a historical radical coup.
In the sobriety of the following days, working out the details of the operation, they had realized that it would not be simple. Nevertheless it came to seem more and more workable as they got down to the mechanics of the fraud.
But now, when he was about to take the first dishonest step on the way to the art swindle of the century; when he was about to commit himself to a course which would lead him well over the line between protest and crime; when he was alone and nervous in Paris, he sat in an office at Meunier′s and smoked cigarettes which did not give him comfort.
The graceful old building exacerbated his unease. With its marbled pillars and high, stuccoed ceilings, it was too obviously a part of that confident, superior stratum of the art world—the society which embraced Charles Lampeth and rejected Peter Usher. Meunier′s were agents for half the top French artists of the last 150 years. None of their clients were unknowns.
A small man in a well-worn dark suit scurried purposefully across the hall and through the open door of the room where Peter sat. He had the deliberately harassed look of those who want the world to know just how overworked they are.
″My name is Durand,″ he said.
Peter stood up. ″Peter Usher. I am a painter from London, looking for a part-time job. Can you help me?″ He spoke only schoolboy French, but his accent was good.
A displeased look came over Durand′s face. ″You will appreciate, Monsieur Usher, that we get many such requests from young art students in Paris.″
″I′m not a student. I graduated from the Slade—″
″Be that as it may,″ Durand interrupted with an impatient motion of his hand, ″the company′s policy is to help whenever we can.″ It was plain he did not approve of the policy. ″It depends entirely on whether we have a vacancy at the time. Since almost all our staff require stringent security vetting, clearly there are few jobs for casual callers. However, if you will come with me, I will find out whether we can use you.