The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [48]
When they lifted the picture out of the crate, the old man stared at it with a smile. ″Beautiful,″ he said eventually. ″Do you agree?″
″It doesn′t appeal to me,″ Peter said ruefully.
The old man nodded. ″Rep is an old man′s painter, I think.″
They loaded it onto their dolly and wheeled it through the building, up in the lift, and into M. Meunier′s office. There they placed it on a steel easel and stood back.
Alain Meunier was a gray, jowly man in a dark suit, with—Peter thought—a glint of greed in his small blue eyes. He looked at the new picture from a distance, and then walked close to study the brush-work; then he viewed it from either side.
Peter stood near Meunier′s huge leather-inlaid desk. It bore three telephones, a cut-glass ashtray, a cigar box, an executive penholder made of red plastic (a present from the children?), a photograph of a woman—and a small rubber stamp.
Peter′s eyes fastened on the stamp. It was stained with red ink at its rubber base, and the knob was of polished wood. He tried to read the back-to-front words of the stamp, but could only make out the name of the firm.
It was almost certain to be what he wanted.
His fingers itched to snatch it up and stuff it into his pocket, but he was certain to be seen. Even if he did it while the backs of the others were turned, the stamp might be missed immediately afterward. There had to be a better way.
When Meunier spoke Peter gave a guilty start. ″You may leave this here,″ the man said. His nod was dismissive.
Peter wheeled the dolly out through the door, and the two of them returned to their packing room.
He spent two more days trying to figure out a way to get at the stamp on Meunier′s desk. Then a better idea was handed to him on a plate.
The old man was sitting at his desk, filling out one of the forms, while Peter sipped a cup of coffee. The old man looked up from his work to say: ″Do you know where the stationery supplies are?″
Peter thought fast. ″Yes,″ he lied.
The old man handed him a small key. ″Fetch me some more forms—I have almost run out.″
Peter took the key and went. In the corridor he asked a passing messenger boy where the supply room was. The boy directed him to the floor below.
He found it in an office which seemed to be a typing pool. He had not been there before. One of the typists showed him a walk-in cupboard in a corner. Peter opened the door, switched on the light, and went in.
He found a ream of the forms he wanted straightaway. His eye roamed the shelves and lit on a stack of headed notepaper. He broke a packet and took out thirty or forty sheets.
He could not see any rubber stamps.
There was a green steel cabinet in the far end of the little room. Peter tried the door and found it locked. He opened a box of paper clips, took one, and bent it. Inserting it in the keyhole, he twisted it this way and that. He began to perspire. In a moment the typists would wonder what was taking him so long.
With a click that sounded like a thunderclap the door opened. The first thing Peter saw was an opened cardboard box containing six rubber stamps. He turned one over and read the impression underneath.
He translated: ″Certified at Meunier, Paris.″
He suppressed his elation. How could he get the thing out of the building?
The stamp and the headed paper would make a suspiciously large package to take past the security men at the door on the way home. And he would have to conceal it from the old man for the rest of the day.
He had a brainwave. He took a penknife from his pocket and slid its blade under the rubber bottom of the stamp, working the knife from side to side to dislodge the rubber from the wood to which it was glued. His hands, slippery with sweat, could hardly grip the polished wood.
″Can you find what you want?″ a girl′s voice came from behind his back.
He froze. ″Thank you, I have them now,″ he said. He did not look around. Footsteps retreated.