The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [53]
Lipsey took out his wallet to pay. As he opened it, the photograph of Dee Sleign fell out onto the counter and slipped over to the floor. The barman picked it up.
There was no glimmer of recognition on the man′s face as he looked at the picture, then handed it back to Lipsey. ″A beautiful girl,″ he commented.
Lipsey smiled and handed over a note. The barman gave him change, then retired to the back of the house. Lipsey sipped his beer.
It looked as if Miss Sleign, with or without her boyfriend, had not yet arrived at Poglio. It was quite likely: Lipsey had been hurrying, and they had not. They had no idea anyone else was after the Modigliani.
Once again, he would have preferred to look for the picture rather than for the girl. But he did not know just what had led her to Poglio. She might have been told that the picture was here; or that someone here knew where the picture was; or some more complex clue.
He finished his beer and decided to look around the village. When he left the bar the old man was still on the steps. There was no one else in sight.
There was little enough to look at in the place. The only other shop was a general store; the only public building a tiny Renaissance church, built, Lipsey guessed, in some seventeenth-century flush of wealth. There was no police station, no municipal office, no community hall. Lipsey walked around slowly in the heat, amusing himself by drawing idle deductions about the economics of the village from its buildings and its layout.
An hour later he had exhausted the game′s possibilities, and he still had not decided what to do. When he returned to the bar, he found that events had once again taken the decision out of his hands.
Outside the bar, parked near the steps where the old man still sat in the shade, was a bright blue Mercedes coupe with an open sunroof.
Lipsey stood looking at it, wondering what to do about it. It was almost certainly Miss Sleign or her boyfriend, or both—nobody in the village would own such a car, and there was little reason for anyone else to come here. On the other hand, his impression was that neither she nor her boyfriend had a great deal of money—the Paris flat had indicated that much. Still, they might have been slumming.
The only way to find out was to go into the bar. Lipsey could not hang around outside looking casual: in his suit and polished shoes he made an unconvincing village loafer. He mounted the steps and pushed open the door.
The couple were sitting at one of the two tables, drinking what looked like long, iced apéritifs. They wore identical clothes: baggy, faded-blue trousers, and bright red vests. The girl was attractive, but the man was extremely handsome, Lipsey noted. He was a lot older than Lipsey had expected—late thirties, perhaps.
They looked at Lipsey intently, as if they had been expecting him. He gave them a casual nod and walked up to the bar.
″Another beer, sir?″ the young barman asked.
″Please.″
The barman spoke to Miss Sleign. ″This is the gentleman I was telling you about,″ he said.
Lipsey looked around, raising his eyebrows in an expression of amused curiosity.
The girl said: ″Have you got a picture of me in your wallet?″
Lipsey laughed easily. He spoke in English: ″This man thinks all English girls look alike. Actually, you do look a little like my daughter. But it is only a superficial resemblance.″
The boyfriend said: ″May we see the picture?″ He had a deep voice with a North American accent.
″Surely.″ Lipsey took out his wallet and searched through it. ″Ah! It must be in the car.″ He paid the barman for his beer, and said: ″Let me buy you two a drink.″
″Thank you,″ Miss Sleign said. ″Campari, for both of us.″
Lipsey waited for the barman to make the drinks and take them to the table. Then he said: ″It′s odd, meeting another English tourist out here in the wilds. Are you from London?″
″We live in Paris,″ the girl said. She seemed to be the talkative one of the pair.
The boyfriend said: ″It is odd. What are you doing here?″
Lipsey smiled. ″I′m a bit of a loner,