The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [55]
She talked to him about the house as if she were retelling a familiar tale, pointing out the place where the masons had run out of the right sort of stone and been forced to change, the new windows added in the eighteenth century, the small nineteenth-century west wing.
″Of course, we no longer own the district, and what land we have retained is rather poor. As you can see, too many repairs have been postponed.″ She turned to face him and gave him a self-deprecating smile. ″Contessas are two-a-penny in Italy, Mr. Lipsey.″
″But not all have a family as old as yours.″
″No. The newer aristocrats are businessmen and industrialists. Their families have not had time to grow soft with living on inherited wealth.″
They had completed the circuit of the house, and now stood in its shadow at the foot of one of the towers. Lipsey said: ″It is possible to grow soft on earned wealth, Contessa. I′m afraid I do not work very hard for my living.″
″May I ask what you do?″
″I have an antique shop in London. It′s on the Cromwell Road—you must visit next time you are in England. I′m rarely there myself.″
″Are you sure you wouldn′t like to see the inside of the house?″
″Well, if itʹs not too much trouble ...″
″Not at all.″ The Contessa led him through the front door. Lipsey felt the tingle at the back of his neck which always came near the end of a case. He had worked things just right: he had gently given the Contessa the impression that he might be willing to buy something from her. She was obviously in fairly desperate need of cash.
As she led him through the rooms of the house, his sharp eyes flitted quickly around the walls. There were a large number of paintings, mainly oil portraits of previous counts and watercolor landscapes. The furniture was old, but not antique. Some of the rooms smelled unused, their aroma an odd mixture of mothballs and decay.
She led him up the staircase, and he realized that the landing was the showpiece of the place. In its center was a mildly erotic marble of a centaur and a girl in a sensual embrace. The rugs on the highly polished floor were not worn. The walls all around were hung with paintings.
″This is our modest art collection,″ the Contessa was saying. ″It ought to have been sold long ago, but my late husband would not part with it. And I have been postponing the day.″
That was as near an offer to sell as the old lady would come, Lipsey thought. He dropped his pretence of casual interest and began to examine the pictures.
He looked at each one from a distance, narrowing his eyes, searching for hints of the Modigliani style: the elongated face, the characteristic nose which he could not help putting on women, the influence of African sculpture, the peculiar asymmetry. Then he moved closer and scrutinized the signature. He looked at the frames of the pictures for signs of re-framing. He took a very powerful, pencilbeam flashlight from his inside pocket and shone it on the paint, scanning for the giveaway traces of overpainting.
Some of the paintings needed only a glance; others required very close examination. The Contessa watched patiently while he went around the four walls of the landing. Finally he turned to her.
″You have some fine pictures, Contessa,″ he said.
She showed him quickly around the rest of the house, as if they both knew it was only a formality.
When they were back on the landing, she stopped. ″May I offer you some coffee?″
ʺThank you.″
They went downstairs to a drawing room, and the Contessa excused herself to go to the kitchen and order coffee. Lipsey bit his lip as he waited. There was no getting away from it: none of the paintings was worth more than a few hundred pounds, and there were certainly no Modiglianis in the house.
The Contessa returned. ″Smoke if you like,″ she said.
″Thank you. I will.″ Lipsey lit up a cigar. He took a card from his pocket: it bore only his name, business address, and telephone number—no indication of his trade. ″May I give you my address?″ he said. ″When you decide to sell your art collection,