The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [57]
″He′s a dealer, isn′t he? He′d do anything, including trade his mom, for a find.″
″The old sod. Anyway, you′ve sent that undertaker on a wild-goose chase.″
″It ought to keep him busy for a while.″
Dee grinned. ″Is there a château five miles south of here?″
″Hell, I don′t know. He′s sure to find one sooner or later. Then he′ll waste a lot of time trying to get in, and looking for Modiglianis.″ Mike stood up. ″Which gives us a chance to get a start on him.″
He paid the bill and they walked out into the glaring sunshine. Dee said: ″I think the church is the best place to start. Vicars always seem to know everything about everybody.″
″Priests, in Italy,″ Mike corrected her. He had been brought up a Catholic.
They walked hand in hand along the main street. The oppressive heat seemed to impose on them the enervated lifestyle of the village: they moved slowly and spoke little, subconsciously adjusting to the climate.
They arrived at the pretty little church, and stood in its shade for a few minutes, enjoying the cool. Mike said: ″Have you thought about what you′re going to do with the picture if you get it?″
″Yes, I′ve thought a lot,″ she replied. She wrinkled the bridge of her nose in a frown which was all her own. ″Most of all, I want to study it. It ought to provide enough ideas for half a thesis—and the rest is just padding. But ...″
″But what?″
″You tell me but what.″
ʺThe money.″
″Damn right. Oops!″ She caught herself swearing, and looked around the churchyard nervously.
ʺThereʹs a lot of it involved.″
″Money? I know.″ She tossed her hair back over her shoulder. ″I′m not trying to kid myself I′m not interested in cash, either. Perhaps if we could sell it to someone who would let me see it whenever I wanted—maybe a museum.″
Mike said levelly: ʺI notice you said ′we.′ ″
″Of course! Youʹre in this with me, arenʹt you?″
He put his hands on her shoulders. ″You only just invited me.″ He kissed her lips quickly. ″You have just hired an agent. I think you made a very good choice.″
She laughed. ″What do you think I ought to do about marketing it?″
ʺIʹm not sure. I′ve got some ideas kicking around in my mind, but nothing definite. Let′s find the painting first.″
They entered the church and looked around. Dee stepped out of her sandals and squirmed her hot feet on the cold stone floor. At the other end of the nave, a robed priest was performing a solitary ceremony. Dee and Mike waited silently for him to finish.
Eventually he approached them, a welcoming smile on his broad peasant′s face.
Dee murmured: ″I wonder if you can help us, Father.″
When he got close, they realized he was not as young as his boyishly short haircut made him seem from a distance. ″I hope so,″ he said. He spoke at normal volume, but his voice boomed in the still emptiness of the church. ″I suspect it is secular help you want, much as I might wish it otherwise. Am I right?″
Dee nodded.
ʺThen let us step outside.″ He took their elbows, one in each hand, and pushed them gently through the door. Outside, he glanced up into the sky. ʺThank God for wonderful sunshine,″ he said. ″Although you should be careful, my dear, with your complexion. What can I do for you?″
″We′re trying to trace a man,″ Dee began. ″His name was Danielli. He was a rabbi, from Livorno, and we think he moved to Poglio in about 1920. He was ill, and not young, so he probably died soon after.″
The priest frowned and shook his head. ″I have never heard the name. It was certainly before my time—I wasn′t born in 1920. And if he was Jewish, I don′t suppose the Church buried him, so we will have no records.″
″You have never even heard him talked about?″
″No. And there is certainly no Danielli family in Poglio. However, others in the village have longer memories than mine. And no one can hide in such a small place.″ He looked at them hesitantly for a moment, as if making up his mind about something. ″Who told you he came here?″
″Another rabbi—in Livorno.ʺ Dee realized the priest was desperately curious to know why they were