The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [64]
″Your coffee, madam,″ he said, and put the tray down on a low table. ʺThere is a taxi outside with a number of parcels for you, Mr. Clapton,ʺ he added, looking at Mitch.
″Oh, Eric, that will be the paintings. Go and see to it, would you?″ Anne spoke in a perfect imitation of French-accented upper-class English, and Mitch had to conceal his surprise at the sound.
He went down to the ground floor in the elevator, and out through the foyer to the waiting taxi. ″Keep the meter running, chief—madam can afford it,ʺ he said.
He turned back to the doorman and pressed two pound notes into his hand. ″See if you can get me a luggage trolley, or something, and a helping hand,″ he said.
The flunky stepped inside the hotel, and emerged a couple of minutes later with a uniformed bellhop pushing a trolley. Mitch wondered whether any of the tip found its way into the bellhop′s pocket.
The two of them put five of the paintings on the trolley, and the bellhop disappeared with it. Mitch unloaded the remainder and paid off the cabbie. The empty trolley returned, and Mitch took the rest of the paintings up to the suite. He gave the bellhop a pound—might as well spread the largesse, he thought.
He closed the door and sat down to coffee. He realized that the first stage of the plan had been completed successfully; and with the realization came tension, seeping into his muscles and stringing his nerves tautly. Now there was no turning back. He lit a short cigarette from the packet in his shirt pocket, thinking it would help him relax. It did not—it never did, but he never ceased thinking it would. He tasted his coffee. It was too hot, and he could not summon the patience to wait for it to cool.
He asked Anne: ʺWhatʹs that?″
She looked up from the clipboard she was scribbling on. ″Our list. Name of the picture, artist, gallery or dealer it′s for, their phone number, name of the man in charge and his deputy.″ She scribbled something, then flicked pages in the telephone directory on her lap.
″Efficient.″ Mitch swallowed his coffee hot, burning his throat. With his cigarette between his lips he began to unpack the paintings.
He piled the discarded newspapers and string in a corner. They had two leather portfolios, one large and one small, for taking the works to the galleries. He had not wanted to buy ten, for fear of the purchase being conspicuous.
When he had finished, he and Anne sat at the large table in the center of the room. There were two telephones on it, by request. Anne placed her list by his side, and they began phoning.
Anne dialed a number and waited. A girl′s voice said: ″Claypole and Company, good morning,ʺ all in one breath.
″Good morning,″ said Anne. ″Mr. Claypole, please.″ Her French accent had gone.
″One moment.″ There was a hum, and a click, then a second girl.
″Mr. Claypole′s office.ʺ
″Good morning. Mr. Claypole, please,″ Anne repeated.
″I′m afraid he′s in conference. Who′s calling?″
″I have Monsieur Renalle of Agence Arts Nancy. Perhaps Mr. de Lincourt is available?″
″If you will hold, I′ll see.″
There was a pause, and then a male voice came on the line. ″De Lincourt speaking.″
″Good morning, Mr. de Lincourt. I have Monsieur Renalle of Agence Arts Nancy for you.″ Anne nodded to Mitch. As she replaced the receiver of her telephone, he lifted his.
ʺMr. de Lincourt?″ he said.
″Good morning, Monsieur Renalle.″
″Good morning to you. I am sorry I could not write to you in advance, Mr. de Lincourt, but my company is representing the estate of a collector and there is a little urgency.″ Mitch pronounced ″t″ with his tongue on the roof of his mouth, made ″c″ at the back of his throat, and softened the ″g″ in ʺurgency.ʺ
″What can I do to help you?″ the dealer asked politely.
″I have a picture which ought to interest you. It′s a rather early van Gogh, entitled The Gravedigger, seventy-five centimeters by ninety-six. It′s rather fine.ʺ
″Splendid. When can we have a look at it?″
″I am in London now, at the Hilton. Perhaps my assistant could pay you a visit this