The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [65]
ʺThis afternoon. Shall we say two-thirty?ʺ
ʺBien—very good. I have your address.″
″Have you a figure in mind, Monsieur Renalle?″
″We price the work at about ninety thousand pounds.″
″Well, we can discuss that later.″
″Certainly. My assistant is empowered to come to an agreement.″
″I look forward to two-thirty, then.″
″Goodbye, Mr. de Lincourt.ʺ
Mitch replaced the receiver and sighed heavily.
Anne said: ″God, you′re sweating.″
He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. ″I didn′t think I′d get to the end of it. That bloody accent—I wish I′d practiced more.″
″You were marvelous. I wonder what the slimy Mr. de Lincourt is thinking right now?″
Mitch lit a cigarette. ″I know. He′s delighted to be dealing with a provincial French agent who doesn′t know the price of a van Gogh.″
ʺThe line about representing the estate of a dead collector is great. That makes it plausible that a minor dealer in Nancy should be arranging the sale.″
″And hell be in a hurry to close the deal in case one of his rivals hears about the sucker and gets in first.ʺ Mitch smiled grimly. ″Okay, let′s do the next on the list.ʺ
Anne picked up the phone and began to dial.
The taxi stopped outside the plate-glass windows of Crowforth′s in Piccadilly. Anne paid the driver while Mitch lugged the canvas, in its heavy leather case, into the art dealerʹs splendid premises.
A broad, open staircase of Scandinavian pine ran up from the ground-floor showroom to the offices above. Anne led the way up, and knocked on a door.
Ramsey Crowforth turned out to be a wiry, white-haired Glaswegian of about sixty. He peered at Anne and Mitch over his spectacles as he shook hands and offered Anne a seat. Mitch stayed standing, the portfolio clutched in his arms.
His room was paneled in the same pine as the staircase, and his carpet was an orange-brown mixture. He stood in front of his desk, his weight on one foot, with one arm dangling at his side and the other on his hip, pushing his jacket back to reveal Lurex suspenders. He was an authority on the German Expressionists, but he had awful taste, Anne thought.
″So you′re Mademoiselle Renalle,ʺ he said in his high-pitched Scots accent. ″And the Monsieur Renalle I spoke to this morning was ...″
″My father,″ Anne supplied, avoiding Mitch′s eyes.
″Right. Let′s see what you′ve got.″
Anne gestured to Mitch. He took the painting out of the case and stood it on a chair. Crowforth folded his arms and gazed at it.
″An early work,″ he said softly, speaking as much to himself as the others. ″Before Munch′s psychoses really took hold. Fairly typical ...ʺ He turned away from the picture. ″Would you like a glass of sherry?″ Anne nodded. ″And your er ... assistant?″ Mitch declined, with a shake of his head.
As he poured, he asked: ″I gather you′re acting for the estate of a collector, is that right?″
″Yes.″ Anne realized that he was making small talk, to let the impact of the painting sink in before he made a decision. ″His name was Roger Dubois—a businessman. His company made agricultural machinery. His collection was small, but very well-chosen.″
″Obviously.″ Crowforth handed her a glass and leaned back against his desk, studying the picture again. ʺThis isn′t quite my period, you know. I specialize in Expressionists in general, rather than Munch in particular: and his early work isn′t Expressionist, obviously.″ He gestured toward the canvas with his glass. ″I like this, but I would want another opinion on it.″
Anne felt a spasm of tension between her shoulders, and tried to control the blush which began at her throat. ʺI would be happy to leave it with you overnight, if you wish,″ she said. ″However, there is a provenance.″ She opened her briefcase and took out a folder containing the document she had forged back in the studio. It had Meunierʹs letterhead and stamp. She handed it to Crowforth.
″Oh!″ he exclaimed. He studied the certificate. ʺThis puts a different complexion on matters, of course. I can make you an immediate offer.″ He studied the picture again for a long moment. ″What