The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [66]
Anne controlled her elation. ″Thirty thousand.″
Crowforth smiled, and she wondered whether he, too, was controlling his elation. ʺI think we can meet that sum.″
To Anne′s astonishment, he took a checkbook from his desk drawer and began to write. Just like that! she thought. Aloud she said: ″Would you make it out to Hollows and Cox, our London representatives.″ Crowforth looked mildly surprised, so she added: ʺThey are simply an accounting firm, who arrange the transfer of funds to France.″ That satisfied him. He tore out the check and handed it to her.
″Are you in London long?″ he inquired politely.
ʺJust a few days.″ Anne was itching to get away now, but she did not want to arouse suspicion. She had to persist with the small talk for the sake of appearances.
ʺThen I hope to see you next time you come.″ Crowforth held out his hand.
They left the office and walked down the stairs, Mitch carrying the empty case. Anne whispered excitedly: ″He didn′t recognize me!″
″Not surprising. He′s only ever seen you from a distance. Besides, then you were the dowdy, mouselike wife of a flamboyant painter. Now you′re a vivacious French blonde.″
They caught a taxi just outside, and directed the driver to the Hilton. Anne sat back in the seat and looked at the check from Crowforth.
″Oh my God, we did it,″ she said quietly. Then she began to sob.
″Let′s clear out of here as quickly as we can,″ said Mitch briskly.
It was one o′clock on the day after they had moved into the Hilton. The last forged masterpiece had just been delivered to a gallery in Chelsea, and there were ten checks in Anne′s genuine lizard-skin handbag.
They packed their small suitcases and cleared the room of the pens, papers, and personal possessions they had left around. Mitch took a towel from the bathroom and wiped the telephones and the shiny surfaces of the furniture.
″The rest doesn′t matter,ʺ he said. ″The odd single print on a wall or a window will be no use at all to the police.″ He threw the towel into the sink. ″Besides, there will be so many other prints everywhere by the time they cotton on, it will be a life′s work sorting them all out.″
Five minutes later they checked out. Mitch paid the bill with a check on the bank where he had opened the account in the names of Hollows and Cox.
They took a taxi to Harrods. Inside the store they separated. Anne found the ladies′ and entered a cubicle. She put her case down on the toilet, opened it, and took out a raincoat and sou′wester-style hat. When she had them on she closed the case and left the cubicle.
She looked at herself in the mirror. The coat covered her expensive clothes, and the inelegant hat hid her dyed-blonde hair. A wave of relief swept over her as she realized it no longer mattered whether anyone recognized her.
That possibility had kept her on edge right throughout the operation. She did not know any of the people in that stratum of the art world: Peter knew them, of course, but she had always kept out of his relationships with them. She had gone to the odd gallery party, where nobody had bothered to speak to her. Still, her face—her normal face—might have been vaguely familiar to someone.
She sighed, and began to clean off her makeup with a tissue. For a day and a half she had been a glamorous woman of the world. Heads had turned as she crossed the street. Middle-aged men had become slightly undignified in her presence, flattering her and opening doors for her. Women had gazed enviously at her clothes.
Now she was back to being—what had Mitch called it? The ″dowdy, mouselike wife of a flamboyant painter.″
She would never be quite the same, she felt. In the past she had never been much interested in clothes, makeup and perfume. She had thought of herself as plain, and she had been content to be a wife and a mother. Now she had tried the high life. She had been a successful, beautiful villainess—and something hidden, from the depths of her personality, had responded to the role. The ghost had escaped from its prison in her heart, and now