The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [68]
The manager picked up the phone on his desk and spoke into it. Mitch stared out of the window.
″It′s on its way,″ said the manager.
″Good. When you have completed the purchase of securities, put them in the safe deposit.″
A young man came in and handed the manager a key. The manager gave it to Mitch. Mitch stood up and shook hands.
ʺThank you for your help.″
″My pleasure, Mr. Hollows.″
A week later Mitch telephoned the bank and confirmed that the securities had been bought and deposited in the safe. He took an empty suitcase and went to the bank on the Tube.
He went down to the vault, opened his box, and put all the securities in the suitcase. Then he left.
He walked around the corner to another bank, where he arranged to have another safe deposit box. He paid for the privilege with a check of his own, and put the new box in his own name. Then he put the suitcase full of securities in the new box.
On the way home he stopped at a phone booth and telephoned a Sunday newspaper.
V
SAMANTHA STEPPED INTO THE Black Gallery and looked around in wonder. The place was transformed. Last time she had been here, it had been full of workmen, rubble, paint cans and plastic sheeting. Now it looked more like an elegant apartment: richly carpeted, tastefully decorated, with interesting futuristic furniture and a jungle of bright aluminum spotlights growing out of the low ceiling.
Julian sat at a chrome-and-glass desk just beside the door. When he saw her he got up and shook hands, giving a perfunctory nod to Tom.
He said to Sammy: ″I′m thrilled you′re going to do the opening for me. Shall I show you around?″
″If you can spare the time from your work,″ Samantha said politely.
He made a pushing-aside gesture with his hand. ″Just looking at the bills, and trying to make them go away by telepathy. Come on.″
Julian had changed, Samantha thought. She studied him as he showed them the paintings and talked about the artists. His earlobe-length fair hair had been layered and styled, losing the public-schoolboy look to a more natural, fashionable cut. He spoke now with confidence and authority, and his walk was more sure and aggressive. Samantha wondered whether it was the wife problem or the money problem which had been solved: perhaps it was both.
She liked his taste in art, she decided. There was nothing breathtakingly original on display—unless you counted the wriggling mass of fiberglass sculpture in the alcove—but the works were modem and somehow well-done. The kind of thing I might have on my wall, she thought and found that the expression suited how she felt.
He took them around quickly, as if afraid they might get bored. Samantha was grateful: it was all very nice, but these days all she wanted to do was get high or sleep. Tom had started to refuse her the pills occasionally, like in the mornings. Without them her moods changed fast.
They came full circle to the door. Samantha said: ″I have a favor to ask you, Julian.″
″Your servant, ma′am.″
ʺWill you get us invited to your father-in-lawʹs house for dinner?″
He raised his eyebrows. ″Why would you want to meet that old shit?″
″He fascinates me. Who would build a million-pound art collection, then sell it? Besides, he sounds like my type.″ She fluttered her eyelashes.
Julian shrugged. ″If you really want to, it′s easy. I′ll take you—Sarah and I go to dinner a couple of times a week anyway. It saves cooking. Iʹll give you a ring.″
ʺThank you.ʺ
″Now then, you know that date of the opening. I′d be grateful if you could get here at about six-thirty.″
ʺJulian, I′m glad to help, but I can′t be anything but the last to arrive, you know.″
He laughed. ″Of course not. I forget you′re a star. The official start is seven-thirty or eight, so perhaps eight o′clock would be best.″
ʺOkay. But dinner with Lord Cardwell first, right?″
ʺRight.ʺ
They shook hands again. As they left Julian returned to his desk and his bills.
Tom moved sideways through the packed crowd in the street market. It never seemed to be half full: unless it was jammed