The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [70]
″He looks after the warden for me,″ Wright explained as he pulled away. ″You know what the Bible do say: ′Do not muzzle the ox that grindeth the corn.′ Wardens are oxen.″
Tom tried to figure out why the quote was relevant as Wright guided the car south and west. He gave up when they stopped in a narrow street in theater-land, near Trafalgar Square.
″He lives here?″ Tom said in surprise.
″He does well for himself. ʹLo, how the wicked are raised up!′ He should be rich, the percentage he takes.″ Wright got out of the car.
They went down a narrow street and into a nondescript entrance. An elevator took them to the top floor of the building. There was a spyhole in the door Wright knocked on.
It was opened by a dark-skinned young man in matador pants, a loud shirt, and beads.
Wright said: ″Morning, Mandingo.″
ʺHey, man, c′mon in,″ said Mandingo. He waved them in with a slim hand from which a long cigarette drooped.
The flat was luxuriously decorated in red and black, and cluttered with expensive furniture. The costly electric toys of a man who has more money than he knows how to spend were scattered around: a spherical transistor radio, one large color TV and another portable one, a digital dock, a mass of hi-fi equipment, and an incongruous antique telephone. A pale blonde girl wearing sunglasses lounged in a deep armchair, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She nodded at Wright and Tom, and negligently flicked ash on the deep-pile carpet.
ʺHey, man, what gives?″ Mandingo asked as they sat down.
Wright said: ʺTom here would like you to finance a little blagging.″
Tom thought how disparate the two men were, and wondered why they worked together.
Mandingo looked at him. ʺTom Copper, ain′t it? So you fancy yourself as a draftsman. Last I heard you was kiting.″
″This is a big job, Mandingo.″ Tom was resentful. He did not like to be reminded of his days as a petty check-forger.
″Give, give.″
″You read in the papers about Lord Cardwell′s art collection?″
Mandingo nodded.
″I′ve got an in.″
Mandingo pointed at him. ″I am impressed. Maybe you′ve come a long way, Tom. Where is it kept?″
″His house in Wimbledon.″
″I don′t know if I can fix the police that far out.″
″No need,″ said Tom. ″There are only thirty paintings. I′ll have the whole thing sussed out beforehand. Bill here is working with me. The job will take maybe quarter of an hour.″
Mandingo looked thoughtful. ″A million sobs, in fifteen minutes. I like that.″ He stroked the blonde girl′s thigh absently. ″So what′s the deal? You′ll want me to supply a van and a couple of laborers; to store the hot stuff; and to find a market for it.″ He was talking to himself, thinking aloud. ″It′ll go to the States. I′ll get maybe half a million for it if I do it slowly. Probably take a couple of years to get rid.″ He looked up. ″Okay. I′ll take fifty percent: you split the other half between you. Bear in mind it′ll take a while for the money to come in.″
″Fifty percent?″ Tom said. Wright put a restraining hand on his arm.
″Leave it, Tom. Mandingo′s taking the big risk—storage.″
Mandingo spoke as if he hadn′t heard. ʺThereʹs something else. You′re asking me to put my men at risk, lay out money, find storage—even just talking to you I lay myself open to a conspiracy charge. So don′t do the job unless you′re absolutely certain. If you cock it up—well, just leave the country before I get my hands on you. Failures are bad for my reputation.″
Wright stood up, and Tom followed suit. Mandingo showed them to the door.
He said: ʺHey, Tom, whatʹs your in to that house?″
″I′m going there to dinner. See you.″
Mandingo laughed uproariously as he shut the door.
PART FOUR
The Varnish
″I think I know what it is like to be God.″
PABLO PICASSO,
dead painter
I
THE REPORTER SAT AT his desk in the newsroom, thinking about his career. He had nothing better to do because