The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [71]
It had been a short and spectacular one, but there was little substance beneath the glittering surface. He had joined a small weekly in South London after leaving Oxford, then he had worked for a news agency, then he had managed to get this job on a quality Sunday paper. It had taken him less than five years.
That was the glitter: the dross was that it had been worthless. He had always wanted to be an art critic. That was why he had suffered the weekly in order to learn his trade, and put up with the agency in order to prove his competence. But now, after three months on the Sunday paper, he had realized that he was at the end of a very long queue for the art critic′s comfortable chair. There seemed to be no more shortcuts.
The story he was to do this week involved pollution of a reservoir in South Wales. Today, if anyone asked, he was making preliminary inquiries. Tomorrow the pollution story would have shifted to a beach on the Sussex coast, or something. Whatever happened the job had not the remotest connection with art.
A fat file of newspaper clippings in front of him was marked: ʺWater—Pollution—Reservoirs.ʺ He was reaching to open it when the phone rang. He diverted his hand to the receiver.
″Newsdesk.″
″Have you got a pencil ready?″
Louis Broom frowned. He had taken many crank phone calls in five years of journalism, but this approach was a new one. He opened the desk drawer and took out a ballpoint and a pad.
″Yes. What can I do for you?″
The answer was another question. ″Do you know anything about art?″
Louis frowned again. The man did not sound much like a crank. The voice was steady and unhysterical, and there was none of the breathless intensity which normally characterized screwball telephoners.
″As it happens, I do.″
″Good. Listen carefully, because I won′t repeat anything. The biggest fraud in the history of art was perpetrated in London last week.″
Oh dear, thought Louis, it is a crank. ″What is your name, sir?″ he said politely.
″Shut up and make a note. Claypole and Company bought a van Gogh called The Gravedigger for eighty-nine thousand pounds. Crowforth′s bought a Munch titled The High Chair for thirty thousand.″
Louis scribbled frantically as the voice droned a list of ten pictures and galleries.
Finally the voice said: ″The total comes to more than half a million pounds. I′m not asking you to believe me. But you′ll have to check. Then, when you′ve published your story, we will tell you why we did it.″
″Just a minute—ʺ The phone clicked in Louisʹs ear, and he heard the dial tone. He put the receiver down.
He sat back and lit a cigarette while he wondered what to do about the call. It certainly could not be ignored. Louis was 99 percent sure the caller was a nutcase: but it was by following up the onepercenters that great exclusives were found.
He debated telling the news editor. If he did, he would probably be told to pass the tip to the art critic. Much better to make a start on the story first, if only to establish his own claim to it.
He looked up Claypole in the directory and dialed the number.
″Do you have a van Gogh called The Gravedigger for sale?″
″Just a moment, sir, and I will find out.″
Louis used the pause to light another cigarette.
″Hello? Yes, we do have that work.″
″Would you tell me the price?″
″A hundred and six thousand guineas.″
ʺThank you.ʺ
Louis rang Crowforth & Co. and found that they did indeed have a Munch called The High Chair for sale at 39,000 guineas.
He began to think hard. The story was standing up. But it was not yet time to talk about the story.
He picked up the phone and dialed another number.
Professor Peder Schmidt hobbled into the bar on his crutch. He was a big, energetic man with blond hair and a red face. Despite a slight speech impediment and an atrocious German accent, he had been one of the best