The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [74]
″Yes, but what about this: ʹThe forger covered his trail so well that Scotland Yard believe he must have had the help of an experienced criminal.′ I reckon I′m the brilliant forger and you′re the experienced criminal.ʺ
Mitch put the newspaper down and blew on his coffee to cool it. ″It just shows how easily it can be done—which is what we set out to prove.″
″Here′s a good bit: ʹThe forger′s masterstroke was to provide each painting with a provenance—which is the art world′s equivalent of a pedigree, and is normally thought to guarantee the authenticity of a work. The provenances were on the official paper of Meunier′s, the Paris artists′ agents, and had the company′s stamp. Both paper and stamp must have been stolen.′ I like that—the masterstroke.″ Peter folded his paper and threw it across the room.
Mitch reached out for Anne′s guitar and began to play a simple blues tune. Peter said: ″I hope Arnaz is laughing—he paid for the joke.″
″I don′t think he really believed we could pull it off.″
″Nor did I,″ Peter laughed.
Mitch put the guitar down suddenly, causing the soundbox to boom. ″We haven′t done the most important bit yet. Let′s get on with it.″
Peter swallowed the rest of his coffee and got up. The two put on their jackets, called goodbye to Anne, and went out.
They walked along the street and squeezed into the telephone booth on the comer.
″Something′s worrying me,″ said Peter as he picked up the phone.
″That bit about Scotland Yard?″
ʺRight.ʺ
ʺItʹs bothering me, too,″ said Mitch. ″They might be all set to trace our call to the newspaper. They could get down here to the kiosk, throw a cordon around the area, and question everyone until they found someone connected with art.″
″So what do we do?″
ʺLetʹs just phone another newspaper. Theyʹll all know about the story by now.″
ʺOkay.ʺ Peter lifted the directory from the rack and looked under D for Daily.
″Which one?″ he said.
Mitch closed his eyes and stuck a finger on the page. Peter dialed the number, and asked to speak to a reporter.
When he got through he asked: ʺDo you take shorthand?″
The voice replied testily: ″Of course.″
ʺThen take. I am Renalle, the master forger, and I am about to tell you why I did it. I wanted to prove that the London art scene, in its concentration on masterpieces and dead painters, is phony. The best ten dealers in London cannot tell a forgery when they see one. They are motivated by greed and snobbery, rather than love of art. Because of them the money going into art is diverted away from the artists themselves, who really need it.″
ʺSlow down,″ the reporter protested.
Peter ignored him. ″I am now offering the dealers their money back, minus my expenses which come to about one thousand pounds. The conditon is that they set aside one-tenth of the cash—that will be about fifty thousand pounds—to provide a building in Central London where young, unknown artists can rent studios at low prices. The dealers must get together, and set up a trust fund to buy and manage the building. The other condition is that all police inquiries are dropped. I will look for their reply to my offer in the columns of your newspaper.″
The reporter said quickly: ″Are you a young painter yourself?ʺ
Peter put the phone down.
Mitch said: ″You forgot the French accent.″
″Oh, fuck,″ Peter swore. They left the phone booth.
As they walked back to the house, Mitch said: ″What the hell, I don′t suppose it makes any difference. Now they know it was not a French job. That narrows their field to the whole of the UK. So what?″
Peter bit his lip. ″It shows we′re getting slack, that′s what. We had better be careful not to count our chickens before they′ve paid up.″
″Hatched.″
″Fuck proverbs.″
Anne was in the front garden, playing with Vibeke in the sunshine, when they got back.
″The sun is shining—letʹs go out,″ she said.
Peter looked at Mitch. ″Why not?″
A deep American voice came from the sidewalk outside. ″How are the happy forgers?″
Peter whitened and turned around. He relaxed when he saw the stocky figure and white teeth of Arnaz. The man