The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [77]
Cardwell showed obvious pleasure as he walked her along the rows of paintings, telling a little about how he had acquired each one.
She asked him: ″Have you always liked paintings?″
He nodded. ″It′s one of the things a classical education teaches you. However, there′s a lot it leaves out—like the cinema, for example.″
They stopped beside a Modigliani. It was of a naked woman kneeling on the floor—a real woman, Samantha thought, with a plain face, untidy hair, jutting bones and imperfect skin. She liked it.
Cardwell was such a pleasant, charming man, that she began to feel guilty about planning to rob him. Still, he was losing the pictures anyway, and his insurance would pay up. Besides, the Sheriff of Nottingham was probably quite charming.
She wondered, sometimes, whether she and Tom were slightly mad—whether his madness was an infection he had passed on to her—a sexually transmitted disease. She suppressed a grin. God, she had not felt so alive for years.
As they walked out of the gallery she said: ″I′m surprised you′re selling the pictures—you seem so fond of them.″
Cardwell smiled ruefully. ″Yes. But needs must, when the Devil drives.″
″I know what you mean,″ Samantha replied.
III
ʺTHIS IS BLOODY AWFUL, Willow,ʺ said Charles Lampeth. He felt the language was justified. He had come in to his office on Monday morning, after a weekend in a country house with no telephone and no worries, to find his gallery in the thick of a scandal.
Willow stood stiffly in front of Lampeth′s desk. He took an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and dropped it on the desk. ″My resignation.″
″There′s absolutely no need for it,″ Lampeth said. ″Every major gallery in London was fooled by these people. Lord, I saw the picture myself and I was taken in.ʺ
″It might be better for the gallery if I did go,″ Willow persisted.
″Nonsense. Now, you′ve made the gesture and I′ve refused to accept your resignation, so let′s forget it. Sit down, there′s a good chap, and tell me exactly what happened.ʺ
ʺItʹs all in there,ʺ Willow replied, pointing at the newspapers on Lampeth′s desk. ″The story of the forgery in yesterday′s paper, and the terms we′re being offered in today′s.″ He sat down and lit a slim cigar.
ʺTell me anyway.″
″It was while you were in Cornwall. I got a phone call from this chap Renalle, who said he was at the Hilton. Said he had a Pissarro which we might like. I knew we didn′t have any Pissarros, of course, so I was quite keen. He came round with the picture that afternoon.″
Lampeth interrupted: ″I thought it was a woman who took the pictures to the galleries?ʺ.
″Not this one. It was the chap himself.″
″I wonder whether there′s a reason for that,″ Lampeth mused. ″Anyway, carry on.″
″Well, the painting looked good. It looked like Pissarro, it was signed, and there was a provenance from Meunier′s. I thought it was worth eighty-five thousand pounds. He asked sixty-nine thousand, so I jumped at it. He said he was from an agency in Nancy, so it seemed quite likely he would undervalue a picture. I assumed he was simply not used to handling high-priced works. You came back a couple of days later and approved the purchase, and we put the work on display.″
ʺThank God we didn′t sell it,″ Lampeth said fervently. ″You′ve taken it down, now, of course.ʺ
″First thing this morning.ʺ
″What about this latest development?″
″The ransom, you mean? Well, we would get most of our money back. It is humiliating, of course: but nothing compared with the embarrassment of being duped in the first place. And this idea of theirs—low-rent studios for artists—is really quite laudable.″
″So what do you suggest?″
ʺI think the first step must be to get all the dealers together for a meeting.″
″Fine.″
″Might we hold it here?″
″I don′t see why not. Only get the whole thing over with as soon as possible. The publicity is appalling.″
″It will get worse before it improves. The police