The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [78]
″Then we had better get some work done before they arrive.″ Lampeth reached across his desk, lifted the telephone, and said: ″Some coffee, please, Mavis.″ He unbuttoned his jacket and put a cigar between his teeth. ″Are we ready for the Modigliani exhibition?″
″Yes. I think it will go well.″
ʺWhat have we got?″
″There are Lord Cardwell′s three, of course.″
″Yes. They′ll be picked up within the next few days.″
″Then we′ve got the drawings I bought right at the start. They have arrived safely.″
ʺWhat about dealing pictures?ʺ
″We′ve done quite well. Dixon is lending us two portraits, the Magi have some sculptures for us, and we′ve got a couple of oil-and-crayon nudes from Deside′s. There are more which I have to confirm.″
″What commission did Dixon want?″
″He asked for twenty-five percent but I knocked him down to twenty.″
Lampeth grunted. ″I wonder why he goes to the trouble of trying it on. Anyone would think we were a shop front in Chelsea instead of a leading gallery.″
Willow smiled. ″We always try it on with him.″
ʺTrue.ʺ
″You said you had something up your sleeve.″
″Ah, yes.ʺ Lampeth looked at his watch. ″An undiscovered one. I have to go and see about it this morning. Still, it can wait until I′ve had my coffee.″
Lampeth thought about the forger as his taxi threaded its way through the West End toward the City. The man was a lunatic, of course: but a lunatic with altruistic motives. It was easy to be philanthropic with other people′s money.
Undoubtedly, the sensible thing would be to give in to his demands. Lampeth just hated to be blackmailed.
The cab pulled into the forecourt of the agency and Lampeth entered the building. An assistant helped him with his overcoat, which he had worn because of the chill breezes of early September.
Lipsey was waiting for him in his office, the inevitable glass of sherry ready on the table. Lampeth settled his bulk into a chair. He sipped the sherry to warm him.
″So you′ve got it.″
Lipsey nodded. He turned to the wall and swung aside a section of bookcase to reveal a safe. With a key attached by a thin chain to the waist of his trousers, he unlocked the door.
″It′s as well I′ve a big safe,ʺ he said. He reached in with both hands and took out a framed canvas about four feet by three feet. He propped it on his desk where Lampeth could see it, and stood behind it, supporting it.
Lampeth stared for a minute. Then he put down his sherry glass, got up, and came closer. He took a magnifier from his pocket and studied the brush-work. Then he stood back and looked again.
″What did you have to give for it?′ he asked.
″I′m afraid I forked out fifty thousand pounds.″
″It′s worth double that.″
Lipsey moved the painting to the floor and sat down again. ″I think it′s hideous,″ he said.
″So do I. But it′s absolutely unique. Quite astonishing. There′s no doubt it′s Modigliani—but no one knew he ever painted stuff like this.″
″I′m glad you′re pleased,″ said Lipsey. His tone said he wanted to introduce a more businesslike note into the conversation.
″You must have put a good man on it,″ Lampeth mused.
ʺThe best.″ Lipsey suppressed a grin. ″He went to Paris, Livorno, Rimini ...″
″And he beat my niece to it.″
″Not exactly. What happened—ʺ
″I don′t want to know the details,″ Lampeth cut in. ″Have you got a bill ready for me? I′d like to pay it right away.″
″Certainly.″ Lipsey went to the office door and spoke to his secretary. He came back with a sheet of paper in his hand.
Lampeth read the bill. Apart from the £50,000 for the painting, it came to £1,904. He took out his personal checkbook and wrote the amount in.
″You′ll get an armored truck to deliver it?″
″Of course,″ Lipsey said. ʺThatʹs in the bill. Is everything else satisfactory?″
Lampeth ripped out a check and handed it to the detective. ″I consider I′ve got a bargain,″ he said.
The New Room was closed to the public, and a long conference table had been brought in and set in the center. All around the walls were dark, heavy Victorian landscapes. They seemed appropriate