The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [81]
Willow was about to reply when the gallery door opened.
″I′m afraid we′re closed,″ Lampeth called out.
A man came in. ″It′s all right, Mr. Lampeth,″ he said. ″My name′s Louis Broom—we met the other day. I′ve had a call to say that the half-a-million has been paid back. Is that true?″
Lampeth looked at Willow, and they both smiled. Lampeth said: ″Goodbye, South America.″
Willow shook his head in awe. ″I have to hand it to our friend Renalle. He thought of everything.″
IV
JULIAN DROVE SLOWLY THROUGH the quiet Dorset village, steering the hired Cortina carefully along the narrow road. All he had by way of an address was Gaston Moore, Dunroamin, Cramford. Dunroamin! It was a mystery how the most discriminating art expert in the country could have called his retirement home such a banal name. Perhaps it was a joke.
Moore was certainly eccentric. He refused to come to London, he had no telephone, and he never answered letters. When the bigwigs of the art world required his services, they had to trek down to this village and knock on his door. And they had to pay his fees in crisp one-pound notes. Moore had no bank account.
There never seemed to be anyone around in villages, Julian reflected. He turned a bend and braked hard. A herd of cattle was crossing the road. He killed the engine and got out. He would ask the cowhand.
He expected to see a young man with a pudding-basin haircut chewing a stalk of grass. The cowhand was young; but he had a trendy haircut, a pink sweater, and purple trousers tucked into his Wellington boots.
The man said: ″You lookinʹ for the painter man?″ The accent was a pleasantly rich burr.
″How did you guess?″ Julian wondered aloud.
″Most furriners want ′un.″ The cowhand pointed. ″Back the way you come, turn down the road by the white house. ʺTis a bungalow.″
ʺThank you.″ Julian got back into the car and reversed down the road until he reached the white house. There was a rutted track beside it. He followed the track until he reached a wide gate. ʺDunroamin″ was written in faded Gothic lettering on the peeling white paintwork.
Julian patted his pocket to make sure the wad of notes was still there; then he took the carefully packed painting from the backseat and maneuvered it out of the car. He opened the gate and walked up the short path to the door.
Moore′s home was a pair of ancient thatched workingmen′s cottages which had been knocked into one. The roof was low, the windows small and leaded, the mortar between the stones crumbling. Julian would not have called it a bungalow.
His knock was answered, after a long wait, by a bent man with a cane. He had a shock of white hair, thick-lensed spectacles, and a birdlike tilt to his head.
″Mr. Moore?″ Julian said.
″What if it is?″ the man replied in a Yorkshire accent.
ʺJulian Black, of the Black Gallery. I wonder if you would authenticate a picture for me.″
ʺDid you bring cash?″ Moore was still holding the door, as if ready to slam it.
″I did.″
″Come on then.″ He led the way inside the house. ″Mind your head,″ he said unnecessarily—julian was too short to be bothered by the low beams.
The living room seemed to occupy most of one of the cottages. It was crammed with oldish furniture, among which a brand-new, very big color television stuck out like a sore thumb. It smelled of cats and varnish.
″Let′s have a look at it, then.″
Julian began to unpack the painting, taking off the leather straps, the polystyrene sheets, and the cotton wool.
″No doubt it′s another forgery,ʺ Moore said. ″All I see these days is fakes. There′s so much of it going on. I see on the telly some smart-alec got them all chasing their behinds the other week. I had to laugh.″
Julian handed him the canvas. ″I think youʹll find this one is genuine,″ he said. ″I just want your seal of approval.″
Moore took the painting, but did not look at it. ″Now you must realize something,ʺ he said. ″I can′t prove a painting is genuine. The only way to do that is to watch the artist paint it, from start to finish, then take