The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [82]
″Sure,″ said Julian.
Moore continued to look at him, the painting face-down on his knees.
″Well, are you going to examine it?″
″You haven′t paid me yet.″
ʺSorry.ʺ Julian reached into his pocket for the money.
″Two hundred pounds.″
″Right.″ Julian handed over two wads of notes. Moore began to count them.
As he watched, Julian thought how well the old man had chosen to spend his retirement. He lived alone, in peace and quiet, conscious of a life′s work expertly done. He cocked a snook at the pressures and snobbery of London, giving sparingly of his great skill, forcing the art world princes to make a tiresome pilgrimage to his home before he would grant them audience. He was dignified and independent. Julian rather envied him.
Moore finished counting the money and tossed it casually into a drawer. At last he looked at the painting.
Straightaway he said: ″Well, if it′s a forgery, it′s a bloody good one.″
″How can you tell so quickly?″
″The signature is exactly right—not too perfect. That′s a mistake most forgers make—they reproduce the signature so exactly it looks contrived. This one flows freely.″ He ran his eye over the canvas. ″Unusual. I like it. Well, would you like me to do a chemical test?″
ʺWhy not?″
″Because it means marking the canvas. I have to take a scraping. It can be done in a place where the frame will normally hide the mark, but I always ask anyway.″
″Go ahead.″
Moore got up. ″Come along.″ He led Julian back through the hallway into the second cottage. The smell of varnish became stronger. ʺThis is the laboratory, ʺ Moore said.
It was a square room with a wooden workbench along one wall. The windows had been enlarged, and the walls painted white. A fluorescent strip light hung from the ceiling. On the bench were several old paint cans containing peculiar fluids.
Moore took out his false teeth with a swift movement, and dropped them in a Pyrex beaker. ″Can′t work with them in,″ he explained. He sat down at his bench and laid the painting in front of him.
He began to dismantle the frame. ″I′ve got a feeling about you, lad,″ he said as he worked. ″I think you′re like me. They don′t accept you as one of them, do they?″
Julian frowned in puzzlement. ″I don′t think they do.″
″You know, I always knew more about painting than the people I worked for. They used my expertise, but they never really respected me. That′s why I′m so bloody-minded with them nowadays. You′re like a butler, you know. Most good butlers know more about food and wine than their masters. Yet they′re still looked down on. It′s called class distinction I spent my life trying to be one of them. I thought being an art expert was the way, but I was wrong. There is no way!ʺ .
″How about marrying in?″ Julian suggested.
″Is that what you did? You′re worse off than me, then. You can′t drop out of the race. I feel sorry for you, son.″
One arm of the frame was now free, and Moore slid the glass out. He took a sharp knife, like a scalpel, from a rack in front of him. He peered closely at the canvas, then delicately ran the blade of the knife across a millimeter of paint.
″Oh,″ he grunted.
what?ʺ
″When did Modigliani die?″
ʺIn 1920.″
ʺOh.ʺ
ʺWhy?ʺ
ʺPaintʹs a bit soft, is all. Doesn′t mean anything. Hold on.″
He took a bottle of clear liquid from a shelf, poured a little into a test tube, and dipped the knife in. Nothing happened for a couple of minutes. To Julian it seemed an age. Then the paint on the knife began to dissolve and seep through the liquid.
Moore looked at Julian. ʺThat settles it.″
ʺWhat have you proved?″
ʺThe paint is no more than three months old, young man. You′ve got a fake. How much did you pay for it?″
julian looked at the paint dissolving in the test tube. ″It cost me