The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [83]
He drove back to London in a daze. How it had happened he had no idea. He was trying to figure out what to do about it.
He had gone down to Moore simply with the idea of adding to the value of the painting. It had been a sort of afterthought; there had been no doubt in his mind about the authenticity of the work. Now he wished he had not bothered. And the question he was turning over in his mind, playing with as a gambler rolls the dice between his palms, was: could he pretend he had not seen Moore?
He could still put the picture up in the gallery. No one would know it was not genuine. Moore would never see it, never know it was in circulation.
The trouble was, he might mention it casually. It could be years later. Then the truth would come out: Julian Black had sold a painting he knew to be a fake. That would be the end of his career.
It was unlikely. Good God, Moore would die anyway within a few years—he must be pushing seventy. If only the old man would die soon.
Suddenly Julian realized that, for the first time in his life, he was contemplating murder. He shook his head, as if to dear it of confusion. The idea was absurd. But alongside such a drastic notion, the risk of showing the picture diminished. What was there to lose? Without the Modigliani, Julian hardly had a career anyway. There would be no more money from his father-in-law, and the gallery would probably be a flop.
It was decided, then. He would forget about Moore. He would show the picture.
The essential thing now was to act as if nothing had happened. He was expected for dinner at Lord Cardwellʹs. Sarah would be there, and she was planning to stay the night. Julian would spend the night with his wife: what could be more normal? He headed for Wimbledon.
When he arrived, a familiar dark blue Daimler was in the drive alongside his father-in-lawʹs Rolls. Julian transferred his fake Modigliani to the boot of the Cortina before going to the door.
ʺEvening, Sims,″ he said as the butler opened the door. ″Is that Mr. Lampethʹs car in the drive?″
″Yes, sir. They are all in the gallery.″
Julian handed over his short coat and mounted the stairs. He could hear Sarah′s voice coming from the room at the top.
He stopped short as he entered the gallery. The walls were bare.
Cardwell called: ″Come in, Julian, and join in the commiserations. Charles here has taken all my paintings away to sell them.″
Julian walked over, shook hands, and kissed Sarah. ″It′s a bit of a shock,″ he said. ʺThe place looks naked.ʺ
″Doesn′t it?″ Cardwell agreed heartily. ″We′re going to have a damn good dinner and forget about it. Sorry, Sarah.″
″You don′t have to watch your language with me, you know that,″ his daughter said.
″Oh, my God,ʺ Julian breathed. He was staring at one painting left on the wall.
″What is it?″ said Lampeth. ″You look as if you′ve seen a ghost. That′s just a little acquisition of mine I brought along to show you all. Can′t have a gallery with no pictures at all.″
Julian turned away and walked to the window. His mind was in a turmoil. The picture Lampeth had brought was an exact copy of his fake Modigliani.
The bastard had the real one while Julian had a dud. He almost choked with hatred.
Suddenly a wild, foolhardy plan was born in his mind. He turned around quickly.
They were looking at him, expressions of slightly concerned puzzlement on their faces.
Cardwell said: ″I was just telling Charles that you, too, have a new Modigliani, Julian.″
Julian forced a smile. ʺThatʹs why this is such a shock. It′s exactly like mine.″
″Good Lord!″ Lampeth said. ″Have you had it authenticated?″
″No,″ Julian lied. ″Have you?″
″Afraid not. Lord, I thought there was no doubt about this one.″
Cardwell said: ʺWell, one of you has a forgery. It seems there are more forgeries than genuine works in the art world these days. Personally, I hope Julian′s is the one—Iʹve got a stake in it.″ He laughed heartily.
″They could both be genuine,″ Sarah said. ″Lots of painters repeated themselves.″
Julian asked Lampeth: ″Where did