The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [9]
Willow stood up. ″I′ll get on to my contact and tell him to buy. And if Usher inquires, I′ll stall him.″
″Yes. Be nice to him.″
Willow went out, and Lampeth pulled toward him a wire tray containing the morning′s post. He picked up an envelope, its top slit ready for him—then his eye fell on a postcard underneath. He dropped the envelope and picked up the postcard. He looked at the picture on the front, and guessed it to be of a street in Paris. Then he turned it over and read the message. He smiled at first, amused by the breathless prose and the forest of exclamation marks.
Then he sat back and thought. His niece had a way of giving the impression she was a feminine, scatty young thing; but she had a very sharp brain and a certain cool determination. She usually meant what she said, even if she sounded like a flapper of the 1920s.
Lampeth left the rest of his post in the tray, slipped the postcard into his inside jacket pocket, picked up his umbrella, and went out.
Everything about the agency was discreet—even its entrance. It was cleverly designed so that when a taxi drew up in its forecourt, the visitor could not be seen from the street as he got out, paid his fare, and entered by the door in the side of the portico.
The staff, with their mannered subservience, was rather like those at the gallery—although for different reasons. If forced to say exactly what the agency′s business was, they would murmur that it made inquiries on behalf of its clients. Just as the assistants at the Belgrave never mentioned money, so those at the agency never mentioned detectives.
Indeed, Lampeth had never to his knowledge seen a detective there. The detectives at Lipsey′s did not reveal who their clients were for the simple reason that they frequently did not know. Discretion mattered even more than a successful conclusion to an operation.
Lampeth was recognized, although he had only been there two or three times. His umbrella was taken, and he was shown into the office of Mr. Lipsey: a short, dapper man, with straight black hair, and the slightly mournful, tactfully persistent approach of a coroner at an inquest.
He shook hands with Lampeth and mótioned him to a chair. His office looked more like a solicitor′s than a detective′s, with dark wood, drawers instead of filing cabinets, and a safe in a wall. His desk was full, but neat, with pencils arranged in a row, papers piled tidily, and a pocket electronic calculator.
The calculator reminded Lampeth that most of the agency′s business involved investigating possible fraud: hence its location in the City. But they also traced individuals and—for Lampeth—pictures. Their fees were high, which gave Lampeth comfort.
″A glass of sherry?″ Lipsey offered.
″Thank you.″ Lampeth took the postcard from his pocket while the other man poured from a decanter. He took the proffered glass and gave the postcard in exchange. Lipsey sat down, set his sherry untouched on the desk and studied the card.
A minute later he said: ″I take it you want us to find the picture.″
″Yes.″
″Hmm. Do you have your niece′s address in Paris?″
″No, but my sister—her mother—will know. I′ll get it for you. However, if I know Delia, she will probably have left Paris by now—in search of the Modiglianis. Unless it′s in Paris.″
″So—we are left with her friends there. And this picture. Is it possible that she got the scent, so to speak, of this great find somewhere near the café?″
″That′s very likely,″ said Lampeth. ″Good guessing. She′s an impulsive girl.″
″I imagined so from me—ah—style of the correspondence. Now, what are the chances that this will turn out to be a wild-goose chase?″
Lampeth shrugged. ″There is always that possibility with searches for lost pictures. But don′t be misled by Delia′s style—sheʹs just won a First in Art History, and she is a shrewd twenty-five-year-old. If she would work for me I′d employ her, if only to keep her out of the hands of my competitors.″
″And the chances?ʺ
″Fifty-fifty. No, better—seventy-thirty.