by Ken Follett
″Gentlemen,″ Willow began, ″we have all lost a good deal of money and been made to look rather foolish. We cannot retrieve our pride, so we are here to discuss getting our money back.″
ʺItʹs always dangerous to pay a blackmailer.ʺ The high Scots accent belonged to Ramsey Crowforth. He twanged his suspenders and looked over the top of his spectacles at Willow. ″If we cooperate with these people, they—or someone else—could try the same stunt again.ʺ
The mild, quiet voice of John Dixon cut in. ʺI don′t think so, Ramsey. We′re all going to be a lot more careful from now on—especially about provenances. This is the kind of trick you can′t play twice.″
″I agree with Dixon,″ a third man said. Willow looked down the table to see Paul Roberts, the oldest man in the room, talking around the stem of a pipe. He went on: ʺI don′t think the forger has anything to lose. From what I read in the press, it seems he has covered his tracks so well that the police have little or no hope of finding him, regardless of whether we call them off or not. If we refuse to cooperate, all the villain does is pocket his half a million pounds.″
Willow nodded. Roberts was probably the most respected dealer in London—something of a grand old man of the art world—and his word would carry weight.
Willow said, ″Gentlemen, I have made some contingency plans so that, if we do decide to consent to these demands, the thing can be done quickly.ʺ He took a sheaf of papers from his briefcase on the floor beside him. ″I′ve got Mr. Jankers here, our solicitor, to draw up some papers for the setting up of a trust fund.″
He took the top folder from the pile and passed the rest down the table. ″Perhaps you would have a look at these. The important clause is on page three. It says that the trust will do nothing until it receives approximately five hundred thousand pounds from one Monsieur Renalle. At that time it will pay ninety percent of the money to the ten of us, in proportion to the stated amounts we paid for the forgeries. I think you will find those figures correct.″
Crowforth said: ″Somebody′s got to run the trust.″
″I have made some tentative arrangements on that point too,″ said Willow. ″They are subject to your approval, quite naturally. However, the Principal of the West London College of Art, Mr. Richard Pink-man, has agreed to be chairman of the trustees if we so require. I think the vice-chairman should be one of us—perhaps Mr. Roberts.
″We would each have to sign a form of agreement withdrawing any claim on the money apart from the arrangement with the trust. And we would have to agree to withdraw our complaint to the police against Monsieur Renalle and his associates.″
Crowforth said: ″I want my solicitor to study all these papers before signing anything.″
Willow nodded. ″Of course.″
Roberts said: ″I agree—but all the same, we want this business over with quickly. Could we not agree in principle today? The rest could be done by our solicitors over the next day or two, unless there are any snags.″
″A good idea,″ Willow approved. ″Perhaps our Mr. Jankers could coordinate the solicitors′ activities? ʺ Jankers bowed his head in acknowledgment.
″Are we all agreed, then, gentlemen?″ Willow looked around the table for dissenters. There were none. ″All that remains, then, is a statement to the press. Will you be happy to leave that with me?″ He paused for dissent again. ″Very well. In that case I will release a statement immediately. If you will excuse me, I will leave you in Mr. Lampeth′s hands. I believe he has organized some tea.″
Willow got up and left the room. He went to his own office and sat down by the telephone. He picked up the receiver—then paused, and smiled to himself.
″I think you′ve redeemed yourself, Willow,ʺ he said quietly.
Willow walked into Lampeth′s office with an evening newspaper in his hand. ″It seems it′s all over, Lampeth,″ he said. ″Jankers has told the press that all the agreements are signed.″
Lampeth looked at his watch. ʺTime for a gin,″ he said. ″Have one?″
″Please.″
Lampeth opened the cabinet and poured gin into two glasses. ″As for its being all over, I′m not sure. We haven′t got our money yet.″ He opened a bottle of tonic and poured half into each glass.
″Oh, weʹll get the money. The forgers would hardly have bothered to set this up just to cause trouble. Besides, the sooner they give us the cash, the sooner the police lay off.ʺ
″It′s not just the money.″ Lampeth sat down heavily and swallowed half his drink. ″It will be years before the art world recovers from a blow like this. The public now thinks we′re all frauds who don′t know the difference between a masterpiece and a seaside postcard.″
″I must say, er ... ʺ Willow hesitated.
″Well?″
″I can′t help feeling they have proved a point. Quite what it is I don′t know. But something very profound.″
″On the contrary—itʹs simple. They′ve proved that the high prices paid for great works of art reflect snobbery rather than artistic appreciation. We all knew that already. They′ve proved that a real Pissarro is worth no more than an expert copy. Well, it′s the public who inflate the price, not the dealers.″
Willow smiled and gazed out of the window. ″I know. Still, we make our percentage on the inflation.″
″What do they expect? We couldn′t make a living out of fifty-pound canvases.″
″Woolworth′s do.″
″And look at the quality of their stuff. No, Willow. The forger may have his heart in the right place, but he won′t change anything. We lose prestige for a while—a long while, I expect—but before too long everything will be back to normal, simply because that is the way it has to be.″
″I′ve no doubt you′re right,″ said Willow. He finished his drink. ″Well, they′re closing up downstairs. Are you ready to go?″
″Yes.″ Lampeth stood up, and Willow helped him on with his coat. ″By the way, what did the police say in the paper?″
ʺThey said that since the complaints had been withdrawn, they had no option but to suspend inquiries. But they gave the impression they would still like to get hold of Renalle.″
Lampeth walked out of the door and Willow followed him. Lampeth said: ″I don′t think weʹll ever hear from Renalle again.″
The two men were silent as they walked down the stairs and through the empty gallery. Lampeth looked out of the windows and said: ″My car′s not here yet. Look at the rain.″
ʺIʹll press on.″
″No, wait. I′ll give you a lift. We must talk about the Modigliani exhibition. We haven′t had time these last few days.″
Willow pointed across the gallery. ″Somebody′s left their shopping,ʺ he said.
Lampeth looked. In a comer, underneath a rather poor charcoal drawing, were two large Sainsbury′s tote bags. A carton of soap powder stuck out of the top of one. Willow walked over and looked more closely.
He said: ″I suppose we ought to be careful in these days of bag bombs. Do you think the IRA consider us a target?″
Lampeth laughed. ″I don′t think they use Fairy Snow in their bombs.″ He crossed over the room, and hefted one of the bags.
The wet paper broke, and the contents of the bag spilled over the floor. Willow gave a grunt of exclamation and bent down.
Beneath the soap powder and lettuce was a bundle wrapped in newspaper. Inside the newspaper was a pile of stiff cards and sheets of heavyweight paper. Willow sorted through and examined a few.
″They′re stocks and bonds,″ he said finally. ″Open-faced securities—certificates of ownership, negotiable on signature. I′ve never seen so much money in all my life.″
Lampeth smiled. ″The forger paid up,″ he said. ″The deal is done. I suppose we ought to tell the newspapers.″ He stared at the securities for a moment. ʺHalf a million pounds,″ he said quietly. ″Do you realize, Willow—if you snatched those bags and ran away now, you could live well for the rest of your life in South America?�
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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 it away with you and lock it in a safe. Then you can be sure. All I do is try to prove it′s a fake. There are all sorts of ways in which a forgery might reveal itself, and I know most of them. But if I can find nothing wrong, the artist could still turn around tomorrow and say he never painted it, and you′d have no argument. Understood?″
″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.″
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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 just about everything,ʺ he said quietly.
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.
