authority, that the Barone’s ancestors had commissioned a number of paintings by Veronese, it is unlikely to occur to anyone that out of six paintings which all look like the work of Veronese one is actually the work of Giovanni Fabbro. Assume now, however, the passing of the years and the development of more sophisticated technologies in the authentication of paintings: so that various collectors gradually discover that some of the great Italian Masters which they are proud to possess are in fact the work of an unknown twentieth-century copyist. What,” asked Benjamin with the air of a conjuror demonstrating to his audience that the hat is completely empty, “do you think happens then?”
“Much crossness, I should think,” answered Ragwort. “Demands for money back. Letters to newspapers about the decline in standards in the art trade. Lawyers of two continents brushing up on the law of misrepresentation.”
“Ah yes, certainly.” Benjamin looked gratified, as if receiving confirmation that the hat was indeed empty. “Certainly, all of that. But then. Then, my dears, when the dust has settled a little and the National and the Met are selling off these impostures for what they can get, it occurs to people that old Giovanni must have been rather a clever chap to do these convincing imitations, which have taken in all the experts for such a long time. So they start thinking that if they can’t afford a real Titian or Veronese, a genuine forgery by Giovanni Fabbro might well be the next best thing. With the result, dear children,” said Benjamin, with the benevolent satisfaction of the conjuror actually producing the rabbit from the hat, “with the result that among a certain section of collectors forgeries by Fabbro become rather sought after and, in consequence, valuable.”
“Benjamin,” I asked, “is all this probable or merely possible?”
“It is not,” Benjamin answered, “improbable. It’s more or less exactly what happened with Van Meegeren. With whom, indeed, the point has now been reached at which people are forging Van Meegeren forgeries.”
“Meanwhile in Verona?” I said.
“Meanwhile in Verona, as you so astutely say, Hilary, everyone knows that the third picture on the left after the first transept is not one of their valuable Old Masters but just a rather nice picture by a comparatively modern local artist. Which would be, no doubt, what they would tell the police when it was stolen.”
Ragwort was rather carried away by the story: he asked Benjamin if he really believed that the painting stolen from Verona might be valuable as a forgery. Benjamin found this a sufficient pretext to pat him indulgently on the shoulder.
“Desmond dear, I don’t think anything of the kind. I haven’t the faintest idea why that particular painting should have been in the Church of Saint Nicholas and I have no reason whatever to suppose that it is the work of a celebrated copyist or forger. Giovanni Fabbro is entirely my own invention. My hypothesis is a meretricious little thing, hired out to you, as it were, for half an hour’s casual diversion: it is only Bob Linnaker, we hope, who may be sufficiently persuaded of her virtue to take her in marriage.”
Back in Islington, feeding the cats, I reflected on the possible significance of Eleanor’s denial that she knew anyone called Bruce. One wondered if she had suspected, after all, that the story of the postcard was a fabrication, and it crossed my mind that she might, if so, telephone my College to seek confirmation of my
CHAPTER 15
“Bags I do the Major,” said Cantrip.
Over coffee on the following morning, that is to say on the Wednesday, I had added my own impressions of Eleanor to the account already given by Ragwort. We were considering what was next to be done.
“It is to be remembered,” said Selena, “that we are assuming the Major to be a possible murderer. If we were not making that assumption, there would be no point in seeing him. If we are making it, I am not quite happy about any of us seeing him alone.”
“If you’re going to go and buy a load of stolen goods,” said Cantrip, “you can’t take a whole crowd of friends with you. The presence of third parties reduces the prospective seller to a clamlike condition.”
“Well,” said Selena, “couldn’t Benjamin go with you, as a professional adviser?”
“No,” I said. “I asked him last night. He’s flying to New York today for some exhibition or other.”
“Bother,” said Selena. “How very heartless of Benjamin.”
“So one of us’ll have to go alone,” said Cantrip. “And why I bags it’s me is because I’m the only one that knows karate. If the Major cuts up rough, I shall leap upon him with panther-like swiftness, crying ‘Hoocha!’—old Japanese war-cry — and stun him with a single blow of incredible precision. Oh, I say, frightfully sorry, Ragwort.”
Attempting to demonstrate the proposed movement in the confined space provided for our accommodation by the coffee-house, Cantrip had brought his left elbow into abrupt contact with Ragwort’s shoulder, at a moment when Ragwort was raising his cup to his lips.
“That’s quite all right,” said Ragwort, “don’t worry for a moment. I had rather been hoping that this suit might last another week or so before it had to go to the cleaners; but no doubt I was wrong. In referring, however, to karate, are you quite sure that you’re not confusing it with some new kind of dance?”
“Just because you’re miffed about your suit,” said Cantrip, “there’s no need to be offensive about my karate. I’m jolly well up on it. I knew a chap at Cambridge who was a Black Belt and he showed me how to do it, one weekend when it was raining.” Proficiency in the ancient art of the Samurai requires, as I understand it, some years of rigorous training. It even involves, I have been told, a certain cultivation of the soul: the question whether Cantrip has such a thing is a matter, as my readers may recall, of some dispute. Still, he has a good deal of agility and natural aggression — it did not seem to me that it would be seriously irresponsible to allow him to interview the Major alone. I nonetheless felt obliged to raise an objection.
“Cantrip,” I said, “it won’t do. He saw you at the airport, when you were looking at the luggage. He might recognize you.”
“Well yes, I expect he will,” said Cantrip. “And if he doesn’t, I’ll remind him. I’ve got it all worked out. I’ll go into his shop and pootle around for a bit, the way you do in antique shops. And after a while he’ll come up to me and ask if I’m looking for anything in particular. And then I shall give a tremendous start of surprise.”
“Cantrip,” said Selena, “you won’t overdo it, will you?”
“I shall give a tremendously natural and convincing start of surprise and say, Good heavens, wasn’t he at the airport on Saturday when I was making such a frightful ass of myself? And he’ll say, Good Lord, aren’t you the frightful ass who couldn’t find his suitcase? And I shall say, Yes, what an extraordinary coincidence. And then I’ll go on to say what a frightful ass he must have thought I was. And he’ll say yes, as a matter of fact, to be perfectly frank he did think I was rather a frightful ass.”
“And when,” said Ragwort, “a
“Well, then I’ll go on to say that why I was in such a stew was because I was supposed to be meeting my Uncle Hereward for lunch and my plane was late. I’ll try to get the idea across that I’d been in Paris with a girl my uncle didn’t approve of and I didn’t want him to know I’d been away at all — it’ll add what we in Fleet Street call human interest.”
“Is your Uncle Hereward,” asked Selena, “the one with eccentric ideas about pure womanhood?”
“That’s right. Anyway, I’ll tell him that my Uncle Hereward has a tremendous thing about punctuality, being an ex-military man. And the Major, hearing that I’m related by blood to a brother officer, will fall on my neck and embrace me. Metaphorically, I mean, because I see this as a jolly English and manly sort of scene.”
“Quite so,” I said, “but how are you going to get in the business about the picture?”
“Well, after we’ve chewed the fat a bit about regiments and brigades and so forth, I’ll slip in something about my uncle being interested in collecting pictures and antiques.”
“That,” said Ragwort, “will certainly carry more conviction than any claim that you yourself are an amateur of the fine arts.”
