?The check was overprinted with the names Hollows and Cox, and Mr. Hollows signed it,? he added.
Louis took a taxi to the bank.
The manager told him: ?We never give the addresses of clients, I?m afraid.?
Louis argued: ?These clients have been involved in a major fraud. If you don?t give me the addresses now, you?ll have to give them to the police soon.?
?When and if the police ask for the addresses, they will get them—provided they have the authority to seize them.?
?Would it be compromising yourself to ring them? One of them? And ask their permission??
?Why should I??
?I am prepared to remember your help when I write my story. There?s no real necessity for the bank to appear in a bad light.?
The manager looked thoughtful. After a minute he picked up the phone and dialed. Louis memorized the number.
?There?s no reply,? the manager said.
Louis left. From a phone booth he got the operator to put him through to the local exchange for the number the manager had dialed. The local operator gave him the address. He took a taxi.
A station wagon loaded with luggage was parked in the drive. Mr. Hollows had just returned from a camping holiday in Scotland with his family. He was untying the ropes on the roof rack.
He was worried to find that someone had opened a bank account in his name. No, he had no idea what it could be about. Yes, he could lend Louis a photograph of himself, and he happened to have a snap of himself with his friend Mr. Cox.
Louis took the photographs back to the bank.
?Neither of those men is the man who opened the account,? said the bank manager.
He was worried now. He telephoned Mr. Hollows, and got even more worried. He slipped so far as to tell Louis that a lot of money had passed in and out of the account. It had been converted to negotiable securities, which had been deposited in the bank?s safe.
He took Louis to the vault, and opened the safe deposit box Mr. Hollows had rented. It was empty.
Louis and the manager looked at each other. Louis said: ?The trail stops here.?
?Listen to this: ?Britain?s top art expert, Mr. Jonathan Rand, thinks the paintings are the work of the best art forger this century has seen.? Is that you, Mitch, or me??
Peter and Mitch were sitting in the studio of the Clapham house, drinking the second cup of coffee after breakfast. They had a copy each of the Sunday paper, and they were reading about themselves with a mixture of awe and glee.
Mitch said: ?These newspaper boys worked bloody fast, you know. They found out all about the bank account and the safe deposit box, and they interviewed poor Hollows.?
?Yes, but what about this: ?The forger covered his trail so well that Scotland Yard believe he must have had the help of an experienced criminal.? I reckon I?m the brilliant forger and you?re the experienced criminal.?
Mitch put the newspaper down and blew on his coffee to cool it. ?It just shows how easily it can be done— which is what we set out to prove.?
?Here?s a good bit: ?The forger?s masterstroke was to provide each painting with a provenance—which is the art world?s equivalent of a pedigree, and is normally thought to guarantee the authenticity of a work. The provenances were on the official paper of Meunier?s, the Paris artists? agents, and had the company?s stamp. Both paper and stamp must have been stolen.? I like that—the masterstroke.? Peter folded his paper and threw it across the room.
Mitch reached out for Anne?s guitar and began to play a simple blues tune. Peter said: ?I hope Arnaz is laughing—he paid for the joke.?
?I don?t think he really believed we could pull it off.?
?Nor did I,? Peter laughed.
Mitch put the guitar down suddenly, causing the soundbox to boom. ?We haven?t done the most important bit yet. Let?s get on with it.?
Peter swallowed the rest of his coffee and got up. The two put on their jackets, called goodbye to Anne, and went out.
They walked along the street and squeezed into the telephone booth on the comer.
?Something?s worrying me,? said Peter as he picked up the phone.
?That bit about Scotland Yard??
?Right.?
?It?s bothering me, too,? said Mitch. ?They might be all set to trace our call to the newspaper. They could get down here to the kiosk, throw a cordon around the area, and question everyone until they found someone connected with art.?
?So what do we do??
?Let?s just phone another newspaper. They?ll all know about the story by now.?
?Okay.? Peter lifted the directory from the rack and looked under D for Daily.
?Which one?? he said.
Mitch closed his eyes and stuck a finger on the page. Peter dialed the number, and asked to speak to a reporter.
When he got through he asked: ?Do you take shorthand??
The voice replied testily: ?Of course.?
?Then take. I am Renalle, the master forger, and I am about to tell you why I did it. I wanted to prove that the London art scene, in its concentration on masterpieces and dead painters, is phony. The best ten dealers in London cannot tell a forgery when they see one. They are motivated by greed and snobbery, rather than love of art. Because of them the money going into art is diverted away from the artists themselves, who really need it.?
?Slow down,? the reporter protested.
Peter ignored him. ?I am now offering the dealers their money back, minus my expenses which come to about one thousand pounds. The conditon is that they set aside one-tenth of the cash—that will be about fifty thousand pounds—to provide a building in Central London where young, unknown artists can rent studios at low prices. The dealers must get together, and set up a trust fund to buy and manage the building. The other condition is that all police inquiries are dropped. I will look for their reply to my offer in the columns of your newspaper.?
The reporter said quickly: ?Are you a young painter yourself??
Peter put the phone down.
Mitch said: ?You forgot the French accent.?
?Oh, fuck,? Peter swore. They left the phone booth.
As they walked back to the house, Mitch said: ?What the hell, I don?t suppose it makes any difference. Now they know it was not a French job. That narrows their field to the whole of the UK. So what??
Peter bit his lip. ?It shows we?re getting slack, that?s what. We had better be careful not to count our chickens before they?ve paid up.?
?Hatched.?
?Fuck proverbs.?
Anne was in the front garden, playing with Vibeke in the sunshine, when they got back.
?The sun is shining—let?s go out,? she said.
Peter looked at Mitch. ?Why not??
A deep American voice came from the sidewalk outside. ?How are the happy forgers??
Peter whitened and turned around. He relaxed when he saw the stocky figure and white teeth of Arnaz. The man had a parcel under his arm.
?You scared me,? Peter said.
Still smiling, Arnaz opened the rotting wooden gate and walked in. Peter said: ?Come on inside.?
The three men went up to the studio. When they had sat down Arnaz waved a copy of the newspaper. ?I congratulate you two,? he said. ?I couldn?t have done a better job myself. I laughed my ass off in bed this morning. ?
