?Yes.? Lampeth stood up, and Willow helped him on with his coat. ?By the way, what did the police say in the paper??
?They said that since the complaints had been withdrawn, they had no option but to suspend inquiries.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 we?ll 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.?
?I?ll 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,? 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. ?Half 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??
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 lookin? 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. ?Tis a bungalow.?
?Thank 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. ?Dunroamin? 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.
?Julian Black, of the Black Gallery. I wonder if you would authenticate a picture for me.?
?Did 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,? 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 you?ll 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,? 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
?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.?
?Sorry.? 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.
