The Modigliani Scandal (1976)

must have decided the Modigliani was worthless. It?s an unusual one—they might not recognize it. First thing is to phone the police, Sims. Then rouse Lord Cardwell. Then begin checking the house to see whether anything at all is missing.?

?Very good, sir.?

Julian looked at his watch. ?I feel I ought to stay, but I?ve an important appointment. I think I?ll go, as it seems nothing has been taken. Tell Mrs. Black I will telephone later.?

Sims nodded and Julian went out.

He drove very fast across London in the early morning. It was windy, but the roads were dry. He was guessing that Sammy and her accomplices—who presumably included the boyfriend he had met—would keep the painting at least until today.

He stopped outside the Islington house and jumped out of the car, leaving the ignition keys in. There were too many assumptions and guesses in this plan. He was impatient.

He banged hard on the knocker and waited. When there was no reply for a couple of minutes, he banged hard again.

Eventually Samantha came to the door. There was ill-concealed fear in her eyes.

?Thank God,? Julian said, and pushed past her into the house.

Tom stood in the hall, a towel around his waist. ?What the hell do you think you?re doing, barging—?

?Shut up,? Julian said crisply. ?Let?s talk downstairs, shall we??

Tom and Samantha looked at one another. Samantha gave a slight nod, and Tom opened the door to the basement stairs. Julian went down.

He sat on the couch and said: ?I want my paint . ing back.?

Samantha said: ?I haven?t the faintest idea—?

?Forget it, Sammy,? Julian interrupted. ?I know. You broke into Lord Cardwell?s house last night to steal his pictures. They were gone, so you stole the one that was there. Unfortunately, it wasn?t his. It was mine. If you give it back to me I won?t go to the police.?

Silently, Samantha got up and went to a cupboard. She opened the door and took out the painting. She handed it to Julian.

He looked at her face. It was almost haggard: cheeks drawn, eyes wide with something which was neither anxiety nor surprise, hair uncared-for. He took the picture from her.

A sense of relief overwhelmed him. He felt quite weak.

Tom would not speak to Samantha. He had been sitting in the chair for three or four hours, smoking, gazing at nothing. She had taken him the cup of coffee Anita made, but it lay cold, untouched, on the low table.

She tried again. ?Tom, what does it matter? We shan?t be caught—he promised not to go to the police. We ?ve lost nothing. It was just a lark, anyway.?

There was no reply.

Samantha laid her head back and closed her eyes. She felt drained, exhausted with a nervous kind of tiredness which would not let her relax. She wanted some pills, but they were all gone. Tom could go out and get her more, if only he would come out of his trance.

There was a knock at the front door. At last Tom moved. He looked at the doorway, warily, like a trapped animal. Samantha heard Anita?s footsteps along the hall. There was a muted conversation.

Suddenly several pairs of feet were coming down the stairs. Tom stood up.

The three men did not look at Samantha.

Two of them were heavily built, and carried themselves gracefully like athletes. The third was short. He wore a coat with a velvet collar.

It was the short one who spoke. ?You?ve let the governor down, Tom. He?s less than pleased. He wants words with you.?

Tom moved fast, but the two big men were faster. As he went for the door, one of them stuck out a foot and the other pushed Tom over it.

They picked him up, each holding an arm. There was a curious, almost sexual smile on the short man?s face. He punched Tom?s stomach with both fists, many times. He carried on long after Tom had slumped, eyes closed, in the grip of the other two.

Samantha opened her mouth wide, but she could not scream.

The little man slapped Tom?s face until his eyes opened. The four of them left the room.

Samantha heard the front door slam. Her phone rang. She picked it up automatically, and listened.

?Oh, Joe,? she said. ?Joe, thank God you?re there.? Then she began to cry.

For the second time in two days, Julian knocked on the door of Dunroamin. Moore looked surprised when he opened up.

?This time I?ve got the original,? Julian said.

Moore smiled. ?I hope you have,? he said. ?Come in, lad.?

This time he led the way to the laboratory without preamble. ?Give it here, then.?

Julian handed the picture over. ?I had a stroke of luck.?

?I?ll bet you did. I think you?d better not tell me the details.? Moore took out his teeth and dismantled the frame of the painting. ?It looks exactly like yesterday?s.?

?Yesterday?s was a copy.?

?And now you want the Gaston Moore seal of approval.? Moore picked up his knife and scraped a minuscule quantity of paint off the edge of the canvas. He poured the liquid into the test tube and dipped the knife in.

They both waited in silence.

?Looks as though it?s all right,? said Julian after a couple of minutes.

?Don?t rush.?

They watched again.

?No!? Julian shouted.

The paint was dissolving in the fluid, just like yesterday.

?Another disappointment. I?m sorry, lad.?

Julian banged his fist on the bench in fury. ?How?? he hissed. ?I can?t see how!?

Moore put his teeth in again. ?Look here, lad. A forgery is a forgery. But no one copies it. Someone?s gone to the trouble of making two of these. There?s almost certain to be an original somewhere, I reckon. Maybe you could find it. Could you look for it??

Julian stood up straight. The emotion had washed out of his face now, and he looked defeated, yet dignified —as if the battle no longer mattered, because he had worked out how it had been lost.

?I know exactly where it is,? he said. ?And there?s absolutely nothing I can do about it.?

V

DEE WAS LYING IN a sack chair, naked, when Mike walked into the Regent?s Park flat and shrugged off his coat.

?I think it?s sexy,? she said.

?It?s just a coat,? he replied.

?Mike Arnaz, you are insufferably narcissistic,? she laughed. ?I meant the picture.?

He dropped his coat on the carpet and came to sit on the floor beside her. They both gazed at the painting on the wall.

The women were unmistakably Modigliani?s women: they had long, narrow faces, the characteristic noses, the inscrutable expressions. But that was where the similarity to the rest of his work ended.

They were thrown together in a jumble of limbs and torsos, distorted and tangled, and mixed up with bits of background: towels, flowers, tables. So far, it prefigured the work Picasso was doing—but keeping secret—in the last years of Modigliani?s life. What was different again was the coloring. It was psychedelic: startling pinks,