When she closed her eyes the nagging feeling of having forgotten something came back. She tried to remember everything she had learned about Modigliani; but it was not a lot. She drifted into a doze.
As she slept the sun moved past the zenith and shone powerfully in through the open window, making the naked body perspire. She moved restlessly, her long face frowning slightly from time to time. The blonde hair became disarrayed and stuck to her cheeks.
She woke with a start and sat up straight. Her head throbbed from the heat of the sun, but she ignored it. She stared straight ahead of her like someone who has just had a revelation.
″I′m an idiot!″ she exclaimed. ″He was a Jew!″
Dee liked the rabbi. He was a refreshing change from the holy men who had only been able to react to her as forbidden fruit. He had friendly brown eyes and gray streaks in his black beard. He was interested in her search, and she found herself telling him the whole story.
″The old man in Paris said a priest, and so I assumed it was a Catholic priest,″ she was explaining. ″I had forgotten that the Modigliani family were Sephardic Jews, and quite orthodox.″
The rabbi smiled. ″Well, I know who the painting was given to! My predecessor here was very eccentric, as rabbis go. He was interested in all sorts of things—scientific experiments, psychoanalysis, Communism. He′s dead now, of course.″
″I don′t suppose there were any paintings among his effects?″
″I don′t know. He became ill toward the end, and left the town. He went to live in a village called Poglio, which is on the Adriatic coast. Of course, I was very young then—I don′t remember him at all clearly. But I believe he lived with a sister in Poglio for a couple of years before he died. If the painting still exists, she may have it.″
″She′ll be dead.″
He laughed. ″Of course. Oh dear—you′ve set yourself quite a task, young lady. Still, there may be descendants.″
Dee shook the man′s hand. ″You′ve been very kind,″ she said.
″My pleasure,″ he said. He seemed to mean it.
Dee ignored her aching feet as she walked back to the hotel again. She made plans: she would have to hire a car and drive to this village. She decided she would leave in the morning.
She wanted to tell somebody, to spread the good news. She remembered what she had done last time she felt this way. She stopped at a shop and bought a postcard. She wrote:
Dear Sammy,
This is the kind of holiday I always wanted! A real treasure hunt! ! I′m off to Poglio to find a lost Modigliani! ! !
Love,
D.
She found some change in her pocket, bought a stamp, and posted the card. Then she realized that she did not have enough money to hire a car and drive right across the country.
It was crazy: here she was on the track of a painting which was worth anything from £50,000 to E100,000, and she couldn′t afford to hire a car. It was painfully frustrating.
Could she ask Mike for money? Hell, no, she could not lower herself. Maybe she could drop a hint when he phoned. If he phoned: his trips abroad did not follow tight schedules.
She ought to be able to raise money some other way. Her mother? She was well off, but Dee had not invested any time with her for years. She had no right to ask the old woman for money. Uncle Charles?
But it would all take time. Dee was itching to get on the trail again.
As she walked up the narrow street to the hotel she saw a steel-blue Mercedes coupe parked at the curb. The man leaning against it had a familiar head of black curls.
Dee broke into a run. ″Mike!″ she yelled happily.
II
JAMES WHITEWOOD PARKED HIS Volvo in the narrow Islington street and killed the engine. He put a fresh packet of Players and a box of matches in one pocket, and a new notebook and two ballpoint pens in the other. He felt the familiar tension: would she be in a good mood? Would she say something quotable? His ulcer jabbed him, and he cursed. He had done literally hundreds of star interviews: this one would be no different.
He locked his car and knocked on Samantha Winacre′s door. A plump blonde girl answered.
″James Whitewood, Evening Star.″
″Please come in.″
He followed her into the hall. ″What′s your name?″
″Anita. I just work here.″
″Nice to meet you, Anita.″ He smiled pleasantly. It was always useful to be on good terms with someone in a star′s entourage.
She led him downstairs to the basement. ″Mr. Whitewood, from the Star.″
″Hello, Jimmy!″ Samantha was curled up on a Habitat sofa, wearing jeans and a shirt. Her feet were bare. Cleo Laine sang out of the freestanding Bang & Olufsen stereo speakers opposite her.
″Sammy.″ He crossed the room and shook her hand.
″Sit down, be comfortable. What goes on on Fleet Street?″
He dropped a newspaper in her lap before sitting in an easy chair. ″The big story of the day is that Lord Cardwell is selling his art collection. Now you know why we call it the silly season.″ He had a South London accent.
Anita said: ″Would you like a drink, Mr. Whitewood?″
He looked up at her. ″I wouldn′t mind a glass of milk.″ He patted his stomach.
Anita went out. Samantha said: ″Is that ulcer still with you?″
″It′s like inflation. These days, you can only hope to make it ease off a little.″ He gave a high-pitched laugh. ″Mind if I smoke?″
He studied her as he opened the cigarette packet. She had always been thin, but now her face had a drawn look. Her eyes seemed huge, and the effect had not been achieved with makeup. She hugged herself with one arm and smoked with the other. As he watched, she crushed a stub in the full ashtray beside her and immediately lit a fresh cigarette.
Anita brought his glass of milk. ″A drink, Sammy?″
″Please.″
Jimmy glanced at his watch: it was 12:30 P.M. He looked askance at the size of the vodka and tonic Anita poured.
He said: ″Tell me, how is life in the film world?″
″I′m thinking of leaving it.″ She took the glass from Anita, and the maid left the room.
″Good God.″ Jimmy took out his notebook and uncapped a pen. ″Why?″
″There′s not a lot to say, really. I feel films have given me all they can. The work bores me, and the end result seems so trivial.″
″Is there any one particular thing which has triggered this off?″
She smiled. ″You ask good questions, Jimmy.″
He looked up expectantly, and saw that she was smiling, not at him, but at the doorway. He turned, and saw a big man in jeans and a check shirt entering the room. The man nodded at Jimmy and sat beside Samantha.
She said: ″Jimmy, I want you to meet Tom Copper, the man who has changed my life.″
Joe Davies pressed the winder of his Quantum wristwatch and looked at the luminous red figures which flickered alight on its black face: 0955. It was a good time to ring a London evening newspaper.
He picked up the phone and dialed. After a long wait for the newspaper′s switchboard, he asked for James Whitewood.
″Morning, Jim—Joe Davies.″
″A filthy morning, Joe. What load of old rubbish are you peddling today?″
Joe could visualize the bad teeth exposed in the grin on the writer′s face: mock-hostile banter was the game the two of them played to disguise the fact that each did his best to use the other. ″Nothing very interesting,″ Joe said. ″A starlet landing a small part, is all. Just Leila D′Abo topping the bill at the London Palladium.″