″Ah!″ It was a small gasp of satisfaction from Lipsey.
″She booked a phone call to Paris when she was here. I think that is all I can tell you.″
″You don′t know just where in the city she went?″
″No.″
″How many days was she here?″
″Only one.″
″Did she say anything about where she was going next?″
″Ah! Of course,″ the man said. He paused to puff life into the dying cigarette in his mouth and grimaced at the taste of the smoke. ″They came in and asked for a map.″
Lipsey leaned forward. Another lucky break, so soon, was almost too much to hope for. ″Go on.″
″Let me see. They were going to take the autostrada to Firenze, then go across country to the Adriatic coast—somewhere near Rimini. They mentioned the name of a village—Oh! Now I remember. It was Poglio.″
Lipsey took out his notebook. ″Spell it?″
The proprietor obliged.
Lipsey got up. ″I am most grateful to you,″ he said.
Outside, he stopped at the curb to breathe in the warm evening air. So soon! he thought. He lit a small cigar to celebrate.
V
THE NEED TO PAINT was like the smoker′s craving for a cigarette: Peter Usher was reminded of the time he had tried to give it up. There was an elusive irritation, distinctly physical, but unattached to any specific part of his body. He knew, from past experience, that it was there because he had not worked for several days, and that the smell of a studio, the slight drag on his fingers of oils being brushed across canvas, and the sight of a new work taking place, were the only way of scratching it. He felt bad because he had not painted for several days.
Besides, he was frightened.
The idea which had struck him and Mitch simultaneously, that drunken evening in Clapham, had burst with all the freshness and glory of a tropical dawn. It had seemed simple, too: they would paint some fakes, sell them at astronomical prices, then tell the world what they had done.
It would be a gigantic raspberry blown at the art world and its stuffed shirts; a surefire publicity stunt; a historical radical coup.
In the sobriety of the following days, working out the details of the operation, they had realized that it would not be simple. Nevertheless it came to seem more and more workable as they got down to the mechanics of the fraud.
But now, when he was about to take the first dishonest step on the way to the art swindle of the century; when he was about to commit himself to a course which would lead him well over the line between protest and crime; when he was alone and nervous in Paris, he sat in an office at Meunier′s and smoked cigarettes which did not give him comfort.
The graceful old building exacerbated his unease. With its marbled pillars and high, stuccoed ceilings, it was too obviously a part of that confident, superior stratum of the art world—the society which embraced Charles Lampeth and rejected Peter Usher. Meunier′s were agents for half the top French artists of the last 150 years. None of their clients were unknowns.
A small man in a well-worn dark suit scurried purposefully across the hall and through the open door of the room where Peter sat. He had the deliberately harassed look of those who want the world to know just how overworked they are.
″My name is Durand,″ he said.
Peter stood up. ″Peter Usher. I am a painter from London, looking for a part-time job. Can you help me?″ He spoke only schoolboy French, but his accent was good.
A displeased look came over Durand′s face. ″You will appreciate, Monsieur Usher, that we get many such requests from young art students in Paris.″
″I′m not a student. I graduated from the Slade—″
″Be that as it may,″ Durand interrupted with an impatient motion of his hand, ″the company′s policy is to help whenever we can.″ It was plain he did not approve of the policy. ″It depends entirely on whether we have a vacancy at the time. Since almost all our staff require stringent security vetting, clearly there are few jobs for casual callers. However, if you will come with me, I will find out whether we can use you.″
Peter followed Durand′s brisk steps across the hall to an old elevator. The cage came creaking and grumbling down, and they got in and ascended three flights.
They went into a small office at the back of the building where a portly, pink-faced man sat behind a desk. Durand spoke to the man in very rapid colloquial French which Peter could not follow. The portly man appeared to have made a suggestion: Durand seemed to be turning it down. Eventually he turned to Peter.
″I am afraid I must disappoint you,″ he said. ″We have a vacancy, but the job involves handling paintings, and we require references.″
″I can give you a telephone reference, if you don′t mind calling London;″ Peter blurted.
Durand smiled and shook his head. ″It would have to be someone we know, Monsieur Usher.″
″Charles Lampeth? He′s a well-known dealer, and—″
″Of course, we know Monsieur Lampeth. Will he vouch for you?″ the portly man cut in.
″He will certainly confirm that I am a painter, and an honest man. His gallery handled my pictures for a while.″
The man behind the desk smiled. ″In that case, I am sure we can give you a job. If you would return tomorrow morning by which time we will have called London—″
Durand said: ″The cost of the telephone call will have to be deducted from your wages.″
″Thatʹs all right,″ Peter replied.
The portly man nodded in dismissal. Durand said: ″I will show you out.″ He did not bother to hide his disapproval.
Peter went straight to a bar and ordered a very expensive double whisky. Giving Lampeth′s name had been a foolish impulse. Not that the dealer would refuse to vouch for him: guilty conscience ought to see to that. But it meant that Lampeth would know that Peter had been employed by Meunier′s in Paris around this time—and that knowledge could do fatal damage to the plan. It was unlikely; but it was an added risk.
Peter tossed off his whisky, cursed under his breath, and ordered another.
Peter started work the next day in the packing department. He worked under an elderly, bent Parisian who had devoted his life to taking care of pictures. They spent the morning uncrating newly arrived works, and the afternoon wrapping outgoing pictures in layers of cotton wool, polystyrene, cardboard and straw. Peter did the heavy work—withdrawing nails from wood, and lifting heavy frames—while the old man prepared soft beds for the pictures with as much care as if he were lining a cradle for a newborn child.
They had a big, four-wheeled dolly with pneumatic tires on hydraulic suspension: the aluminum gleamed, and the old man was proud of it. It was used to transport the pictures around the building. The two of them would gingerly lift a work onto its rack, then Peter would push it away, with the old man going ahead to open doors.
In a corner of the room where they did their packing was a small desk. Late on the first afternoon, while the old man was away at the lavatory, Peter went through all the drawers. They contained very little: the blank forms the old man filled up for each picture handled, a clutch of ballpoint pens, a few forgotten paper clips, and some empty cigarette packets.
They worked very slowly, and the man talked to Peter about his life, and the pictures. He disliked most of the modern painting, he said, apart from a few primitives and—surprisingly, Peter thought—the superrealists. His appreciation was untutored, but not naive: Peter found it refreshing. He liked the man instantly, and the prospect of deceiving him became unwelcome.
On their trips around the building Peter saw plenty of the official company letterhead on secretaries′ desks. Unfortunately, the secretaries were always around, and so was the old man. In addition, the letterhead was not enough.