When he had finished, he and Anne sat at the large table in the center of the room. There were two telephones on it, by request. Anne placed her list by his side, and they began phoning.
Anne dialed a number and waited. A girl′s voice said: ″Claypole and Company, good morning,ʺ all in one breath.
″Good morning,″ said Anne. ″Mr. Claypole, please.″ Her French accent had gone.
″One moment.″ There was a hum, and a click, then a second girl.
″Mr. Claypole′s office.ʺ
″Good morning. Mr. Claypole, please,″ Anne repeated.
″I′m afraid he′s in conference. Who′s calling?″
″I have Monsieur Renalle of Agence Arts Nancy. Perhaps Mr. de Lincourt is available?″
″If you will hold, I′ll see.″
There was a pause, and then a male voice came on the line. ″De Lincourt speaking.″
″Good morning, Mr. de Lincourt. I have Monsieur Renalle of Agence Arts Nancy for you.″ Anne nodded to Mitch. As she replaced the receiver of her telephone, he lifted his.
ʺMr. de Lincourt?″ he said.
″Good morning, Monsieur Renalle.″
″Good morning to you. I am sorry I could not write to you in advance, Mr. de Lincourt, but my company is representing the estate of a collector and there is a little urgency.″ Mitch pronounced ″t″ with his tongue on the roof of his mouth, made ″c″ at the back of his throat, and softened the ″g″ in ʺurgency.ʺ
″What can I do to help you?″ the dealer asked politely.
″I have a picture which ought to interest you. It′s a rather early van Gogh, entitled The Gravedigger, seventy-five centimeters by ninety-six. It′s rather fine.ʺ
″Splendid. When can we have a look at it?″
″I am in London now, at the Hilton. Perhaps my assistant could pay you a visit this afternoon or tomorrow morning?″
ʺThis afternoon. Shall we say two-thirty?ʺ
ʺBien—very good. I have your address.″
″Have you a figure in mind, Monsieur Renalle?″
″We price the work at about ninety thousand pounds.″
″Well, we can discuss that later.″
″Certainly. My assistant is empowered to come to an agreement.″
″I look forward to two-thirty, then.″
″Goodbye, Mr. de Lincourt.ʺ
Mitch replaced the receiver and sighed heavily.
Anne said: ″God, you′re sweating.″
He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. ″I didn′t think I′d get to the end of it. That bloody accent—I wish I′d practiced more.″
″You were marvelous. I wonder what the slimy Mr. de Lincourt is thinking right now?″
Mitch lit a cigarette. ″I know. He′s delighted to be dealing with a provincial French agent who doesn′t know the price of a van Gogh.″
ʺThe line about representing the estate of a dead collector is great. That makes it plausible that a minor dealer in Nancy should be arranging the sale.″
″And hell be in a hurry to close the deal in case one of his rivals hears about the sucker and gets in first.ʺ Mitch smiled grimly. ″Okay, let′s do the next on the list.ʺ
Anne picked up the phone and began to dial.
The taxi stopped outside the plate-glass windows of Crowforth′s in Piccadilly. Anne paid the driver while Mitch lugged the canvas, in its heavy leather case, into the art dealerʹs splendid premises.
A broad, open staircase of Scandinavian pine ran up from the ground-floor showroom to the offices above. Anne led the way up, and knocked on a door.
Ramsey Crowforth turned out to be a wiry, white-haired Glaswegian of about sixty. He peered at Anne and Mitch over his spectacles as he shook hands and offered Anne a seat. Mitch stayed standing, the portfolio clutched in his arms.
His room was paneled in the same pine as the staircase, and his carpet was an orange-brown mixture. He stood in front of his desk, his weight on one foot, with one arm dangling at his side and the other on his hip, pushing his jacket back to reveal Lurex suspenders. He was an authority on the German Expressionists, but he had awful taste, Anne thought.
″So you′re Mademoiselle Renalle,ʺ he said in his high-pitched Scots accent. ″And the Monsieur Renalle I spoke to this morning was ...″
″My father,″ Anne supplied, avoiding Mitch′s eyes.
″Right. Let′s see what you′ve got.″
Anne gestured to Mitch. He took the painting out of the case and stood it on a chair. Crowforth folded his arms and gazed at it.
″An early work,″ he said softly, speaking as much to himself as the others. ″Before Munch′s psychoses really took hold. Fairly typical ...ʺ He turned away from the picture. ″Would you like a glass of sherry?″ Anne nodded. ″And your er ... assistant?″ Mitch declined, with a shake of his head.
As he poured, he asked: ″I gather you′re acting for the estate of a collector, is that right?″
″Yes.″ Anne realized that he was making small talk, to let the impact of the painting sink in before he made a decision. ″His name was Roger Dubois—a businessman. His company made agricultural machinery. His collection was small, but very well-chosen.″
″Obviously.″ Crowforth handed her a glass and leaned back against his desk, studying the picture again. ʺThis isn′t quite my period, you know. I specialize in Expressionists in general, rather than Munch in particular: and his early work isn′t Expressionist, obviously.″ He gestured toward the canvas with his glass. ″I like this, but I would want another opinion on it.″
Anne felt a spasm of tension between her shoulders, and tried to control the blush which began at her throat. ʺI would be happy to leave it with you overnight, if you wish,″ she said. ″However, there is a provenance.″ She opened her briefcase and took out a folder containing the document she had forged back in the studio. It had Meunierʹs letterhead and stamp. She handed it to Crowforth.
″Oh!″ he exclaimed. He studied the certificate. ʺThis puts a different complexion on matters, of course. I can make you an immediate offer.″ He studied the picture again for a long moment. ″What was the figure you mentioned this morning?″
Anne controlled her elation. ″Thirty thousand.″
Crowforth smiled, and she wondered whether he, too, was controlling his elation. ʺI think we can meet that sum.″
To Anne′s astonishment, he took a checkbook from his desk drawer and began to write. Just like that! she thought. Aloud she said: ″Would you make it out to Hollows and Cox, our London representatives.″ Crowforth looked mildly surprised, so she added: ʺThey are simply an accounting firm, who arrange the transfer of funds to France.″ That satisfied him. He tore out the check and handed it to her.
″Are you in London long?″ he inquired politely.
ʺJust a few days.″ Anne was itching to get away now, but she did not want to arouse suspicion. She had to persist with the small talk for the sake of appearances.
ʺThen I hope to see you next time you come.″ Crowforth held out his hand.
They left the office and walked down the stairs, Mitch carrying the empty case. Anne whispered excitedly: ″He didn′t recognize me!″
″Not surprising. He′s only ever seen you from a distance. Besides, then you were the dowdy, mouselike wife of a flamboyant painter. Now you′re a vivacious French blonde.″
They caught a taxi just outside, and directed the driver to the Hilton. Anne sat back in the seat and looked at the check from Crowforth.
″Oh my God, we did it,″ she said quietly. Then she began to sob.
″Let′s clear out of here as quickly as we can,″ said Mitch briskly.
It was one o′clock on the day after they had moved into the Hilton. The last forged masterpiece had just been delivered to a gallery in Chelsea, and there were ten checks in Anne′s genuine lizard-skin handbag.