Louis took the photographs back to the bank.
″Neither of those men is the man who opened the account,″ said the bank manager.
He was worried now. He telephoned Mr. Hollows, and got even more worried. He slipped so far as to tell Louis that a lot of money had passed in and out of the account. It had been converted to negotiable securities, which had been deposited in the bank′s safe.
He took Louis to the vault, and opened the safe deposit box Mr. Hollows had rented. It was empty.
Louis and the manager looked at each other. Louis said: ʺThe trail stops here.″
″Listen to this: ′Britain′s top art expert, Mr. Jonathan Rand, thinks the paintings are the work of the best art forger this century has seen.′ Is that you, Mitch, or me?″
Peter and Mitch were sitting in the studio of the Clapham house, drinking the second cup of coffee after breakfast. They had a copy each of the Sunday paper, and they were reading about themselves with a mixture of awe and glee.
Mitch said: ″These newspaper boys worked bloody fast, you know. They found out all about the bank account and the safe deposit box, and they interviewed poor Hollows.″
″Yes, but what about this: ʹThe forger covered his trail so well that Scotland Yard believe he must have had the help of an experienced criminal.′ I reckon I′m the brilliant forger and you′re the experienced criminal.ʺ
Mitch put the newspaper down and blew on his coffee to cool it. ″It just shows how easily it can be done—which is what we set out to prove.″
″Here′s a good bit: ʹThe forger′s masterstroke was to provide each painting with a provenance—which is the art world′s equivalent of a pedigree, and is normally thought to guarantee the authenticity of a work. The provenances were on the official paper of Meunier′s, the Paris artists′ agents, and had the company′s stamp. Both paper and stamp must have been stolen.′ I like that—the masterstroke.″ Peter folded his paper and threw it across the room.
Mitch reached out for Anne′s guitar and began to play a simple blues tune. Peter said: ″I hope Arnaz is laughing—he paid for the joke.″
″I don′t think he really believed we could pull it off.″
″Nor did I,″ Peter laughed.
Mitch put the guitar down suddenly, causing the soundbox to boom. ″We haven′t done the most important bit yet. Let′s get on with it.″
Peter swallowed the rest of his coffee and got up. The two put on their jackets, called goodbye to Anne, and went out.
They walked along the street and squeezed into the telephone booth on the comer.
″Something′s worrying me,″ said Peter as he picked up the phone.
″That bit about Scotland Yard?″
ʺRight.ʺ
ʺItʹs bothering me, too,″ said Mitch. ″They might be all set to trace our call to the newspaper. They could get down here to the kiosk, throw a cordon around the area, and question everyone until they found someone connected with art.″
″So what do we do?″
ʺLetʹs just phone another newspaper. Theyʹll all know about the story by now.″
ʺOkay.ʺ Peter lifted the directory from the rack and looked under D for Daily.
″Which one?″ he said.
Mitch closed his eyes and stuck a finger on the page. Peter dialed the number, and asked to speak to a reporter.
When he got through he asked: ʺDo you take shorthand?″
The voice replied testily: ″Of course.″
ʺThen take. I am Renalle, the master forger, and I am about to tell you why I did it. I wanted to prove that the London art scene, in its concentration on masterpieces and dead painters, is phony. The best ten dealers in London cannot tell a forgery when they see one. They are motivated by greed and snobbery, rather than love of art. Because of them the money going into art is diverted away from the artists themselves, who really need it.″
ʺSlow down,″ the reporter protested.
Peter ignored him. ″I am now offering the dealers their money back, minus my expenses which come to about one thousand pounds. The conditon is that they set aside one-tenth of the cash—that will be about fifty thousand pounds—to provide a building in Central London where young, unknown artists can rent studios at low prices. The dealers must get together, and set up a trust fund to buy and manage the building. The other condition is that all police inquiries are dropped. I will look for their reply to my offer in the columns of your newspaper.″
The reporter said quickly: ″Are you a young painter yourself?ʺ
Peter put the phone down.
Mitch said: ″You forgot the French accent.″
″Oh, fuck,″ Peter swore. They left the phone booth.
As they walked back to the house, Mitch said: ″What the hell, I don′t suppose it makes any difference. Now they know it was not a French job. That narrows their field to the whole of the UK. So what?″
Peter bit his lip. ″It shows we′re getting slack, that′s what. We had better be careful not to count our chickens before they′ve paid up.″
″Hatched.″
″Fuck proverbs.″
Anne was in the front garden, playing with Vibeke in the sunshine, when they got back.
″The sun is shining—letʹs go out,″ she said.
Peter looked at Mitch. ″Why not?″
A deep American voice came from the sidewalk outside. ″How are the happy forgers?″
Peter whitened and turned around. He relaxed when he saw the stocky figure and white teeth of Arnaz. The man had a parcel under his arm.
″You scared me,″ Peter said.
Still smiling, Arnaz opened the rotting wooden gate and walked in. Peter said: ″Come on inside.″
The three men went up to the studio. When they had sat down Arnaz waved a copy of the newspaper. ″I congratulate you two,″ he said. ″I couldn′t have done a better job myself. I laughed my ass off in bed this morning.″
Mitch got up and pretended to stare at Arnaz′s behind. ″How did you get it back on again?″
Peter laughed. ″Mitch, don′t get manic again.″
Amaz went on: ″It was a brilliant operation. And the forgeries were good. I happened to see the van Gogh in Claypole′s last week. I almost bought it.″
″I suppose it′s safe for you to come here,″ Peter said thoughtfully.
″I think so. Besides, it′s necessary if I′m to make a profit on this deal.″
Mitch′s voice was hostile. ″I thought you were in this for the laughs.″
ʺThat too.″ Arnaz smiled again. ʺBut mainly, I wanted to see just how good the two of you were.″
″What the hell are you getting at, Arnaz?″ Peter was becoming uneasy now.
ʺLike I said, I want to see a profit on my investment. So I want you to do one more forgery each. For me.″
″No deal, Arnaz,ʺ said Peter. ″We did this to make a point, not to make money. We′re on the verge of getting away with it. No more forgeries.″
Mitch said quietly: ″I don′t think weʹre going to have any choice.″
Arnaz gave him a nod of acknowledgment. He spread his hands in a gesture of appeal. ″Look, you guys, there′s no danger. No one will know about these extra forgeries. The people who buy ′em will never let on they′ve been conned, because they′ll be implicating themselves in something shady by buying them in the first place. And nobody but me will know you did the forging.″
″Not interested,″ said Peter.
Arnaz said: ″Mitch knows you′re going to do it, don′t you, Mitch?″
″Yes, you bastard.″
″So tell Pete here.″
″Amaz has us by the balls, Peter,″ Mitch said. ″He′s the one person in the world who can finger us for the police. All it would take would be one anonymous phone call. And we haven′t got our deal with the art dealers yet.″