III
ʺTHIS IS BLOODY AWFUL, Willow,ʺ said Charles Lampeth. He felt the language was justified. He had come in to his office on Monday morning, after a weekend in a country house with no telephone and no worries, to find his gallery in the thick of a scandal.
Willow stood stiffly in front of Lampeth′s desk. He took an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and dropped it on the desk. ″My resignation.″
″There′s absolutely no need for it,″ Lampeth said. ″Every major gallery in London was fooled by these people. Lord, I saw the picture myself and I was taken in.ʺ
″It might be better for the gallery if I did go,″ Willow persisted.
″Nonsense. Now, you′ve made the gesture and I′ve refused to accept your resignation, so let′s forget it. Sit down, there′s a good chap, and tell me exactly what happened.ʺ
ʺItʹs all in there,ʺ Willow replied, pointing at the newspapers on Lampeth′s desk. ″The story of the forgery in yesterday′s paper, and the terms we′re being offered in today′s.″ He sat down and lit a slim cigar.
ʺTell me anyway.″
″It was while you were in Cornwall. I got a phone call from this chap Renalle, who said he was at the Hilton. Said he had a Pissarro which we might like. I knew we didn′t have any Pissarros, of course, so I was quite keen. He came round with the picture that afternoon.″
Lampeth interrupted: ″I thought it was a woman who took the pictures to the galleries?ʺ.
″Not this one. It was the chap himself.″
″I wonder whether there′s a reason for that,″ Lampeth mused. ″Anyway, carry on.″
″Well, the painting looked good. It looked like Pissarro, it was signed, and there was a provenance from Meunier′s. I thought it was worth eighty-five thousand pounds. He asked sixty-nine thousand, so I jumped at it. He said he was from an agency in Nancy, so it seemed quite likely he would undervalue a picture. I assumed he was simply not used to handling high-priced works. You came back a couple of days later and approved the purchase, and we put the work on display.″
ʺThank God we didn′t sell it,″ Lampeth said fervently. ″You′ve taken it down, now, of course.ʺ
″First thing this morning.ʺ
″What about this latest development?″
″The ransom, you mean? Well, we would get most of our money back. It is humiliating, of course: but nothing compared with the embarrassment of being duped in the first place. And this idea of theirs—low-rent studios for artists—is really quite laudable.″
″So what do you suggest?″
ʺI think the first step must be to get all the dealers together for a meeting.″
″Fine.″
″Might we hold it here?″
″I don′t see why not. Only get the whole thing over with as soon as possible. The publicity is appalling.″
″It will get worse before it improves. The police are coming around later this morning.″
″Then we had better get some work done before they arrive.″ Lampeth reached across his desk, lifted the telephone, and said: ″Some coffee, please, Mavis.″ He unbuttoned his jacket and put a cigar between his teeth. ″Are we ready for the Modigliani exhibition?″
″Yes. I think it will go well.″
ʺWhat have we got?″
″There are Lord Cardwell′s three, of course.″
″Yes. They′ll be picked up within the next few days.″
″Then we′ve got the drawings I bought right at the start. They have arrived safely.″
ʺWhat about dealing pictures?ʺ
″We′ve done quite well. Dixon is lending us two portraits, the Magi have some sculptures for us, and we′ve got a couple of oil-and-crayon nudes from Deside′s. There are more which I have to confirm.″
″What commission did Dixon want?″
″He asked for twenty-five percent but I knocked him down to twenty.″
Lampeth grunted. ″I wonder why he goes to the trouble of trying it on. Anyone would think we were a shop front in Chelsea instead of a leading gallery.″
Willow smiled. ″We always try it on with him.″
ʺTrue.ʺ
″You said you had something up your sleeve.″
″Ah, yes.ʺ Lampeth looked at his watch. ″An undiscovered one. I have to go and see about it this morning. Still, it can wait until I′ve had my coffee.″
Lampeth thought about the forger as his taxi threaded its way through the West End toward the City. The man was a lunatic, of course: but a lunatic with altruistic motives. It was easy to be philanthropic with other people′s money.
Undoubtedly, the sensible thing would be to give in to his demands. Lampeth just hated to be blackmailed.
The cab pulled into the forecourt of the agency and Lampeth entered the building. An assistant helped him with his overcoat, which he had worn because of the chill breezes of early September.
Lipsey was waiting for him in his office, the inevitable glass of sherry ready on the table. Lampeth settled his bulk into a chair. He sipped the sherry to warm him.
″So you′ve got it.″
Lipsey nodded. He turned to the wall and swung aside a section of bookcase to reveal a safe. With a key attached by a thin chain to the waist of his trousers, he unlocked the door.
″It′s as well I′ve a big safe,ʺ he said. He reached in with both hands and took out a framed canvas about four feet by three feet. He propped it on his desk where Lampeth could see it, and stood behind it, supporting it.
Lampeth stared for a minute. Then he put down his sherry glass, got up, and came closer. He took a magnifier from his pocket and studied the brush-work. Then he stood back and looked again.
″What did you have to give for it?′ he asked.
″I′m afraid I forked out fifty thousand pounds.″
″It′s worth double that.″
Lipsey moved the painting to the floor and sat down again. ″I think it′s hideous,″ he said.
″So do I. But it′s absolutely unique. Quite astonishing. There′s no doubt it′s Modigliani—but no one knew he ever painted stuff like this.″
″I′m glad you′re pleased,″ said Lipsey. His tone said he wanted to introduce a more businesslike note into the conversation.
″You must have put a good man on it,″ Lampeth mused.
ʺThe best.″ Lipsey suppressed a grin. ″He went to Paris, Livorno, Rimini ...″
″And he beat my niece to it.″
″Not exactly. What happened—ʺ
″I don′t want to know the details,″ Lampeth cut in. ″Have you got a bill ready for me? I′d like to pay it right away.″
″Certainly.″ Lipsey went to the office door and spoke to his secretary. He came back with a sheet of paper in his hand.
Lampeth read the bill. Apart from the £50,000 for the painting, it came to £1,904. He took out his personal checkbook and wrote the amount in.
″You′ll get an armored truck to deliver it?″
″Of course,″ Lipsey said. ʺThatʹs in the bill. Is everything else satisfactory?″
Lampeth ripped out a check and handed it to the detective. ″I consider I′ve got a bargain,″ he said.
The New Room was closed to the public, and a long conference table had been brought in and set in the center. All around the walls were dark, heavy Victorian landscapes. They seemed appropriate to the somber mood of the men in the room.
The representatives of nine other galleries were there. They sat at the table, while the assistants and solicitors they had brought with them sat in occasional chairs nearby. Willow was at the head of the table with Lampeth beside him. Rain pattered tirelessly against the high, narrow windows in the wall. The air was thick with cigar smoke.
″Gentlemen,″ Willow began, ″we have all lost a good deal of money and been made to look rather foolish. We cannot retrieve our pride, so we are here to discuss getting our money back.″