The Modigliani Scandal (1976) Read online

  Lipsey stood looking at it, wondering what to do about it. It was almost certainly Miss Sleign or her boyfriend, or both—nobody in the village would own such a car, and there was little reason for anyone else to come here. On the other hand, his impression was that neither she nor her boyfriend had a great deal of money—the Paris flat had indicated that much. Still, they might have been slumming.

  The only way to find out was to go into the bar. Lipsey could not hang around outside looking casual: in his suit and polished shoes he made an unconvincing village loafer. He mounted the steps and pushed open the door.

  The couple were sitting at one of the two tables, drinking what looked like long, iced apéritifs. They wore identical clothes: baggy, faded-blue trousers, and bright red vests. The girl was attractive, but the man was extremely handsome, Lipsey noted. He was a lot older than Lipsey had expected—late thirties, perhaps.

  They looked at Lipsey intently, as if they had been expecting him. He gave them a casual nod and walked up to the bar.

  ″Another beer, sir?″ the young barman asked.

  ″Please.″

  The barman spoke to Miss Sleign. ″This is the gentleman I was telling you about,″ he said.

  Lipsey looked around, raising his eyebrows in an expression of amused curiosity.

  The girl said: ″Have you got a picture of me in your wallet?″

  Lipsey laughed easily. He spoke in English: ″This man thinks all English girls look alike. Actually, you do look a little like my daughter. But it is only a superficial resemblance.″

  The boyfriend said: ″May we see the picture?″ He had a deep voice with a North American accent.

  ″Surely.″ Lipsey took out his wallet and searched through it. ″Ah! It must be in the car.″ He paid the barman for his beer, and said: ″Let me buy you two a drink.″

  ″Thank you,″ Miss Sleign said. ″Campari, for both of us.″

  Lipsey waited for the barman to make the drinks and take them to the table. Then he said: ″It′s odd, meeting another English tourist out here in the wilds. Are you from London?″

  ″We live in Paris,″ the girl said. She seemed to be the talkative one of the pair.

  The boyfriend said: ″It is odd. What are you doing here?″

  Lipsey smiled. ″I′m a bit of a loner,″ he said with the air of one who makes something of a confession. ″When I′m on holiday, I like to get right off the beaten track. I just get in the car and follow my nose until I feel like stopping.″

  ″Where are you staying?″

  ″In Rimini. What about you—are you wanderers too?″

  The girl started to say something, but the man interrupted her. ″We′re on a kind of treasure hunt,″ he said.

  Lipsey thanked his stars for the boyfriend′s naivete. ″How fascinating,″ he said. ″What′s at the end of it?″

  ″A valuable painting, we hope.″

  ″Is it here, in Poglio?″

  ″Almost. There′s a chateau five miles up the road.″ He pointed south. ″We think it′s there. We′re going there in a while.″

  Lipsey made his smile condescending. ″Well, it makes a holiday exciting—a bit out of the ordinary—even if you never find the treasure.″

  ″You bet.″

  Lipsey drained his beer. ″Personally, I′ve seen enough of Poglio. I′m moving on.″

  ″Let me buy you another beer.″

  ″No, thanks. I′m in a car, and there′s a long, thirsty day ahead.″ He stood up. ″A pleasure to meet you. Goodbye.″

  The Fiat was terribly hot inside, and Lipsey regretted not having the foresight to park it in the shade. He wound his window down and pulled away, letting the breeze cool him. He felt pleased: the couple had given him a lead, and let him get ahead of them. For the first time since he had started work on the case, he was on top of it.

  He drove out on the southward road, in the direction the American had pointed. The road became dusty. He wound up his window and turned on the car′s air conditioning at full blast When it was cool again, he stopped to look at his maps.

  The large-scale chart revealed that there was, indeed, a château to the south. It seemed more than five miles away—perhaps ten—but it was still quite conceivable that its postal address would be Poglio. It was slightly off the main road—if main road it could be called—and Lipsey memorized the directions.

  The journey took him half an hour, because of the poorness of the roads and the absence of signposts. But when he arrived there was no mistaking the place. It was a big house, built about the same time as the church in Poglio. It had three stories, and there were fairy-tale towers at the corners of the facade. Bits of the stonework were crumbling, and the windows were not clean. A separate stables building had apparently been converted into a garage, and its doors stood open, revealing a gas-driven lawn mower and a very old Citröen station wagon.

  Lipsey parked outside the gates and walked up the short drive. Weeds grew in the gravel, and as he got closer to the house it looked more and more dilapidated.

  As he stood looking up at the house, a door opened and an elderly woman walked toward him. He wondered what approach to take.

  ″Good morning,″ she said in Italian.

  Her gray hair was neat, she was elegantly dressed, and the bones of her face indicated that she had once been beautiful. Lipsey gave a small bow.

  ″I beg your pardon for this intrusion,″ he said.

  ″Don′t apologize.″ She had switched to English. ″How can I help you?″

  Lipsey had learned enough about her to decide on his approach. ″I wonder whether one is permitted to look around the outside of this beautiful house.″

  ″Of course,″ the woman smiled. ″It is pleasant to find someone interested. I am the Contessa di Lanza.″ She extended her hand, and Lipsey shook it, mentally revising his estimate of his chances of success to around 90 percent.

  ″Dunsford Lipsey, Contessa.″

  She led him around to the side of the house. ″It was built in the first quarter of the seventeenth century, when all the land around here was given to the family as a reward for service in some war or other. That was the time Renaissance architecture finally filtered through to the countryside.″

  ″Ah. Then it was built about the same time as the church in Poglio.″

  She nodded in agreement. ″Are you interested in architecture, Mr. Lipsey?″

  ″I am interested in beauty, Contessa.″

  He could see that she was suppressing a smile, and thinking that this stiffly formal Englishman had a certain eccentric charm. That was what he wanted her to think.

  She talked to him about the house as if she were retelling a familiar tale, pointing out the place where the masons had run out of the right sort of stone and been forced to change, the new windows added in the eighteenth century, the small nineteenth-century west wing.

  ″Of course, we no longer own the district, and what land we have retained is rather poor. As you can see, too many repairs have been postponed.″ She turned to face him and gave him a self-deprecating smile. ″Contessas are two-a-penny in Italy, Mr. Lipsey.″

  ″But not all have a family as old as yours.″

  ″No. The newer aristocrats are businessmen and industrialists. Their families have not had time to grow soft with living on inherited wealth.″

  They had completed the circuit of the house, and now stood in its shadow at the foot of one of the towers. Lipsey said: ″It is possible to grow soft on earned wealth, Contessa. I′m afraid I do not work very hard for my living.″

  ″May I ask what you do?″

  ″I have an antique shop in London. It′s on the Cromwell Road—you must visit next time you are in England. I′m rarely there myself.″

  ″Are you sure you wouldn′t like to see the inside of the house?″

  ″Well, if itʹs not too much trouble ...″

  ″Not at all.″ The Contessa led him through the front door. Lipsey felt the tingle at the back of his neck w
hich always came near the end of a case. He had worked things just right: he had gently given the Contessa the impression that he might be willing to buy something from her. She was obviously in fairly desperate need of cash.

  As she led him through the rooms of the house, his sharp eyes flitted quickly around the walls. There were a large number of paintings, mainly oil portraits of previous counts and watercolor landscapes. The furniture was old, but not antique. Some of the rooms smelled unused, their aroma an odd mixture of mothballs and decay.

  She led him up the staircase, and he realized that the landing was the showpiece of the place. In its center was a mildly erotic marble of a centaur and a girl in a sensual embrace. The rugs on the highly polished floor were not worn. The walls all around were hung with paintings.

  ″This is our modest art collection,″ the Contessa was saying. ″It ought to have been sold long ago, but my late husband would not part with it. And I have been postponing the day.″

  That was as near an offer to sell as the old lady would come, Lipsey thought. He dropped his pretence of casual interest and began to examine the pictures.

  He looked at each one from a distance, narrowing his eyes, searching for hints of the Modigliani style: the elongated face, the characteristic nose which he could not help putting on women, the influence of African sculpture, the peculiar asymmetry. Then he moved closer and scrutinized the signature. He looked at the frames of the pictures for signs of re-framing. He took a very powerful, pencilbeam flashlight from his inside pocket and shone it on the paint, scanning for the giveaway traces of overpainting.

  Some of the paintings needed only a glance; others required very close examination. The Contessa watched patiently while he went around the four walls of the landing. Finally he turned to her.

  ″You have some fine pictures, Contessa,″ he said.

  She showed him quickly around the rest of the house, as if they both knew it was only a formality.

  When they were back on the landing, she stopped. ″May I offer you some coffee?″

  ʺThank you.″

  They went downstairs to a drawing room, and the Contessa excused herself to go to the kitchen and order coffee. Lipsey bit his lip as he waited. There was no getting away from it: none of the paintings was worth more than a few hundred pounds, and there were certainly no Modiglianis in the house.

  The Contessa returned. ″Smoke if you like,″ she said.

  ″Thank you. I will.″ Lipsey lit up a cigar. He took a card from his pocket: it bore only his name, business address, and telephone number—no indication of his trade. ″May I give you my address?″ he said. ″When you decide to sell your art collection, I have some acquaintances in London who would like to know.″

  Disappointment flashed briefly on the Contessa′s handsome face as she realized that Lipsey was not going to buy anything.

  ″That is the full extent of your collection, I take it?″ he said.

  ″Yes.″

  ″No pictures stored away in attics or basements?″

  ″Iʹm afraid not.″

  A servant came in with coffee on a tray, and the Contessa poured. She asked Lipsey questions about London, and the fashions, and the new shops and restaurants. He answered as best he could.

  After exactly ten minutes of idle conversation, he emptied his coffee cup and stood up. ″You have been most kind, Contessa. Please get in touch next time you are in London.″

  ″I′ve enjoyed your company, Mr. Lipsey.″ She saw him to the front door.

  He walked quickly down the drive and got into the car. He reversed into the drive of the château, and caught a glimpse of the Contessa in his mirror, still standing in the doorway, before he pulled away.

  He was most disappointed. It seemed the whole thing had been in vain. If there had ever been a lost Modigliani at the chateau, it was not there now.

  Of course, there was another possibility: one that, perhaps, he ought to have paid more attention to. The American, Miss Sleign′s boyfriend, might have deliberately sent him on a wild-goose chase.

  Could the man have suspected Lipsey? Well, it was a possibility; and Lipsey believed that possibilities were there to be exhausted. He sighed as he made his decision: he would have to keep track of the couple until he was sure that they, too, had given up.

  He was not quite sure how to set about trailing them now. He could hardly follow them around, as he might have in a city. He would have to ask after them.

  He returned to Poglio by a slightly different route, heading for the third road from the village: the one which entered from the west. About a mile outside Poglio he spotted a house near the road with a beer advertisement in the window. Outside was one small circular iron table. It looked like a bar.

  Lipsey was hungry and thirsty. He pulled off the road onto the baked-earth parking lot in front of the place and killed the engine.

  II

  ″YOU FAT LIAR, MIKE!″ exclaimed Dee. Her eyes were wide with pretended horror.

  His full lips curled in a grin, but his eyes did not smile. ″You can′t afford scruples when you′re dealing with that type.″

  ʺWhat type? I thought he was a rather nice fellow. Bit dull, I suppose.″

  Mike sipped at his fifth Campari, and lit a fresh cigarette. He smoked long Pall Malls without filters, and Dee suspected that was how he got his emery-board voice. He blew out smoke and said: ″Just being here at the same time as us was a big coincidence. I mean, nobody would come here, not even a wandering loner. But the picture clinched it. All that stuff about his daughter was a bit of quick improvisation. He was looking for you.″

  ″I was afraid you′d say that.″ Dee took his cigarette and sucked on it, then handed it back.

  ″You′re sure you′ve never seen him before?″

  ″Sure.″

  ″All right. Now think: who might have known about the Modigliani?″

  ″Do you think that′s it? Somebody else is after the picture? It′s a bit melodramatic.″

  ″The hell it is. Listen, darling, in the art world, word of this sort of thing spreads like VD in Times Square. Now who have you told?″

  ″Well, Claire, I suppose. At least, I may have mentioned it to her while she was in the flat.″

  ″She doesn′t really count. Did you write home?″

  ″Oh, God, yes. I wrote to Sammy.″

  ″Who′s he?″

  ″The actress—Samantha Winacre.″

  ″I′ve heard of her. I didn′t know you knew her.″

  ″I don′t see her a lot, but we get on well when I do. We were at school together. She′s older than me, but she got her schooling late. I think her father went around the world, or something.″

  ″Is she an art buff?″

  ″Not as far as I know. But I expect she′s got arty friends.ʺ

  ″Anybody else?″

  ″Yes.″ Dee hesitated.

  ″Shoot.″

  ″Uncle Charlie.″

  ″The dealer?″

  Dee nodded wordlessly.

  ʺjeer,ʺ Mike sighed. ″That ties it up in a ribbon.″

  Dee was shocked. ″You think Uncle Charles would really try to find my picture before I do?″

  ″He′s a dealer, isn′t he? He′d do anything, including trade his mom, for a find.″

  ″The old sod. Anyway, you′ve sent that undertaker on a wild-goose chase.″

  ″It ought to keep him busy for a while.″

  Dee grinned. ″Is there a château five miles south of here?″

  ″Hell, I don′t know. He′s sure to find one sooner or later. Then he′ll waste a lot of time trying to get in, and looking for Modiglianis.″ Mike stood up. ″Which gives us a chance to get a start on him.″

  He paid the bill and they walked out into the glaring sunshine. Dee said: ″I think the church is the best place to start. Vicars always seem to know everything about everybody.″

  ″Priests, in Italy,″ Mike corrected her. He had been brought up a Catholic.

 
; They walked hand in hand along the main street. The oppressive heat seemed to impose on them the enervated lifestyle of the village: they moved slowly and spoke little, subconsciously adjusting to the climate.

  They arrived at the pretty little church, and stood in its shade for a few minutes, enjoying the cool. Mike said: ″Have you thought about what you′re going to do with the picture if you get it?″

  ″Yes, I′ve thought a lot,″ she replied. She wrinkled the bridge of her nose in a frown which was all her own. ″Most of all, I want to study it. It ought to provide enough ideas for half a thesis—and the rest is just padding. But ...″

  ″But what?″

  ″You tell me but what.″

  ʺThe money.″

  ″Damn right. Oops!″ She caught herself swearing, and looked around the churchyard nervously.

  ʺThereʹs a lot of it involved.″

  ″Money? I know.″ She tossed her hair back over her shoulder. ″I′m not trying to kid myself I′m not interested in cash, either. Perhaps if we could sell it to someone who would let me see it whenever I wanted—maybe a museum.″

  Mike said levelly: ʺI notice you said ′we.′ ″

  ″Of course! Youʹre in this with me, arenʹt you?″

  He put his hands on her shoulders. ″You only just invited me.″ He kissed her lips quickly. ″You have just hired an agent. I think you made a very good choice.″

  She laughed. ″What do you think I ought to do about marketing it?″

  ʺIʹm not sure. I′ve got some ideas kicking around in my mind, but nothing definite. Let′s find the painting first.″

  They entered the church and looked around. Dee stepped out of her sandals and squirmed her hot feet on the cold stone floor. At the other end of the nave, a robed priest was performing a solitary ceremony. Dee and Mike waited silently for him to finish.

  Eventually he approached them, a welcoming smile on his broad peasant′s face.

  Dee murmured: ″I wonder if you can help us, Father.″

  When he got close, they realized he was not as young as his boyishly short haircut made him seem from a distance. ″I hope so,″ he said. He spoke at normal volume, but his voice boomed in the still emptiness of the church. ″I suspect it is secular help you want, much as I might wish it otherwise. Am I right?″