Part 2 (1/2)

Hmm. Do you have your nieces address in Paris?

No, but my sister-her mother-will know. Ill get it for you. However, if I know Delia, she will probably have left Paris by now-in search of the Modiglianis. Unless its in Paris.

So-we are left with her friends there. And this picture. Is it possible that she got the scent, so to speak, of this great find somewhere near the cafe?

Thats very likely, said Lampeth. Good guessing. Shes an impulsive girl.

I imagined so from me-ah-style of the correspondence. Now, what are the chances that this will turn out to be a wild-goose chase?

Lampeth shrugged. There is always that possibility with searches for lost pictures. But dont be misled by Delias style-she's just won a First in Art History, and she is a shrewd twenty-five-year-old. If she would work for me Id employ her, if only to keep her out of the hands of my compet.i.tors.

And the chances?”

Fifty-fifty. No, better-seventy-thirty. In her favor.

Good. Well, I have the right man for the job available at the moment. We can get on to it immediately.

Lampeth stood up, hesitated, and frowned, as if he did not quite know how to put what he was about to say. Lipsey waited patiently.

Ah-its important that the girl should not know that I have initiated the inquiry, you realize?

Of course, Lipsey said smoothly. It goes without saying.”

The gallery was full of people chatting, clinking gla.s.ses, and dropping cigar ash on the carpet. The reception was to publicize a small collection of various German Expressionists which Lampeth had acquired in Denmark: he disliked the paintings, but they were a good buy. The people were clients, artists, critics, and art historians. Some had come simply to be seen at the Belgrave, to tell the world that this was the kind of circle they moved in; but they would buy, eventually, to prove that they did not come merely to be seen there. Most of the critics would write about the show, for they could not afford to ignore anything the Belgrave did. The artists came for the canapes and the wine-free food and drink, and some of them needed it. Perhaps the only people who were genuinely interested in the paintings were the art historians and a few serious collectors.

Lampeth sighed, and looked furtively at his watch. It would be another hour before he could respectabiv leave. His wife had long ago given up attending gallery receptions. She said they were a bore, and she was right. Lampeth would like to be at home now, with a gla.s.s of port in one hand and a book in the other; sitting on his favorite chair-the old learner one, with the hard horsehair upholstery and the burn mark on the arm where he always put his pipe-with his wife opposite him and Siddons coming in to make up the fire for the last time.

Wis.h.i.+ng you were home, Charlie? The voice came from beside him and broke his daydream. Rather be sitting in front of the telly watching Barlow?

Lampeth forced a smile. He rarely watched television, and he resented being called Charlie by any but his oldest friends. The man he smiled at was not even a friend: he was the art critic of a weekly journal, perceptive enough about art, especially sculpture, but a terrible bore. h.e.l.lo, Jack, glad you could come, Lampeth said. Actually, I am a bit tired for this sort of bash.

Know how you feel, the critic said. Hard day? Tough time knocking some poor painters price down a couple of hundred?

Lampeth forced another smile, but deigned to reply to the jocular insult. The journal was a left-wing one, he remembered, and it felt the need to be disapproving of anyone who actually made money out of culture.

He saw Willow easing through the crowd toward him, and felt grat.i.tude toward his junior partner. The journalist seemed to sense this, and excused himself.

Thank you for rescuing me, Lampeth said to Willow in a low voice.

No trouble, Lampeth. What I actually came to say was, Peter Usher is here. Do you want to handle him yourself?

Yes. Listen, Ive decided to do a Modigliani show. Weve got Lord Cardwells three, the sketches, and another possibility came up this morning. Thats enough for a nucleus. Will you find out whos got what?

Of course. That means Ushers one-man has had it.

Im afraid so. There isnt another slot for that sort of thing for months. Ill tell him. He wont like it, but it wont harm him all that much. His talent will tell in the long run, whatever we do.

Willow nodded and moved away, and Lampeth went in search of Usher. He found him at the far end of the gallery, sitting in front of some of the new paintings. He was with a woman, and they had filled a tray with food from the buffet.

May I join you? Lampeth said.

Of course. The sandwiches are delicious, Usher said. I havent had caviar for days.

Lampeth smiled at the sarcasm, and helped himself to a tiny square of white bread. The woman said: Peter tries to play the part of the angry young man, but hes too old.

You havent met my mouthy wife, have you? Usher said.

Lampeth nodded. Delighted, he said. Were used to Peter, Mrs. Usher. We tolerate his sense of humor because we like his work so much.

Usher accepted the rebuke gracefully, and Lampeth knew he had put it in exactly the right way: disguised in good manners and larded with flattery.

Usher washed another sandwich down with the wine, and said: When are you going to put on my one-man show, then?

Now, that is really what I wanted to talk to you about, Lampeth began. Im afraid were going to have to postpone it. You see- Usher interrupted him, his face reddening behind the long hair and Jesus beard. Dont make phony excuses-youve found something better to fill the slot. Who is it?

Lampeth sighed. He had wanted to avoid this. Were doing a Modigliani exhibition. But thats not the only- How long? Usher demanded, his voice louder. His wife put a restraining hand on his arm. How long do you propose to postpone my show?

Lampeth felt eyes boring into his back, and guessed that some of the crowd were now watching the scene. He smiled, and inclined his head conspiratorially, to try and make Usher talk quietly. Cant say, he murmured. We have a very full schedule. Hopefully early next year- Next year! Usher shouted. Jesus Christ, Modigliani can do without a show but I have to live! My family has to eat!

Please, Peter- No! I wont shut up! The whole gallery was quiet now, and Lampeth realized despairingly that everyone was watching the quarrel. Usher yelled: Ive no doubt youll make more money out of Modigliani, because hes dead. You wont do any good to the human race, but youll make a bomb. There are too many fat profiteers like you running the business, Lampeth.

Do you realize the prices I used to get before I joined this b.l.o.o.d.y stuffed-s.h.i.+rt gallery? I took out a b.l.o.o.d.y mortgage on the strength of it. All the Belgrave has done is to lower my prices and hide my pictures away so n.o.body buys them. Ive had it with you, Lampeth! Ill take my work elsewhere, so stuff your f.u.c.king gallery right up your a.r.s.e!

Lampeth cringed at the violent language. He was blus.h.i.+ng bright red, he knew, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Usher turned theatrically and stormed out. The crowd made a gap for him, and he walked through it, his head held high. His wife followed behind, running to keep up with his long-legged stride, avoiding the eyes of the guests. Everyone looked at Lampeth for guidance.

I apologize for ... this, he said. Everybody, please carry on enjoying yourselves, and forget about it, would you? He forced yet another smile. Im going to have another gla.s.s of wine, and I hope youll all join me.

Conversation broke out in scattered places, and gradually spread until it filled the room with a continuous buzz, and the crisis was over. It had been a bad mistake to tell Usher the news here in the gallery at a reception: there was no doubt of that. Lampeth had made the decision at the end of a long, exciting day. In future he would go home early, or start work late, he resolved. He was too old to push himself.

He found a gla.s.s of wine and drank it down quickly. It steadied his shaking knees, and he stopped sweating. G.o.d, how embarra.s.sing. b.l.o.o.d.y artists.

III.

PETER USHER LEANED HIS bicycle against the plate-gla.s.s window of Dixon & Dixons gallery on Bond Street. He took off his bicycle clips and shook each leg in turn to let the creases fall out of his trousers. He checked his appearance in the gla.s.s: his cheap chalk-stripe suit looked a little crumpled, but the white s.h.i.+rt and wide tie and vest gave him a certain elegance. He was sweating under the clothes. The ride from Clapham had been long and hot, but he could not afford Tube fares.

He swallowed his pride, resolved again to be courteous, humble and good-fiempered, and entered the gallery.

A pretty girl with spectacles and a miniskirt approached him in the reception area. She probably makes more per week than I do, Peter thought grimly-then he reminded himself of his resolution, and quelled the thought.

The girl smiled pleasantly. Can I help you, sir?

Id like to see Mr. Dixon, if I may. My name is Peter Usher.

Will you take a seat while I see whether Mr. Dixon is in?

Thank you.