Part 19 (1/2)

THE REPORTER SAT AT his desk in the newsroom, thinking about his career. He had nothing better to do because it was Wednesday, and all decisions made by his superiors on Wednesday were reversed on Thursday morning; therefore he had adopted a policy of never actually working on Wednesdays. Besides, his career offered much food for thought.

It had been a short and spectacular one, but there was little substance beneath the glittering surface. He had joined a small weekly in South London after leaving Oxford, then he had worked for a news agency, then he had managed to get this job on a quality Sunday paper. It had taken him less than five years.

That was the glitter: the dross was that it had been worthless. He had always wanted to be an art critic. That was why he had suffered the weekly in order to learn his trade, and put up with the agency in order to prove his competence. But now, after three months on the Sunday paper, he had realized that he was at the end of a very long queue for the art critics comfortable chair. There seemed to be no more shortcuts.

The story he was to do this week involved pollution of a reservoir in South Wales. Today, if anyone asked, he was making preliminary inquiries. Tomorrow the pollution story would have s.h.i.+fted to a beach on the Suss.e.x coast, or something. Whatever happened the job had not the remotest connection with art.

A fat file of newspaper clippings in front of him was marked: ”Water-Pollution-Reservoirs.” He was reaching to open it when the phone rang. He diverted his hand to the receiver.

Newsdesk.

Have you got a pencil ready?

Louis Broom frowned. He had taken many crank phone calls in five years of journalism, but this approach was a new one. He opened the desk drawer and took out a ballpoint and a pad.

Yes. What can I do for you?

The answer was another question. Do you know anything about art?

Louis frowned again. The man did not sound much like a crank. The voice was steady and unhysterical, and there was none of the breathless intensity which normally characterized screwball telephoners.

As it happens, I do.

Good. Listen carefully, because I wont repeat anything. The biggest fraud in the history of art was perpetrated in London last week.

Oh dear, thought Louis, it is a crank. What is your name, sir? he said politely.

Shut up and make a note. Claypole and Company bought a van Gogh called The Gravedigger The Gravedigger for eighty-nine thousand pounds. Crowforths bought a Munch t.i.tled for eighty-nine thousand pounds. Crowforths bought a Munch t.i.tled The High Chair The High Chair for thirty thousand. for thirty thousand.

Louis scribbled frantically as the voice droned a list of ten pictures and galleries.

Finally the voice said: The total comes to more than half a million pounds. Im not asking you to believe me. But youll have to check. Then, when youve published your story, we will tell you why we did it.

Just a minute-” The phone clicked in Louis's ear, and he heard the dial tone. He put the receiver down.

He sat back and lit a cigarette while he wondered what to do about the call. It certainly could not be ignored. Louis was 99 percent sure the caller was a nutcase: but it was by following up the onepercenters that great exclusives were found.

He debated telling the news editor. If he did, he would probably be told to pa.s.s the tip to the art critic. Much better to make a start on the story first, if only to establish his own claim to it.

He looked up Claypole in the directory and dialed the number.

Do you have a van Gogh called The Gravedigger The Gravedigger for sale? for sale?

Just a moment, sir, and I will find out.

Louis used the pause to light another cigarette.

h.e.l.lo? Yes, we do have that work.

Would you tell me the price?

A hundred and six thousand guineas.

”Thank you.”

Louis rang Crowforth & Co. and found that they did indeed have a Munch called The High Chair The High Chair for sale at 39,000 guineas. for sale at 39,000 guineas.

He began to think hard. The story was standing up. But it was not yet time to talk about the story.

He picked up the phone and dialed another number.

Professor Peder Schmidt hobbled into the bar on his crutch. He was a big, energetic man with blond hair and a red face. Despite a slight speech impediment and an atrocious German accent, he had been one of the best art lecturers at Oxford. Although Louis had studied English, he had attended all of Schmidts lectures for the pleasure of the mans grasp of art history and his enthusiastic, iconoclastic theories. The two men had met outside the lecture theater, gone drinking together, and argued fiercely about the subject closest to their hearts.

Schmidt knew more about van Gogh than any other man alive.

He spotted Louis, waved, and came over.

”The spring on your b.l.o.o.d.y crutch still squeaks, Louis said.

Then you can oil it with whisky, Schmidt replied. How are you, Louis? And what is all this secrecy about?

Louis ordered a large scotch for the professor. I was lucky to catch you in London.

You were. Next week I go to Berlin. Everything is hurry and chaos.

It was good of you to come.

It was indeed. Now what is this about?

I want you to look at a picture.

Schmidt downed his scotch. I hope its a good one.

”That's what I want you to tell me. Lets go.

They left the bar and walked toward Claypoles. The shopping crowds on the West End sidewalks stared at the odd couple: the young man in his brown chalk-stripe suit and high-heeled shoes, and the tall cripple striding along beside him, wearing an open-necked blue s.h.i.+rt and a faded denim jacket. They went along Piccadilly and turned south to St. Jamess. In between an exclusive hatters and a French restaurant were the leaded bow windows of Claypoles.

They went in and walked the length of the small gallery. At the far end, under a spotlight of its own, they found The Gravedigger. The Gravedigger.

To Louis it was unmistakably a van Gogh. The heavy limbs and tired face of the peasant, the flat Dutch countryside, and the lowering sky were the trademarks. And there was the signature.

Professor Schmidt! This is an unexpected pleasure.

Louis turned to see a slight, elegant man with a graying Vand.y.k.e beard, wearing a black suit. Schmidt said: h.e.l.lo, Claypole.