Part 24 (1/2)

Samantha heard the front door slam. Her phone rang. She picked it up automatically, and listened.

”Oh, Joe, she said. ”Joe, thank G.o.d youre there. Then she began to cry.

For the second time in two days, Julian knocked on the door of Dunroamin. Moore looked surprised when he opened up.

This time Ive got the original,” Julian said.

Moore smiled. I hope you have, he said. Come in, lad.

This time he led the way to the laboratory without preamble. Give it here, then.

Julian handed the picture over. I had a stroke of luck.”

Ill bet you did. I think youd better not tell me the details. Moore took out his teeth and dismantled the frame of the painting. It looks exactly like yesterdays.

Yesterdays was a copy.

And now you want the Gaston Moore seal of approval. Moore picked up his knife and sc.r.a.ped a minuscule quant.i.ty of paint off the edge of the canvas. He poured the liquid into the test tube and dipped the knife in.

They both waited in silence.

Looks as though its all right,” said Julian after a couple of minutes.

Dont rush.

They watched again.

No! Julian shouted.

The paint was dissolving in the fluid, just like yesterday.

Another disappointment. Im sorry, lad.

Julian banged his fist on the bench in fury. How? he hissed. ”I cant see how!

Moore put his teeth in again. Look here, lad. A forgery is a forgery. But no one copies it. Someones gone to the trouble of making two of these. Theres almost certain to be an original somewhere, I reckon. Maybe you could find it. Could you look for it?

Julian stood up straight. The emotion had washed out of his face now, and he looked defeated, yet dignified-as if the battle no longer mattered, because he had worked out how it had been lost.

I know exactly where it is, he said. And theres absolutely nothing I can do about it.

V.

DEE WAS LYING IN a sack chair, naked, when Mike walked into the Regents Park flat and shrugged off his coat.

I think its s.e.xy, she said.

Its just a coat, he replied.

Mike Arnaz, you are insufferably narcissistic, she laughed. I meant the picture.

He dropped his coat on the carpet and came to sit on the floor beside her. They both gazed at the painting on the wall.

The women were unmistakably Modiglianis women: they had long, narrow faces, the characteristic noses, the inscrutable expressions. But that was where the similarity to the rest of his work ended.

They were thrown together in a jumble of limbs and torsos, distorted and tangled, and mixed up with bits of background: towels, flowers, tables. So far, it prefigured the work Pica.s.so was doing-but keeping secret-in the last years of Modiglianis life. What was different again was the coloring. It was psychedelic: startling pinks, oranges, purples, and greens, painted hard and dear, quite out of period. The color bore no relation to the objects colored: a leg could be green, an apple blue, a womans hair turquoise.

It doesnt turn me on, Mike said finally. Not that-away, anyhow. He turned away from the picture and laid his head on Dees thigh. This, however, does.

She touched his curly hair with her hand. Mike, do you think much about it?

Nope.

I do. I think what a terrible, loathsome, brilliant pair of crooks you and I are. Look what weve got: this beautiful painting, for practically nothing; material for my thesis; and fifty thousand pounds each. She giggled.

Mike closed his eyes. Sure, honey.

Dee shut her eyes, and they both remembered a peasant bar in an Italian village.

Dee entered the bar first, and saw with a shock that the short, dark-haired, dapper man they had sent on a wild-goose chase that morning was already there.

Mike thought faster. He hissed in her ear: If I leave, keep him talking.

Dee recovered her composure quickly and walked up to the dapper mans table. Im surprised youre still here, she said pleasantly.

The man stood up. So am I, he said. Will you join me?

The three of them sat around the table. What will it be? the man asked.

My turn, I think, Mike said. He turned to the back of the bar. Two whiskies, one beer, he called.

My name is Lipsey, by the way.

I am Michael Arnaz and this is Dee Sleign.

How do you do? There was a flicker of surprise in Lipseys eyes at the name Arnaz.

Another man had come into the bar. He looked over at their table.

He hesitated, then said: I saw the English number plates. May I join you?

Im Julian Black, the third man said, and they all introduced themselves.

Its strange to find so many English people in a little out-of the-way place like this, Black said.

Lipsey smiled. These two are looking for a lost masterpiece, he said indulgently.