The Modigliani Scandal
A fabulous "lost masterpiece" becomes the ultimate prize for an art historian whose ambition consumes everyone around her, an angry young painter with a plan for revenge on the art establishment, and a desperate gallery owner who may have double-crossed his own life away...
what he was going to put on. The occasion came back to him: that was when poor old Peter Usher had come in. He found himself driving north, past the turning for home. It would be rather pleasant to call on her. She was very beautiful, and a talented, intelligent actress. It was a poor idea really. She would probably be surrounded by an entourage, or be out at show business parties all evening. On the other hand, she did not seem the type for that sort of life. All the same he would need an
chick was weird. Who is the guy?” “Name’s Tom Copper.” “Who the hell is he?” “That’s what I want to find out.” Joe ripped the sheet of paper from his pad and handed it over. “Quick as you like.” Andy nodded and left. Joe relaxed slightly. He felt better with Andy working on the problem. For all his charm and fine manners, the lad had very sharp teeth. It was a warm evening, with a summery smell in the still air. The sunset over the rooftops leaked blood into the high, sparse clouds.
Julian shook his head in negation. “I’ve taken it,” he said. Sarah looked at him in surprise. “Before all ... this?” she said. “I sold your car,” he told her. She showed no anger. There was a faintly strange light in her eyes which Julian could not interpret, and the trace of a smile at the corners of her mouth. “You stole my car,” she said flatly. “I suppose so. Technically, I’m not sure a man can steal from his wife.” “And if I do something about it?” “Such as?” “I could ask my father.”
was not in constant touch with the girl: for if he had been, he would have known that she had not disappeared. Unless she really had disappeared, Lipsey thought with a shock. Lord, the walking had tired him—he was not thinking clearly. “When did you see her?” “I have decided not to tell you.” “This is very important.” “I thought so.” Lipsey sighed. He would have to be a little rough. In the few minutes he had been in the room, he had detected the smell of cannabis. “Very well, old man. If
breakfast—the kind he cooked for himself at home—would have been better. As he buttered his roll, he listened to the voices all around him, picking out accents from Yorkshire, Liverpool, and London. There were one or two German voices, too, but no French or Italian. The Italians had more sense than to stay in hotels they built for tourists; and no Frenchman in his right mind would go to Italy for a holiday. He finished his roll, drained his coffee, and postponed his cigar. He asked an