The Modigliani Scandal (8 page)

She consulted her street map and began to make her way toward the second house. Something was bothering her: something she knew about Modigliani—his youth, or his parents, or something. She strained to bring the elusive thought to mind, but it was like chasing canned peaches around a dish: the thought was too slippery to be grasped.

She passed a café and realized it was lunchtime. She went in and ordered a pizza and a glass of wine. As she ate she wondered whether Mike would phone today.

She lingered over coffee and a cigarette, reluctant to face another priest, another church, more dusty paintings. She was still shooting in the dark, she realized ; her chances of finding the lost Modigliani were extremely slim. With a burst of determination, she stubbed her cigarette and got up.

The second priest was older and unhelpful. His gray eyebrows lifted a full inch over his narrowed eyes as he said: ″Why do you want to look at paintings?″

″It′s my profession,″ Dee explained. ″I′m an art historian.″ She tried a smile, but it seemed to make the man more resentful.

″A church is for worshippers, not tourists, you see,″ he said. His courtesy was a thin veil.

″I′ll be very quiet.″

″Anyway, we have very little art here. Only what you see as you walk around.″

″Then I′ll walk around, if I may.″

The priest nodded. ″Very well.″ He stood in the nave watching as Dee walked quickly around. There was very little to see: one or two pictures in the small chapels. She came back to the west end of the church, nodded to the priest, and left. Perhaps he suspected her of wanting to steal.

She walked back to her hotel, feeling depressed. The sun was high and hot now, and the baking streets were almost deserted. Mad dogs and art historians, Dee thought. The private joke failed to cheer her up. She had played her last card. The only possible way to carry on now was to quarter the city and try every church.

She went up to her room and washed her hands and face to get rid of the dust of the crypt. A siesta was the only sensible way to spend this part of the day. She took off her clothes and lay on the narrow single bed.

When she closed her eyes the nagging feeling of having forgotten something came back. She tried to remember everything she had learned about Modigliani; but it was not a lot. She drifted into a doze.

As she slept the sun moved past the zenith and shone powerfully in through the open window, making the naked body perspire. She moved restlessly, her long face frowning slightly from time to time. The blonde hair became disarrayed and stuck to her cheeks.

She woke with a start and sat up straight. Her head throbbed from the heat of the sun, but she ignored it. She stared straight ahead of her like someone who has just had a revelation.

″I′m an idiot!″ she exclaimed. ″He was a Jew!″

Dee liked the rabbi. He was a refreshing change from the holy men who had only been able to react to her as forbidden fruit. He had friendly brown eyes and gray streaks in his black beard. He was interested in her search, and she found herself telling him the whole story.

″The old man in Paris said a priest, and so I assumed it was a Catholic priest,″ she was explaining. ″I had forgotten that the Modigliani family were Sephardic Jews, and quite orthodox.″

The rabbi smiled. ″Well, I know who the painting was given to! My predecessor here was very eccentric, as rabbis go. He was interested in all sorts of things—scientific experiments, psychoanalysis, Communism. He′s dead now, of course.″

″I don′t suppose there were any paintings among his effects?″

″I don′t know. He became ill toward the end, and left the town. He went to live in a village called Poglio, which is on the Adriatic coast. Of course, I was very young then—I don′t remember him at all clearly. But I believe he lived with a sister in Poglio for a couple of years before he died. If the painting still exists, she may have it.″

″She′ll be dead.″

He laughed. ″Of course. Oh dear—you′ve set yourself quite a task, young lady. Still, there may be descendants.″

Dee shook the man′s hand. ″You′ve been very kind,″ she said.

″My pleasure,″ he said. He seemed to mean it.

Dee ignored her aching feet as she walked back to the hotel again. She made plans: she would have to hire a car and drive to this village. She decided she would leave in the morning.

She wanted to tell somebody, to spread the good news. She remembered what she had done last time she felt this way. She stopped at a shop and bought a postcard. She wrote:

Dear Sammy,

This is the kind of holiday I always wanted! A real treasure hunt! ! I′m off to Poglio to find a lost Modigliani! ! !

Love,
D.

She found some change in her pocket, bought a stamp, and posted the card. Then she realized that she did not have enough money to hire a car and drive right across the country.

It was crazy: here she was on the track of a painting which was worth anything from £50,000 to E100,000, and she couldn′t afford to hire a car. It was painfully frustrating.

Could she ask Mike for money? Hell, no, she could not lower herself. Maybe she could drop a hint when he phoned. If he phoned: his trips abroad did not follow tight schedules.

She ought to be able to raise money some other way. Her mother? She was well off, but Dee had not invested any time with her for years. She had no right to ask the old woman for money. Uncle Charles?

But it would all take time. Dee was itching to get on the trail again.

As she walked up the narrow street to the hotel she saw a steel-blue Mercedes coupe parked at the curb. The man leaning against it had a familiar head of black curls.

Dee broke into a run. ″Mike!″ she yelled happily.

II

JAMES WHITEWOOD PARKED HIS Volvo in the narrow Islington street and killed the engine. He put a fresh packet of Players and a box of matches in one pocket, and a new notebook and two ballpoint pens in the other. He felt the familiar tension: would she be in a good mood? Would she say something quotable? His ulcer jabbed him, and he cursed. He had done literally hundreds of star interviews: this one would be no different.

He locked his car and knocked on Samantha Winacre′s door. A plump blonde girl answered.

″James Whitewood,
Evening Star
.″

″Please come in.″

He followed her into the hall. ″What′s your name?″

″Anita. I just work here.″

″Nice to meet you, Anita.″ He smiled pleasantly. It was always useful to be on good terms with someone in a star′s entourage.

She led him downstairs to the basement. ″Mr. Whitewood, from the
Star
.″

″Hello, Jimmy!″ Samantha was curled up on a Habitat sofa, wearing jeans and a shirt. Her feet were bare. Cleo Laine sang out of the freestanding Bang & Olufsen stereo speakers opposite her.

″Sammy.″ He crossed the room and shook her hand.

″Sit down, be comfortable. What goes on on Fleet Street?″

He dropped a newspaper in her lap before sitting in an easy chair. ″The big story of the day is that Lord Cardwell is selling his art collection. Now you know why we call it the silly season.″ He had a South London accent.

Anita said: ″Would you like a drink, Mr. Whitewood?″

He looked up at her. ″I wouldn′t mind a glass of milk.″ He patted his stomach.

Anita went out. Samantha said: ″Is that ulcer still with you?″

″It′s like inflation. These days, you can only hope to make it ease off a little.″ He gave a high-pitched laugh. ″Mind if I smoke?″

He studied her as he opened the cigarette packet. She had always been thin, but now her face had a drawn look. Her eyes seemed huge, and the effect had not been achieved with makeup. She hugged herself with one arm and smoked with the other. As he watched, she crushed a stub in the full ashtray beside her and immediately lit a fresh cigarette.

Anita brought his glass of milk. ″A drink, Sammy?″

″Please.″

Jimmy glanced at his watch: it was 12:30 P.M. He looked askance at the size of the vodka and tonic Anita poured.

He said: ″Tell me, how is life in the film world?″

″I′m thinking of leaving it.″ She took the glass from Anita, and the maid left the room.

″Good God.″ Jimmy took out his notebook and uncapped a pen. ″Why?″

″There′s not a lot to say, really. I feel films have given me all they can. The work bores me, and the end result seems so trivial.″

″Is there any one particular thing which has triggered this off?″

She smiled. ″You ask good questions, Jimmy.″

He looked up expectantly, and saw that she was smiling, not at him, but at the doorway. He turned, and saw a big man in jeans and a check shirt entering the room. The man nodded at Jimmy and sat beside Samantha.

She said: ″Jimmy, I want you to meet Tom Copper, the man who has changed my life.″

Joe Davies pressed the winder of his Quantum wristwatch and looked at the luminous red figures which flickered alight on its black face: 0955. It was a good time to ring a London evening newspaper.

He picked up the phone and dialed. After a long wait for the newspaper′s switchboard, he asked for James Whitewood.

″Morning, Jim—Joe Davies.″

″A filthy morning, Joe. What load of old rubbish are you peddling today?″

Joe could visualize the bad teeth exposed in the grin on the writer′s face: mock-hostile banter was the game the two of them played to disguise the fact that each did his best to use the other. ″Nothing very interesting,″ Joe said. ″A starlet landing a small part, is all. Just Leila D′Abo topping the bill at the London Palladium.″

″That played-out old cow? When′s it coming off, Joe?″

Joe grinned, knowing he had won the game this time. ″October 21, for one night.″

″Got it. By then she will just about be finished with that second-rate film she′s making at—where is it? Ealing Studios?″

″Hollywood.″

″Yes. Now, who else is on the bill?″

″Don′t know. You′ll have to ask the Palladium. You′ll also have to ask them whether it′s true that she′ll be paid fifty thousand pounds for the appearance, because I′m not saying.″

″No, you′re not.″

″Will that make a story for you?″

″I′ll do my best for you, old son.″

Joe grinned again. If the story was good enough to get in the paper on merit, Whitewood would always pretend he was doing the agent a personal favor. If the story was not good enough, the writer would say so.

Whitewood said: ″Now, have you given this to the opposition?″

″Not yet.″

″Are you going to give us an edition start?″

″As a personal favor to you, Jim—yes.″ Joe leaned back in his leather-upholstered chair with a feeling of triumph. Now the writer owed him a favor. Joe had won on points.

″Incidentally, what′s up with your blue-eyed girl?″

Joe sat forward suddenly. Whitewood had a card up his sleeve after all. Joe put a false nonchalance into his voice. ″Which one?″

″Joe, how many of them did I interview this week? The malnourished Miss Winacre, of course.″

Joe frowned into the telephone. Damn Sammy. He was on the defensive now. ″I meant to ask you: how did it go?″

″I got a great story—ʹSamantha Winacre retires.′ Hasn′t she told you?″

Christ, what had Sammy told the reporter? ″Between you and me, Jim, she′s passing through a phase.″

″An unfortunate one, it seems. If she′s turning down good scripts like Thirteenth Night, she must be pretty serious about retiring.″

″Do yourself a favor—donʹt put that in your article. She′ll change her mind.″

″Glad to hear it. I left it out anyway.″

″What line did you go on?″

″Samantha Winacre says: ′Iʹm in love.′ Okay?″

″Thank you, Jim. See you soon. Hey, just a minute—did she say who she′s in love with?″

″The name is Tom Copper. I met him. Seems a sharp lad. I should watch out for your job.″

″Thanks again.″

″Bye.″

Joe put the phone down with a clatter. He and Whitewood were even again in the personal favor stakes: but that was the lesser misfortune. Something was wrong for Sammy to tell the reporter she was turning down a script without telling her agent.

He got up from his desk and walked to the window. He looked out at the usual traffic snarl-up: cars were parked all the way along the double yellow lines. Everybody thinks he′s an exception, Joe thought. A warden strolled along, ignoring the violations.

On the opposite sidewalk, an early-rising prostitute propositioned a middle-aged man in a suit. Cases of cheap champagne were being carried into a strip club. In the doorway of a closed cinema, an Oriental with short black hair and a loud suit was selling a small packet of something to a haggard, unwashed girl whose hand trembled as she gave the man a note. Her gaunt face and butch haircut made her look a little like Sammy. Oh, Christ, what to do about Sammy.

This guy was the key. Joe went back to his desk and read the name he had scribbled on his pad: Tom Copper. If she′s in love with him, she′s under his influence. Therefore it is he who wants her to retire.

People hired Joe to help them make money. People with talent something Joe had never understood, except he knew he didn′t have it. Just as Joe couldn′t act to save his life, so his clients could not do business. He was there to read contracts, negotiate prices, advise on publicity, find good scripts and good directors: to guide naive, talented people through the jungle of the show business world.

His duty to Sammy was to help her make money. But that did not really answer the question.

The truth was, an agent was a whole lot more than a businessman. In his time Joe had been mother and father, lover, psychiatrist: he had provided a shoulder to cry on, bailed clients out of jail, pulled strings to get drugs charges dropped, and acted as marriage guidance counselor. Helping the artist make money was a phrase which meant much more than it said out loud.

Protecting inexperienced people from the sharks was a big part of it. Joe′s world was full of sharks: turn producers who would give an actor a part, make a pile out of the film, and leave the actor wondering where next month′s rent was coming from; phony gurus pushing quack religions, meditation, vegetarianism, mysticism or astrology who would milk a star of half his income; screwball organizations and semi-crooked businessmen who would bamboozle a star into supporting them, and then squeeze every ounce of available publicity out of the association without regard to the artist′s image.

Joe was afraid Tom Copper was one of the sharks. It was all too fast; the guy had come from nowhere and suddenly he was running Sammy′s life. A husband she needed: a new agent she did not.

His decision was made. He leaned over his desk and pressed a buzzer. The intercom hissed: ″Yes, Mr. Davies?″

″Come in right away, will you, Andy?″

He sipped his coffee while he waited, but it was cold. Andrew Fairholm—he pronounced it Fareham—was a smart lad. He reminded Joe of himself. The son of a bit-part actor and an unsuccessful concert pianist, he had realized at an early age that he had no talent. Bitten with the show business bug all the same, he had gone into management and made a couple of second-rate rock groups into big earners. About that time Joe had hired him as a personal assistant.

Andy entered without knocking and sat down in front of the desk. He was a good-looking youngster, with long, dean, brown hair, a wide-lapelled suit and an open-necked shirt with a Mickey Mouse pattern. He had been to university and cultivated a posh accent. He was good for Joe′s agency: gave it a slightly more modern image. His brain and youthful trendiness complemented Joe′s experience and renowned cunning.

″Trouble with Sammy Winacre, Andy,″ Joe said. ″She′s told a newspaper reporter that she′s in love and she′s giving up acting.″

Andy rolled his eyes up. ″I always said that chick was weird. Who is the guy?″

″Name′s Tom Copper.″

″Who the hell is he?″

″Thatʹs 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. Samantha turned away from the basement window and went to the cocktail cabinet.

Tom put a jazz record on the player and sprawled on the sofa. Samantha handed him a drink and curled up beside him. He put his large arm around her thin shoulders, and bent his head to kiss her. The doorbell rang.

″Ignore it,″ he said, and kissed her mouth.

She dosed her eyes and worked her lips against his. Then she got up. ″I′d rather keep you in suspense.″

It took her a few moments to recognize the short, velvet-suited man at the door. ″Julian!″

″Hello, Samantha. Am I bothering you?″

″Not at all. Would you like to come in?″

He stepped inside the door, and she led him down the stairs. ″I won′t keep you very long,″ he said apologetically.

Julian looked a little embarrassed when he saw Tom on the sofa. Samantha said: ″Tom Copper, Julian Black.″ Tom towered over Julian as they shook hands. Samantha went to the bar. ″Whisky, isn′t it?″

″Thank you.″

″Julian runs an art gallery,″ Samantha said.

″That′s a little premature. I′m opening one. What do you do, Tom?″

″You could call me a financier.″

Julian smiled. ″You wouldn′t like to put some money into an art gallery, by any chance?″

″Not my line.″

″What is?″

″You might say I take money from A and give it to B.″

Samantha coughed, and Julian had the feeling he was being laughed at. He said: ″Actually, it′s gallery business that brings me here.″ He took the drink Samantha handed him, and watched her settle snugly in the crook of Tom′s arm. ″I′m looking for someone attractive and interested to open the place. Sarah suggested I ask you. Would you do it, as a favor to us?″

″I′d love to, but I′ll have to make sure I′m not supposed to be somewhere else on the day. Can I ring you later?″

″Sure.″ Julian took a card out of his pocket. ″All the details are on here.″

She took the card. ″Thanks.″

Julian swallowed his drink. ″I won′t bother you any longer,″ he said. He seemed slightly envious. ″You look so cozy. Nice to meet you, Tom.″

He paused at the door and looked at a postcard perched on top of the thermostat on the wall. ″Who′s been to Livorno?″ he said.

″An old friend of mine.″ Samantha got up. ″I must introduce you to her one day. She′s just got a degree in art history. Look.″ She took the postcard down, turned it over, and showed it to him. Julian read it.

″How fascinating,″ he said. He handed the postcard back. ″Yes, I′d like to meet the lady. Well, don′t bother to climb the stairs with me. Goodbye.″

When, he had gone Tom said: ″Why do you want to open his wretched picture shop for him?″

″His wife′s a friend. The Honorable Sarah Luxter.″

″Which makes her the daughter of ... ?″

″Lord Cardwell.″

″The one who′s selling his art collection?″

Samantha nodded. ″It′s oil paint in the veins, you know.″

Tom did not smile. ″Now there′s a caper.″

The party was at the lifeless stage that parties go through in the small hours before they get their second wind. The unrestrained drinkers were getting sloppy and disgusting and the restrained ones were feeling the beginnings of their hangovers. The guests stood around in clusters, concentrating on conversations which varied from the intellectual to the comically incoherent.

The host was a film director just returned from the exile of television commercials. His wife, a tall, thin woman whose long dress exposed most of what little bosom she had, welcomed Samantha and Tom and took them to the bar. A Filipino barman whose eyes were glazing a little poured whisky for Samantha and emptied two bottles of lager into a pint glass for Tom. Samantha gave Tom a sharp look: he did not often drink beer, especially in the evening. She hoped he was not going to be aggressively working-class all night