Read Online The Modigliani Scandal by Ken Follett - Free Book Online
Authors: Ken Follett
Tags: Art Thefts
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against my better judgment—however, that′s in the past.
″Now let me tell you what I shall do. You want to buy some pictures. Now I′m a collector, not a dealer, but I know that the gallery owner′s necessary talent is the finding of good buys in the picture market. Find some good buys, and I will give you that extra capital.″
He braced himself over his ball again and prepared to swing.
Julian nodded soberly, trying hard to keep his disappointment from showing on his face.
Cardwell swung powerfully, and watched the ball soar into the air and land on the edge of the green. He turned to Julian.
″I′ll take those now,″ he said, and slung the golf bag onto his shoulder. ″You didn′t come here to caddy for me, I know.″ His tone became unbearably condescending. ″Off you go, and remember what I said.″
″sure,ʺJulian said. ″Cheerio.″ He turned away and walked back to the parking lot.
He sat in a traffic jam at Wandsworth Bridge and wondered how to avoid Sarah for the rest of the evening.
He felt curiously free. He had done the unpleasant things he had been obliged to do, and was experiencing a sense of relief, despite the fact that he had achieved nothing. He had not really expected Sarah or her father to cough up—but he had been forced to try. He also felt quite irresponsible toward Sarah. He had rowed with her and pinched her car. She would be furious with him, and there was nothing to be done for it.
He felt in his jacket pocket for his diary, to see whether there was anything he could go to. His hand found a slip of paper, and he brought it out.
The traffic shifted, and he moved the car off. He tried to read the piece of paper as he drove. It bore the name Samantha Winacre, and an address in Islington
He remembered. Samantha was an actress, and an acquaintance of Sarah′s. Julian had met her a couple of times. She had called at the gallery in passing the other day, and asked him to let her know 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 excuse for calling. He tried to think of one.
He drove up Park Lane, negotiated Speakers′ Corner, and went up the Edgware Road, eventually turning into Marylebone Road. He drove slightly faster now, looking forward to this slightly mad attempt to impose himself on a film star. Marylebone Road became Euston Road, then he turned left at the Angel.
In a couple of minutes he was outside the house. It looked very ordinary: no blasts of music, no noise of raucous laughter, no blaze of lights. He decided to try his luck.
He left the car and knocked on the door. She came herself, her hair wrapped in a towel.
″Hello!″ she said pleasantly.
″Our conversation was cut off rather abruptly the other day,″ Julian said. ″I was passing, and I wondered if I might buy you a drink.″
She smiled broadly. ″How delightfully spontaneous of you,″ she laughed. ″I was just trying to figure out how to avoid spending the evening in front of the telly. Come in.″
V
ANITAʹS SHOES CLATTERED CHEERFULLY on the sidewalk as she hurried toward Samantha Winacre′s house. The sun was warm; it was already 9:30. With luck, Sammy would still be in bed. Anita was supposed to start work at nine o′clock, but she was often late, and Sammy rarely noticed.
She smoked a small cigarette as she walked, inhaling deeply, enjoying the taste of the tobacco and the fresh morning air. This morning she had washed her long fair hair, taken her mother a cup of tea, fed her newest brother with a bottle, and got the rest of the
″Now let me tell you what I shall do. You want to buy some pictures. Now I′m a collector, not a dealer, but I know that the gallery owner′s necessary talent is the finding of good buys in the picture market. Find some good buys, and I will give you that extra capital.″
He braced himself over his ball again and prepared to swing.
Julian nodded soberly, trying hard to keep his disappointment from showing on his face.
Cardwell swung powerfully, and watched the ball soar into the air and land on the edge of the green. He turned to Julian.
″I′ll take those now,″ he said, and slung the golf bag onto his shoulder. ″You didn′t come here to caddy for me, I know.″ His tone became unbearably condescending. ″Off you go, and remember what I said.″
″sure,ʺJulian said. ″Cheerio.″ He turned away and walked back to the parking lot.
He sat in a traffic jam at Wandsworth Bridge and wondered how to avoid Sarah for the rest of the evening.
He felt curiously free. He had done the unpleasant things he had been obliged to do, and was experiencing a sense of relief, despite the fact that he had achieved nothing. He had not really expected Sarah or her father to cough up—but he had been forced to try. He also felt quite irresponsible toward Sarah. He had rowed with her and pinched her car. She would be furious with him, and there was nothing to be done for it.
He felt in his jacket pocket for his diary, to see whether there was anything he could go to. His hand found a slip of paper, and he brought it out.
The traffic shifted, and he moved the car off. He tried to read the piece of paper as he drove. It bore the name Samantha Winacre, and an address in Islington
He remembered. Samantha was an actress, and an acquaintance of Sarah′s. Julian had met her a couple of times. She had called at the gallery in passing the other day, and asked him to let her know 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 excuse for calling. He tried to think of one.
He drove up Park Lane, negotiated Speakers′ Corner, and went up the Edgware Road, eventually turning into Marylebone Road. He drove slightly faster now, looking forward to this slightly mad attempt to impose himself on a film star. Marylebone Road became Euston Road, then he turned left at the Angel.
In a couple of minutes he was outside the house. It looked very ordinary: no blasts of music, no noise of raucous laughter, no blaze of lights. He decided to try his luck.
He left the car and knocked on the door. She came herself, her hair wrapped in a towel.
″Hello!″ she said pleasantly.
″Our conversation was cut off rather abruptly the other day,″ Julian said. ″I was passing, and I wondered if I might buy you a drink.″
She smiled broadly. ″How delightfully spontaneous of you,″ she laughed. ″I was just trying to figure out how to avoid spending the evening in front of the telly. Come in.″
V
ANITAʹS SHOES CLATTERED CHEERFULLY on the sidewalk as she hurried toward Samantha Winacre′s house. The sun was warm; it was already 9:30. With luck, Sammy would still be in bed. Anita was supposed to start work at nine o′clock, but she was often late, and Sammy rarely noticed.
She smoked a small cigarette as she walked, inhaling deeply, enjoying the taste of the tobacco and the fresh morning air. This morning she had washed her long fair hair, taken her mother a cup of tea, fed her newest brother with a bottle, and got the rest of the
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