She nodded in agreement. Are you interested in architecture, Mr. Lipsey?
I am interested in beauty, Contessa.
He could see that she was suppressing a smile, and thinking that this stiffly formal Englishman had a certain eccentric charm. That was what he wanted her to think.
She talked to him about the house as if she were retelling a familiar tale, pointing out the place where the masons had run out of the right sort of stone and been forced to change, the new windows added in the eighteenth century, the small nineteenth-century west wing.
Of course, we no longer own the district, and what land we have retained is rather poor. As you can see, too many repairs have been postponed. She turned to face him and gave him a self-deprecating smile. Contessas are two-a-penny in Italy, Mr. Lipsey.
But not all have a family as old as yours.
No. The newer aristocrats are businessmen and industrialists. Their families have not had time to grow soft with living on inherited wealth.
They had completed the circuit of the house, and now stood in its shadow at the foot of one of the towers. Lipsey said: It is possible to grow soft on earned wealth, Contessa. Im afraid I do not work very hard for my living.
May I ask what you do?
I have an antique shop in London. Its on the Cromwell Road-you must visit next time you are in England. Im rarely there myself.
Are you sure you wouldnt like to see the inside of the house?
Well, if it's not too much trouble ...
Not at all. The Contessa led him through the front door. Lipsey felt the tingle at the back of his neck which always came near the end of a case. He had worked things just right: he had gently given the Contessa the impression that he might be willing to buy something from her. She was obviously in fairly desperate need of cash.
As she led him through the rooms of the house, his sharp eyes flitted quickly around the walls. There were a large number of paintings, mainly oil portraits of previous counts and watercolor landscapes. The furniture was old, but not antique. Some of the rooms smelled unused, their aroma an odd mixture of mothballs and decay.
She led him up the staircase, and he realized that the landing was the showpiece of the place. In its center was a mildly erotic marble of a centaur and a girl in a sensual embrace. The rugs on the highly polished floor were not worn. The walls all around were hung with paintings.
This is our modest art collection, the Contessa was saying. It ought to have been sold long ago, but my late husband would not part with it. And I have been postponing the day.
That was as near an offer to sell as the old lady would come, Lipsey thought. He dropped his pretence of casual interest and began to examine the pictures.
He looked at each one from a distance, narrowing his eyes, searching for hints of the Modigliani style: the elongated face, the characteristic nose which he could not help putting on women, the influence of African sculpture, the peculiar asymmetry. Then he moved closer and scrutinized the signature. He looked at the frames of the pictures for signs of re-framing. He took a very powerful, pencilbeam flashlight from his inside pocket and shone it on the paint, scanning for the giveaway traces of overpainting.
Some of the paintings needed only a glance; others required very close examination. The Contessa watched patiently while he went around the four walls of the landing. Finally he turned to her.
You have some fine pictures, Contessa, he said.
She showed him quickly around the rest of the house, as if they both knew it was only a formality.
When they were back on the landing, she stopped. May I offer you some coffee?
"Thank you.
They went downstairs to a drawing room, and the Contessa excused herself to go to the kitchen and order coffee. Lipsey bit his lip as he waited. There was no getting away from it: none of the paintings was worth more than a few hundred pounds, and there were certainly no Modiglianis in the house.
The Contessa returned. Smoke if you like, she said.
Thank you. I will. Lipsey lit up a cigar. He took a card from his pocket: it bore only his name, business address, and telephone number-no indication of his trade. May I give you my address? he said. When you decide to sell your art collection, I have some acquaintances in London who would like to know.
Disappointment flashed briefly on the Contessas handsome face as she realized that Lipsey was not going to buy anything.
That is the full extent of your collection, I take it? he said.
Yes.
No pictures stored away in attics or basements?
I'm afraid not.
A servant came in with coffee on a tray, and the Contessa poured. She asked Lipsey questions about London, and the fashions, and the new shops and restaurants. He answered as best he could.
After exactly ten minutes of idle conversation, he emptied his coffee cup and stood up. You have been most kind, Contessa. Please get in touch next time you are in London.
Ive enjoyed your company, Mr. Lipsey. She saw him to the front door.
He walked quickly down the drive and got into the car. He reversed into the drive of the chateau, and caught a glimpse of the Contessa in his mirror, still standing in the doorway, before he pulled away.
He was most disappointed. It seemed the whole thing had been in vain. If there had ever been a lost Modigliani at the chateau, it was not there now.
Of course, there was another possibility: one that, perhaps, he ought to have paid more attention to. The American, Miss Sleigns boyfriend, might have deliberately sent him on a wild-goose chase.
Could the man have suspected Lipsey? Well, it was a possibility; and Lipsey believed that possibilities were there to be exhausted. He sighed as he made his decision: he would have to keep track of the couple until he was sure that they, too, had given up.
He was not quite sure how to set about trailing them now. He could hardly follow them around, as he might have in a city. He would have to ask after them.
He returned to Poglio by a slightly different route, heading for the third road from the village: the one which entered from the west. About a mile outside Poglio he spotted a house near the road with a beer advertisement in the window. Outside was one small circular iron table. It looked like a bar.
Lipsey was hungry and thirsty. He pulled off the road onto the baked-earth parking lot in front of the place and killed the engine.
II.
YOU FAT LIAR, MIKE! exclaimed Dee. Her eyes were wide with pretended horror.
His full lips curled in a grin, but his eyes did not smile. You cant afford scruples when youre dealing with that type.
"What type? I thought he was a rather nice fellow. Bit dull, I suppose.
Mike sipped at his fifth Campari, and lit a fresh cigarette. He smoked long Pall Malls without filters, and Dee suspected that was how he got his emery-board voice. He blew out smoke and said: Just being here at the same time as us was a big coincidence. I mean, nobody would come here, not even a wandering loner. But the picture clinched it. All that stuff about his daughter was a bit of quick improvisation. He was looking for you.
I was afraid youd say that. Dee took his cigarette and sucked on it, then handed it back.
Youre sure youve never seen him before?
Sure.
All right. Now think: who might have known about the Modigliani?
Do you think thats it? Somebody else is after the picture? Its a bit melodramatic.
The hell it is. Listen, darling, in the art world, word of this sort of thing spreads like VD in Times Square. Now who have you told?
Well, Claire, I suppose. At least, I may have mentioned it to her while she was in the flat.
She doesnt really count. Did you write home?
Oh, God, yes. I wrote to Sammy.
Whos he?
The actress-Samantha Winacre.
Ive heard of her. I didnt know you knew her.
I dont see her a lot, but we get on well when I do. We were at school together. Shes older than me, but she got her schooling late. I think her father went around the world, or something.
Is she an art buff?
Not as far as I know. But I expect shes got arty friends."
Anybody else?
Yes. Dee hesitated.
Shoot.
Uncle Charlie.
The dealer?
Dee nodded wordlessly.
"jeer," Mike sighed. That ties it up in a ribbon.
Dee was shocked. You think Uncle Charles would really try to find my picture before I do?
Hes a dealer, isnt he? Hed do anything, including trade his mom, for a find.
The old sod. Anyway, youve sent that undertaker on a wild-goose chase.
It ought to keep him busy for a while.
Dee grinned. Is there a chateau five miles south of here?
Hell, I dont know. Hes sure to find one sooner or later. Then hell waste a lot of time trying to get in, and looking for Modiglianis. Mike stood up. Which gives us a chance to get a start on him.
He paid the bill and they walked out into the glaring sunshine. Dee said: I think the church is the best place to start. Vicars always seem to know everything about everybody.
Priests, in Italy, Mike corrected her. He had been brought up a Catholic.
They walked hand in hand along the main street. The oppressive heat seemed to impose on them the enervated lifestyle of the village: they moved slowly and spoke little, subconsciously adjusting to the climate.
They arrived at the pretty little church, and stood in its shade for a few minutes, enjoying the cool. Mike said: Have you thought about what youre going to do with the picture if you get it?
Yes, Ive thought a lot, she replied. She wrinkled the bridge of her nose in a frown which was all her own. Most of all, I want to study it. It ought to provide enough ideas for half a thesis-and the rest is just padding. But ...
But what?
You tell me but what.
"The money.
Damn right. Oops! She caught herself swearing, and looked around the churchyard nervously.
"There's a lot of it involved.
Money? I know. She tossed her hair back over her shoulder. Im not trying to kid myself Im not interested in cash, either. Perhaps if we could sell it to someone who would let me see it whenever I wanted-maybe a museum.
Mike said levelly: "I notice you said we.
Of course! You're in this with me, aren't you?
He put his hands on her shoulders. You only just invited me. He kissed her lips quickly. You have just hired an agent. I think you made a very good choice.
She laughed. What do you think I ought to do about marketing it?
"I'm not sure. Ive got some ideas kicking around in my mind, but nothing definite. Lets find the painting first.
They entered the church and looked around. Dee stepped out of her sandals and squirmed her hot feet on the cold stone floor. At the other end of the nave, a robed priest was performing a solitary ceremony. Dee and Mike waited silently for him to finish.
Eventually he approached them, a welcoming smile on his broad peasants face.
Dee murmured: I wonder if you can help us, Father.
When he got close, they realized he was not as young as his boyishly short haircut made him seem from a distance. I hope so, he said. He spoke at normal volume, but his voice boomed in the still emptiness of the church. I suspect it is secular help you want, much as I might wish it otherwise. Am I right?
Dee nodded.
"Then let us step outside. He took their elbows, one in each hand, and pushed them gently through the door. Outside, he glanced up into the sky. "Thank God for wonderful sunshine, he said. Although you should be careful, my dear, with your complexion. What can I do for you?
Were trying to trace a man, Dee began. His name was Danielli. He was a rabbi, from Livorno, and we think he moved to Poglio in about 1920. He was ill, and not young, so he probably died soon after.
The priest frowned and shook his head. I have never heard the name. It was certainly before my time-I wasnt born in 1920. And if he was Jewish, I dont suppose the Church buried him, so we will have no records.
You have never even heard him talked about?