The Modigliani Scandal Read Online Free PDF

easing through the crowd toward him, and felt gratitude toward his junior partner. The journalist seemed to sense this, and excused himself.
    ″Thank you for rescuing me,″ Lampeth said to Willow in a low voice.
    ″No trouble, Lampeth. What I actually came to say was, Peter Usher is here. Do you want to handle him yourself?″
    ″Yes. Listen, I′ve decided to do a Modigliani show. We′ve got Lord Cardwell′s three, the sketches, and another possibility came up this morning. That′s enough for a nucleus. Will you find out who′s got what?″
    ″Of course. That means Usher′s one-man has had it.″
    ″I′m afraid so. There isn′t another slot for that sort of thing for months. I′ll tell him. He won′t like it, but it won′t harm him all that much. His talent will tell in the long run, whatever we do.″
    Willow nodded and moved away, and Lampeth went in search of Usher. He found him at the far end of the gallery, sitting in front of some of the new paintings. He was with a woman, and they had filled a tray with food from the buffet.
    ″May I join you?″ Lampeth said.
    ″Of course. The sandwiches are delicious,″ Usher said. ″I haven′t had caviar for days.″
    Lampeth smiled at the sarcasm, and helped himself to a tiny square of white bread. The woman said: ″Peter tries to play the part of the angry young man, but he′s too old.″
    ″You haven′t met my mouthy wife, have you?″ Usher said.
    Lampeth nodded. ″Delighted,″ he said. ″We′re used to Peter, Mrs. Usher. We tolerate his sense of humor because we like his work so much.″
    Usher accepted the rebuke gracefully, and Lampeth knew he had put it in exactly the right way: disguised in good manners and larded with flattery.
    Usher washed another sandwich down with the wine, and said: ″When are you going to put on my one-man show, then?″
    ″Now, that is really what I wanted to talk to you about,″ Lampeth began. ″I′m afraid we′re going to have to postpone it. You see—″
    Usher interrupted him, his face reddening behind the long hair and Jesus beard. ″Don′t make phony excuses—you′ve found something better to fill the slot. Who is it?″
    Lampeth sighed. He had wanted to avoid this. ″We′re doing a Modigliani exhibition. But that′s not the only—″
    ″How long?″ Usher demanded, his voice louder. His wife put a restraining hand on his arm. ″How long do you propose to postpone my show?″
    Lampeth felt eyes boring into his back, and guessed that some of the crowd were now watching the scene. He smiled, and inclined his head conspiratorially, to try and make Usher talk quietly. ″Can′t say,″ he murmured. ″We have a very full schedule. Hopefully early next year—″
    ″Next year!″ Usher shouted. ″Jesus Christ, Modigliani can do without a show but I have to live! My family has to eat!″
    ″Please, Peter—″
    ″No! I won′t shut up!″ The whole gallery was quiet now, and Lampeth realized despairingly that everyone was watching the quarrel. Usher yelled: ″I′ve no doubt you′ll make more money out of Modigliani, because he′s dead. You won′t do any good to the human race, but you′ll make a bomb. There are too many fat profiteers like you running the business, Lampeth.
    ″Do you realize the prices I used to get before I joined this bloody stuffed-shirt gallery? I took out a bloody mortgage on the strength of it. All the Belgrave has done is to lower my prices and hide my pictures away so nobody buys them. I′ve had it with you, Lampeth! I′ll take my work elsewhere, so stuff your fucking gallery right up your arse!″
    Lampeth cringed at the violent language. He was blushing bright red, he knew, but there was nothing he could do about it.
    Usher turned theatrically and stormed out. The crowd made a gap for him, and he walked through it, his head held high. His wife followed behind, running to keep up with his long-legged stride, avoiding the eyes of the guests. Everyone looked at