The Modigliani Scandal by Ken Follett Page B

appallingly bad taste. A 1960s splayed-leg radio/ record player hummed in a comer. On the television a man′s head soundlessly mouthed the news. In the center, on top of an orange nylon rug, a vaguely Swedish coffee table bore ashtrays, piled newspapers, and a paperback book.
    A small child playing with a toy car at her feet ignored her. She stepped over him. The proprietor came through the far door. His stomach sagged hugely over the narrow plastic belt of his blue trousers, and a cigarette bearing a precarious finger of ash hung from the comer of his mouth. He looked at Dee inquiringly.
    She spoke in fast, liquid Italian. ″I knocked, but there was no reply.″
    The man′s lips hardly moved as he said: ″What is it?″
    ″I′d like to book a call to Paris.″
    He moved to a bowlegged kidney-table near the door and picked up the telephone. ″Tell me the number. I′ll get it.″
    Dee fished in her shirt pocket and took out the scrap of paper on which she had written the number at Mike′s flat.
    ″Is there a particular person you want to speak to?″ the proprietor asked. Dee shook her head. Mike was not likely to be back yet, but there was a chance that his char would be in the flat—when they were away she dropped in whenever she felt like it.
    The man took the cigarette out of his mouth and spoke a few sentences into the receiver. He put the phone down and said: ″It will only be a few minutes. Would you like to sit down?″
    Dee′s calves ached slightly after the walk. She sank gratefully into a tan leatherette armchair that could have come from a furniture store in Lewisham.
    The proprietor seemed to feel he should stay with her: either out of politeness, or for fear she might steal one of the china ornaments on the mantelpiece. He said: ″What brings you to livorno—the sulphur springs?″
    She was not inclined to tell him the whole story. ″I want to look at paintings,″ she said.
    ″Ah.″ He glanced around his walls. ″We have some fine work here, don′t you think?″
    ″Yes.″ Dee suppressed a shudder. The framed prints around the room were mostly gloomy ecclesiastical pictures of men with haloes. ″Are there any art treasures in the cathedral?″ she said, remembering one of her ideas.
    He shook his head. ″The cathedral was bombed in the war.″ He seemed a little embarrassed to mention the fact that his country had been at war with Dee′s.
    She changed the subject. ″I should like to visit Modigliani′s birthplace. Do you know where it is?″
    The man′s wife appeared in the doorway and threw a long, aggressive sentence at him. Her accent was too strong for Dee to follow. The man replied in an aggrieved tone, and the wife went away.
    ″Modigliani′s birthplace?″ Dee prompted.
    ″I don′t know,″ he said. He took the cigarette out of his mouth again, and dropped it in the already-full ashtray. ″But we have some tourist guides for sale—perhaps they would help?″
    ″Yes. I′d like one.″
    The man left the room, and Dee watched the child, still playing his mysterious, absorbing game with the car. The wife walked through the room without looking at Dee. A moment later she walked back. She was not the most genial of hostesses, despite her husband′s Friendliness—or perhaps because of it.
    The telephone rang and Dee picked it up. ″Your Paris call,″ the operator said.
    A moment later a woman said: ″Allô?″
    Dee switched to French. ″Oh, Claire, is Mike not back yet?″
    ″No.″
    ″Will you make a note of my number, and get him to call?″ She read the number from the dial then hung up.
    The proprietor had returned meanwhile. He handed her a small glossy booklet with curling edges. Dee took some coins from her jeans pocket and paid him, wondering how many times the same book had been sold to guests who left it behind in their rooms.
    ″I must help my wife to serve dinner,″ the man said.
    ″I′ll go in. Thank you.″
    Dee crossed the hall to the dining room and