Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less by Jeffrey Archer Page A

after. It was an oil by Leon Underwood called “Venus in the Park.” The
large, rather sombre canvas contained about six men and women sitting on metal
chairs at circular tea tables. Among them, in the foreground, was a naked
comely woman with generous breasts and long hair. Nobody was paying her the
slightest attention and she sat gazing out of the picture, face inscrutable, a
symbol of warmth and love in indifferent surroundings. David found her utterly
compelling.
    The gallery proprietor, Jean Pierre Lamanns,
wore an elegantly tailored suit as befitted a man who rarely received cheques
for less than a thousand pounds. At thirty-five, he could afford the little
extravagances of life and his Gucci shoes, Yves St. Laurent tie, Turnbull and
Asser shirt and Piaget watch left no one in any doubt, especially women, that he knew what he was about. He was an Englishman’s
vision of a Frenchman, slim and neat with longish dark, wavy hair and deep
brown eyes that hinted at being a little sharp. He could be pernickety and
demanding, with a wit that was often as cruel as it was amusing, which may have
been one of the reasons he was still a bachelor. There certainly had not been
any shortage of applicants. When it came to customers only his charm was on
display. As David wrote out his cheque, he rubbed his forefinger gently
backwards and forwards over his fashionable moustache, only too happy to
discuss the picture.
    “Underwood is one of the greatest sculptors
and artists in England today. He even tutored Henry Moore, you know. I believe
he is underestimated because of his treatment of journalists and the press,
whom he will describe as drunken scribblers.”
    “Hardly the way to endear himself to the
media,” murmured David as he handed over the cheque for £850, feeling agreeably
prosperous. Although it was the most expensive purchase he had ever made, he
felt it had been a good investment and, more important, he liked the painting.
    Jean Pierre took David downstairs to show
him the Impressionist and Modern collection he had built up over many years,
and continued to enthuse about Underwood. They celebrated David’s acquisition
over a whisky in Jean Pierre’s office.
    “I would like to see more of Underwood’s
work, Mr. Lamanns.”
    “Then I can only recommend you to travel
down to his Brook Green studio to see his workshop. I’ll go with you, if you
like. I haven’t seen him for some time.”
    “I would enjoy that immensely,” said David.
He was impressed by the Frenchman’s depth of knowledge on art. David always
admired experts. They fixed their pilgrimage to Underwood for the weekend.
    On Saturday David travelled by car to Brook
Green from the City, and managed to get lost twice in Chiswick. He wondered if
he would ever understand how the London road system worked. When he eventually
arrived, Jean Pierre was standing on the pavement waiting for him and took him
straight in to see the great man, who was now very old and going blind. But his
immense enthusiasm and skill came out with everything he said. His studio in
the basement was covered in paintings and sculptures. In that room was fifty
years of work, and David spent two hours wishing he could afford it all.
    He eventually ended up by buying a small
maquette called “The Juggler” and inviting them both for lunch.
    “I rarely leave the house nowadays,” said
Leon Underwood, “but if you would ever like to come and see me again, or bring
a friend, you will always be welcome at any time.” He bowed them gently out of
the house and pottered back to his unfinished canvas. He picked up his brush
and thought a little sadly of his beautiful naked Venus on the wall of the
brisk young American.
    David was not really sure where to take Jean
Pierre for lunch, and he made a bolt for the new Hilton in Shepherd’s Bush.
Like so many Americans in a strange city, he knew that not too much could go
wrong at a Hilton. It was all so reassuringly like home. Conrad Hilton