The Modigliani Scandal by Ken Follett

sat down at a small circular table with a checked cloth. She glanced at the guidebook. ″The Lazaretto of San Leopoldo is one of the finest of its kind in Europe,″ she read. She flicked a page. ″No visitor should miss seeing the famous Quattro Mori bronze.″ She flicked again. ″Modigliani lived first on the via Roma, and later at 10 via Leonardo Cambini.″
    The proprietor came in with a dish of Angel′s Hair soup, and Dee gave him a wide, happy smile.
     
    The first priest was young, and his severely short haircut made him look like a teenager. His steel-rimmed spectacles balanced on a thin, pointed nose, and he continually wiped his hands on his robes with a nervous movement, as if drying the sweat from his palms. He seemed edgy in Dee′s presence, as anyone who had taken a vow of chastity was entitled to be; but he was eager to be helpful.
    ″We have many paintings here,″ he said. ″There is a vault full of them in the crypt. No one has looked at them for years.″
    ″Would it be all right for me to go down there?″ she asked.
    ″Of course. I doubt if you′ll find anything interesting.″ As they stood talking in the aisle, the priest′s eyes flickered over Dee′s shoulders, as if he was worried that someone would come in and see him chatting to a young girl. ″Come with me,″ he said.
    He led her along the aisle to a door in the transept, and preceded her down a spiral staircase.
    ″The priest who was here around 1910—was he interested in painting?″
    The man looked back up the stairs at Dee and then looked quickly away again. ″I′ve no idea,″ he said. ″I am the third or fourth since that time.″
    Dee waited at the foot of the stairs while he lit a candle in a bracket on the wall. Her clogs clattered on the flagstones as she followed him, ducking her head, through a low arch into the vault.
    ″Here you are,″ he said. He lit another candle. Dee looked around. There were about 100 pictures stacked on the floor and leaning against the walls of the little room. ″Well, I′ll have to leave you to it,″ he said.
    ″Thank you very much.″ Dee watched him shuffle away, and then looked at the paintings, suppressing a sigh. She had conceived this idea the day before: she would go to the churches nearest to Modigliani′s two homes and inquire whether they had any old paintings.
    She had felt obliged to wear a shirt under her sleeveless dress, in order to cover her arms—strict Catholics would not allow bare arms in church—and she had got very hot walking the streets. But the crypt was deliciously cool.
    She lifted the first painting from the top of a pile and held it up to the candle. A thick layer of dust on the glass obscured the canvas underneath. She needed a duster.
    She looked around for something suitable. Of course, there would be nothing like that here. She did not have a handkerchief. With a sigh, she hitched up her dress and took off her panties. They would have to do. Now she would have to be extra careful not to get the priest beneath her on the spiral staircase. She giggled softly to herself and wiped the dust off the painting.
    It was a thoroughly mediocre oil of the martyrdom of St. Stephen. She put its age at about 120 years, but it was done in an older style. The ornate frame would be worth more than the work itself. The signature was illegible.
    She put the painting down on the floor and picked up the next. It was less dusty but just as worthless.
    She worked her way through disciples, apostles, saints, martyrs, Holy Families, Last Suppers, Crucifixions, and dozens of dark-haired, black-dyed Christs. Her multicolored bikini briefs became black with ancient dust. She worked methodically, stacking the cleaned pictures together neatly, and working through one pile of dusty canvases before starting on the next.
    It took her all morning, and there were no Modiglianis.
    When the last frame was cleaned and stacked, Dee permitted herself one enormous sneeze. The dusty air in