The Fatal Touch (16 page)

“I took this as a sort of threat, especially after the kindness of my gesture to edit his work, and we argued. It was a bad argument, too. One of our worst and, as it turns out, our last. I asked him why I would want to destroy his work, and he said because there were parts in it that concerned me. I told him he had a duty to show me what was in his notes. He taunted me, said there was plenty of stuff in there and that people would soon enough find out what sort of a person I am. That was bad enough, because no one likes to have their personal affairs published for all the world to see, but there was another question about which Harry was not even aware, and it had to do with his . . . well, our, line of business.”

Nightingale faltered and Blume intervened to reassure him. “His forgeries, is that what you’re shy of saying?”

“No, as it happens, I am not shy at all,” said Nightingale. “You see, Commissioner, the art world’s got different rules. Different principles and behavior. Let’s just say for the sake of argument that I were to admit to placing forgeries on the market over the years. In the first place, I would be protected from prosecution for almost all of them by the statute of limitations. But even if I spoke openly of a forgery sold yesterday, almost all the other interested parties and the people involved in the transaction, especially those who invested good money in it, would be so keen to attest to its authenticity that no one would be allowed to believe me. I would have to work really hard to prove that what I sold was not authentic. Very hard indeed. It’s not easy to self-incriminate in this line of work.”

“Does Henry provide evidence of forgery in his writings?”

“In the writings you did not find?”

“Yes, in those,” said Blume.

Nightingale settled himself more comfortably in his armchair. “Back in the 1930s, Commissioner, there was an American collector called Joseph Duveen. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

Blume shook his head.

“Well, this Duveen was a genuine expert, with both an eye and historical knowledge, which is a rare thing indeed. In an article he wrote, Duveen happened to mention that a version of a very famous painting
La Belle Ferronière
, supposedly by Leonardo da Vinci, was a fake. Now, bear in mind that the people who were in the process of selling the ‘discovered’ work had a quite unbelievable story to begin with. I mean, really—they hardly even tried to make it convincing. But they did insist on its authenticity, and aggressively, to boot. With barefaced . . .
sfacciatezza
—I don’t think English even has a word for that sort of attitude—”

“
Chutzpah
,” said Blume.

“If you can call that an English word,” said Nightingale. “The point is the work was purportedly a second copy made by da Vinci—the artist famous for not even finishing off his own originals, let alone making copies. So when Duveen said fake, you probably think the vendors would have hidden their faces in shame and pulled the work from sale.
Au contraire
. Declaring that Duveen had depreciated their profits,
they
sued
him
for damages, and won. They bankrupted the poor chap. The painting was duly sold and is still attributed, sort of, to da Vinci, even though no one believes that anymore.”

“If you are untouchable, I fail to see why you should be worried about what Treacy wrote,” said Blume.

“Reputation, Commissioner. As he got on in years, Harry became more and more open about his forging activities, till he was practically shouting it from the rooftops, though it is worth mentioning he did not start doing that until he stopped producing work that was skilled. I did not depend all that much on him. The relationship was the other way around, really. Even if he had been producing magnificent interpretations of grand masters once a month . . .”

“Interpretations, huh? I thought you weren’t shy of the word forgery.”

“Fine, then, forgeries. We could hardly be selling a discovered grand master once a month. There are limits to what the market will accept. I had quite high volumes of trade in areas that did not concern him, including sculpture. But two years ago, Harry even started sending letters to museums around the world, claiming authorship of various paintings. None of them ever purported to take him seriously, though one or two old masters subsequently vanished from display, often ‘for cleaning.’ Some of Harry’s claims were bluffs, and sometimes I thought he was becoming delusional, genuinely believing he was the artificer behind works that he had never touched. The thing is, Harry was bursting to tell the world what he had done, which is not really what one wants to hear.”

“So you would not have edited his writings, you would have destroyed them.”

Nightingale looked offended. “I would have edited them, not destroyed them. I might have made a lot of cuts. The best editors cut out more than they leave in.”

“I see,” said Blume. “And so who better to tell about the notebooks than someone who knows the business, knows you and Treacy, and has authority. You contacted Colonel Orazio Farinelli and told him about the notebooks, didn’t you? It should have been easy for the Colonel to get them, but maybe he delayed. Maybe he was doing a deal with Henry.”

“I can’t even begin to fathom what you are trying to say, Commissioner.”

“OK, fathom this: when we or the Carabinieri get called out to a scene, our job is not to gather evidence that can be used against a person, but to gather evidence that a crime has been committed in the first place. That’s phase one. The law is very clear on this point. Our evidence cannot really be used as part of the prosecution case unless the prosecutor successfully applies for an
incidente probatorio
—I’m afraid I can’t translate that for you. It means using the preliminary evidence retroactively if it turns out there is a perpetrator. After our preliminary phase, we report to the investigating magistrate who chooses which force to use and, from then on, it is up to the magistrate to direct inquiries. Of course, we still have the power of initiative and can make suggestions, but all this comes
after
we have declared the existence of a suspected crime. Are you following this?”

“Without any great interest, I’m afraid.”

“Keep listening, then. Today we did not get as far as reporting a crime, which is one of the reasons you have little to fear from this conversation we are having. No one from here filed a notification with a magistrate. Our instinct was that this might be a death by misadventure. But seeing as there is also some mad mugger operating in Trastevere, picking on foreign victims, we were going to look at that, too, and incorporate Treacy’s death into an ongoing investigation already under the direction of a magistrate. All nice and simple, so far. Yet, a few hours later, a new magistrate and the Carabinieri are investigating. Well, that’s fine, too. This sort of thing occasionally happens, especially when we stumble into something that another force is already investigating. The Carabiniere who arrives on the scene is a colonel, no less. Former director of the Art Forgery and Heritage Division. The dead man is a forger. Well, that definitely suggests the existence of a prior investigation, doesn’t it? And if there was one, you were at the center of it along with Treacy, but you did not mention it. Perhaps you did not know?”

“If there was an investigation into us, I did not know,” said Nightingale.

“By law, you must receive an official notification that you are under investigation. You never got one?”

“No.”

“So it seems there is no investigation, or was none until this morning. But the magistrate, a very flexible man who is susceptible to persuasion from powerful people, says there
is
an investigation. And then I have the pleasure of a chat with the Colonel himself, and it turns out he, Treacy, and you go way back.”

“I am still not sure what you are implying,” said Nightingale. “Perhaps you might be a little clearer?”

“I find the sudden investigation into a suspicious death that has not yet been declared suspicious to be suspicious.”

“Ah, much clearer now. Who says the art of explication—”

Blume cut across him. “Don’t test my patience, Mr. Nightingale. The obvious conclusion to this is that you warned the Colonel about the notebooks.”

“That’s not the only obvious conclusion.”

“It’s the one I choose to draw,” said Blume. “Refute me.”

Nightingale spelled out his words with great deliberation: “I did not tell the Colonel about the notebooks.”

“That’s not a refutation, it’s just a denial.”

“It’s also the truth.”

He was lying. Blume was sure. But he was pleased, too. It was as much and more than he had hoped to get out of the interview.

“And now you tell me, Commissioner, how do you know these writings that you say you have not seen are contained in notebooks?”

Blume and Nightingale sat there looking at each other, neither embarrassed at his own discovered lies, both annoyed at the other’s. After a while, Blume said, “If I have Treacy’s writings, I will soon read them and discover whatever it is you wanted kept quiet. You might as well tell me what it is.”

“I just did. His claims and revelations regarding paintings I sold . . .”

“I see,” said Blume. “You’re hoping that whatever it is, Treacy did not include it. Perhaps someone killed him beforehand?”

Nightingale stood up. “I think next time we speak, I shall have my lawyer with me.”

Chapter 13

Blume had enough to form three interesting hypotheses. The first, almost a certainty, was that Treacy had written something neither the Colonel nor Nightingale wanted revealed, which logically implied it was something the Colonel and Nightingale had done together. The second, probable but not certain, was that the Colonel learned of the existence of the notebooks only recently, or he would have moved to seize them earlier. The third hypothesis, possible and far from certain, was that the Colonel had had Treacy killed to keep him quiet. If that was the case, Nightingale should not be feeling too safe either.

Blume pulled the first notebook out of his drawer, but before he had a chance to open it, his desk phone rang.

“The Questore wishes to speak to you,” said a secretary at the other end of the line.

This formality, designed to heighten the dignity of office, infuriated Blume beyond what was reasonable. If he wants to speak to me, said Blume’s mind in a well-rehearsed and unspoken rant, then all he has to do is phone and start talking, not instruct his unctuous secretary to inform me about his interest in eventually . . .

“Commissioner. You have a serious disciplinary problem in your squad, and your detection and closed case statistics are a disaster.”

The bastard could get straight to the point when he wanted. There followed a detailed account of a complaint received from the
secundo secretario
of the Spanish Embassy to the Holy See. In his reply, Blume tried to insinuate a note of surprise into his voice regarding the unaccountable complaint from the Spanish diplomat. But the Questore was having none of it.

“
Nun ci prova’, Commissa’
. If you try to make out like you don’t know what’s happening, it’s going to look like incompetence on your part.”

“OK,” said Blume. “Point taken.”

“Give him up, whoever he is, or you’ll take the full brunt of this.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, who is it?”

“Can’t we get some time to work this out, see whether my man needs some backup witnesses or is willing to accept full responsibility?”

“I want to be able to talk about the one bad apple in a squad otherwise made up of upstanding heroes, Blume. I don’t want a show of solidarity that implicates the whole fucking force in the thumping of a diplomat. You have until tomorrow morning. You’re not too busy to deal with this, I hope?”

Blume made the beginnings of a response, but the Questore said, “No, listen. I don’t want to hear that you’re busy.”

“OK. You won’t hear that.”

“You are particularly not busy with the dead foreign forger. Leave that to the Carabinieri, please, before you manage to offend another league of nations.”

“Just a few loose ends to clear up, then it’s straight over to them,” promised Blume. “Though it is to be wondered what the basis of the sudden investigation . . .”

“No, it isn’t. Nothing is to be wondered at. Hand it over now. You know why I want you to do that? Let me tell you why: It’s so you can concentrate your efforts on improving international relations down there. The American visitor your local mugger robbed last month? Turns out his brother-in-law or cousin or someone owns GM Italia and carries clout. Another victim was a NATO negotiator—that makes two assaulted diplomats by the way.”

Now was definitely not the time to mention Rospo’s failure to file a report on the mugging of a Chinese couple.

“It’s not much to ask, is it? I mean, catch a
mugger
. Skim all the scum off the streets, hold them in five adjacent cells. Eventually they’ll pick out or kill off whoever got them arrested. Come on, Blume. And let me repeat this: Keep away from the dead forger before you offend the British Embassy, too.”

“I think he was Irish,” said Blume.