The Fatal Touch (46 page)
“Which, meanwhile, you don’t have.”
“I can get them back easily enough.”
“You hope. But suppose you’ve got this wrong? That is to say, suppose you’re accidentally right and the Velázquez really is hidden in one of those paintings?”
“It isn’t. I’m not wrong.”
“Have you ever said that and then it turns out you were?”
“Never,” said Blume.
“Be serious.”
“Treacy would not risk damaging the Velázquez.”
“If it’s so very unlikely, the Colonel will think so, too.”
“Yes, but he will have to check first. Just to be sure. If Treacy reprimed the canvas carefully with gesso, it would preserve what’s underneath.”
“But you are certain that never happened.”
“Yes, he did not do that.”
“You sound so certain.”
“Because I am right. It doesn’t fit with the Treacy I know. He wouldn’t use his forging techniques on the Velázquez.”
“Why not?”
“It’s in the tone of his text. He’s sorry, he’s repentant . . . it’s all in there. The Colonel will never pick up on it. It represents truth, beauty, forgiveness. He would not have painted over it. It is hidden somewhere else. I am certain of it. Unless . . .”
“Unless?” asked Caterina.
“I’ve just had a disturbing thought,” said Blume.
“What?”
“Come on, back to the office.” He set off at a fast pace, forcing Caterina to run the next few steps to catch up with him. “By the way, I meant to say the Madonna in the Caravaggio looks a lot like you.”
“Really?” Caterina tried to call up the image of the painting, but she had not been looking at it properly. Now she would have to go back to see it again.
It took just ten minutes to reach Blume’s office again.
“I don’t suppose you brought the photocopies of Treacy’s manuscript in today?”
“Let’s not go through that again,” said Caterina. “Don’t you have the originals?”
“I gave them to Paoloni. It doesn’t matter. I noted down the phrase . . . here it is.” Blume pulled a notepad out of his drawer, flicked through several pages, then read:
“I have already given you the most valuable thing I ever had. It is there before you, it is in these words, it is in our hearts and our memories . . .”
Blume put down the pad and looked at Caterina. “I didn’t imagine he would be so straightforward.
It is there before you!
”
Caterina said, “Angela. He gave it to Angela!”
“But hidden. It
is
behind a painting after all. I was wrong. It’s hidden behind a work he gave to Angela. It makes sense.”
He snatched up the phone on his desk. “Phone her. Tell her to get any of Treacy’s paintings she has on her walls down. Tell her to bring them to us.”
“Why me?” asked Caterina, ignoring the heavy cream-colored receiver in Blume’s hand and pulling out her cell instead.
“You know her. She’ll listen to you.”
She held up her hand as she waited for the connection and nodded as it arrived.
“Ringing . . . Angela? Inspector Mattiola, yes. Caterina. Look this may sound a bit strange but . . . you mean now? He was there. And what . . . ?” Caterina listened, made some half-hearted attempts to sound comforting, then hung up.
“Too late,” she told Blume. “The Colonel and the Maresciallo went all the way up to Pistoia. They just left her house. They took seven paintings off the walls. Emma was there.”
Fifteen minutes later, he was sitting alone in his office with a feeling of foolishness beginning to creep over him. Caterina’s shift was over, and he had told her to go home. “All I have to do is wait for the Colonel to make his move,” he said.
Before leaving, she had said, “It would be better if you knew what his next move would be.”
“He is moving a bit quicker than I thought.”
But she went home all the same. She had a son waiting for her, after all.
For all he knew the Colonel, probably accompanied by his silent Maresciallo, was right now driving across the Swiss border, a priceless painting in the trunk of their car.
His cell rang. Wearily, he drew it out of his pocket. Number withheld.
“My Maresciallo has left an important package for you downstairs,” said the Colonel’s voice. “I advise you to go down and get it immediately.”
“A parcel bomb?” said Blume.
“On the contrary. An opening of negotiations.”
“It’s money, isn’t it, Colonel?” said Blume. He was delighted with himself. The Colonel was still looking. “How much?”
The Colonel stayed silent.
“You’ve betrayed yourself already,” said Blume. “All calls are recorded always.”
“I am not afraid of a recording. I just want our conversation to move up to a higher level of intelligence,” said the Colonel. “I shall call you back in ten minutes.”
Blume did not even have to go downstairs. An enterprising Agente brought the envelope up to him, then stood around waiting to see what was in it. From the shape and feel of the thing, it could only be money, which is what the Agente wanted to confirm so he could tell his colleagues.
“Thank you, Agente, you may go,” said Blume. When he was sure he was on his own, he opened it and looked inside, then counted it out, dropping the fifty- and hundred-euro bills into the top drawer of his desk as he did so. He noted no sequence of numbers or obvious markings on the bills. The feeling of confidence in his own judgment flowed back into him.
When the Colonel phoned back, Blume said, “Colonel Orazio Farinelli, you are a generous man to give me 5,000 euros, just like that.”
“Have you stopped playing games, Blume? A police commissioner staging the burglary of his own apartment, operating without the orders of a magistrate in a case to which he has not been assigned, withholding vital evidence in the form of notebooks, conducting his own personal investigations in search of a prize worth millions, dealing with a former colleague dismissed for what everyone knows was attempted murder and now running a security firm that operates in a gray area between legality and crime. And I am the one supposed to be worried about who might be listening?”
“Speaking candidly, then, what is this money for?”
“Your advance payment.”
“I don’t have the paintings. You saw how my apartment was burgled.”
“I know you don’t have them. You let them out of your control.”
“Just like you, Colonel.”
“This is the reason that we need to join forces again. We both made the same mistake, and we both need to get those paintings back, take a look at what is in them. That money is for you to hand over to whoever has them. Promise more, get them back.”
“I see you finished reading Treacy’s life story. I think you must have planned to plant the paintings in my house before you got to the interesting bit about the Spanish painter. Awkward of him to put it so close to the end, wasn’t it? And a terrible disadvantage for you that he wrote in English.
“If you would only be more cooperative, we could work together on this.”
“The paintings you planted in my house got stolen. Well and truly stolen. Think of it as if I had put them in a blind trust. They are beyond my or your immediate control,” said Blume.
“I have simply this to say,” said the Colonel. “Act always in the best interests of your friends. Think of what would hurt them most and the lengths you would go to save them from that. That’s the level of commitment I want.”
The Colonel had hung up.
Blume phoned the switchboard from his desk and had them call Caterina at her home number.
“Caterina?”
“No, it’s Elia. Do you want to speak to my mother?”
“So you’re at home this evening. Good boy. Yes, give the phone to your mother.”
“Who shall I say it is?”
“Don’t you recognize . . . I am the Commissioner. Blume. Her boss. Alec.”
A few seconds passed, then Caterina asked, “Don’t tell me I have to come in tonight.”
“No. On the contrary. Stay at home.”
“Is everything OK?”
“Sure. You’re at home?”
“This is my home number you dialed. Are you sure you’re OK?”
“I meant later. Are you at home later? I was thinking of coming over later. We could have a drink. Is Elia going to be there?”
“You don’t drink, Commissioner. Yes, Elia is here. He just got back from a friend’s house. Are you suggesting I send him to my mother’s tonight because you are coming over?”
“No! No, keep him there. Were you planning to go out?”
“Not if you’re coming over.”
“Good. Stay in. Both of you. Keep the door locked.”
“Alec, what the hell is going on? Is it Colonel Farinelli? It is, isn’t it? If he’s threatening Elia again, I’m going to need to find a way of getting rid of the threat for good.”
“He won’t try anything,” said Blume. “But stay in.”
“You will come round?”
“I might be late.”
“Come round at any time. I could do with the company. The backup.”
“You’ll get it,” said Blume.
He hung up, then flung open his office door, and looked out. Panebianco was not there. He’d been gone for a while now. Blume roared at Rospo to come in.
“I have a chance for you to make up for being a useless little shit this morning—and every morning, and every day. Plus you get double overtime,” he said as Rospo arrived. “I want you to guard a place. In a marked car.”
Rospo made a face.
“Choose someone you get on with, if such a person exists, take a car, sit outside this address until I come and relieve you. Challenge anyone who looks suspicious going into the building.”
“Is this an order from a magistrate?”
“No. It’s from me.”
“No magistrate?” said Rospo and puffed out his cheeks as he considered the information. “Is this even a case, sir?”
“Rospo, I’m warning you . . .”
“Of course I’ll do it. What sort of person will I be looking out for?”
“Military, police, criminal, capable of violence. Probably a pair of males, aged between eighteen and fifty. Armed challenge. Don’t hesitate.”
“Who’s the target?”
“Your target is anyone suspicious. You challenge, your partner covers.”
“Not
my
target,” said Rospo. “Their target. Who am I guarding?”
“A child.”
“Whose?”
“Inspector Mattiola’s. Now do you understand what I mean about redeeming yourself ?”
Blume turned on his heel, then called Paoloni.
There was a problem.
“You know when they say the best lies are based on the truth?” said Paoloni as Blume entered his apartment. “Well, that’s bullshit. The best lies are based on lies.”
“Has something gone wrong, Beppe?”
“It’s got a bit complicated. My cousin’s mates . . .”
“The thieves,” said Blume. “What do they want, money? Here.” He put down the five thousand in cash from the Colonel.
Paoloni picked it up, handed it back to Blume. “Keep that. At least while I explain. The problem is the two who entered your apartment are beginning to feel nervous. They were hauled in by the Carabinieri a few hours ago and questioned about something totally unrelated that went down last week in Centocelle, then released. They think they were followed.”
“Can’t you help them get rid of a tail and reassure them?”
“I already did. They feel a bit more relaxed now, but, here’s the thing, they don’t want to sell the paintings to someone from law enforcement.
“OK, Beppe, tell them to choose anywhere they want to meet and I’ll go there.”
“They’re a bit freaked. They don’t want to sell the paintings to anyone from law enforcement. One of them said they were thinking of burning them.”
“How would they know I was police, Beppe?”
“You? What else could you be?”
“I could be a foreign buyer.”
“A foreign buyer . . . Come off it, Alec. They probably saw your picture when they were robbing your house. I didn’t tell them, but I’d be surprised if they didn’t work out that you’re a cop. My cousin probably told them.”
“I don’t have pictures of myself in my house.”
“Of your parents then. You probably look like them. Think it through, Alec.”
Blume had an image in his head of his passport sitting on his bed, pulled out of a drawer along with the stolen cash.
Blume called Faedda on his phone. “There are a few complications on this side. I’ll call you back once I get the paintings.”
Blume snapped shut his phone.
“Give me that money back,” said Paoloni.
Blume fished inside his pocket, pulled out an envelope, and tossed it to Paoloni.