“He could not paint air,” said Nightingale. “Look, as long as we’re dealing with Early and Middle Renaissance painting, it was not a problem, because for most of them, color was something that came after composition. But later on, when northern Italian painters started doing pictures where you could see and feel the air, the sunlight, and the shadows, Harry was lost.”
“What sort of painters?” asked Blume.
“You know, Titian, Tintoretto, Giorgione, and basically anyone after them who used light in a certain way, or painted directly, Caravaggio or, for that matter, Turner, but also-”
“What about Velazquez?” said Blume. “Could he do a Velazquez?”
“No, I don’t believe he could. Why are you asking that, Commissioner?”
“No particular reason,” said Blume.
“I am sure you do have a reason,” said Nightingale. “And it’s probably based on something you read in Harry’s writings, because you have read them.”
“I’m not in the mood for sharing,” said Blume. “Did Henry Treacy hate you?”
“Maybe. But he had mellowed with age. I might have told him about Emma someday.”
“Do you think he would have betrayed you?”
“Possibly. I’m not sure. It depends what you mean by betray.”
“That’s what drove you to Colonel Farinelli, isn’t it?” said Blume. “You knew Treacy was writing his memoirs, and there would be details that compromised you. I don’t know if you were worried about the whole story or just one episode, I can think of at least one that would have got Farinelli interested. I’m talking about your sale of false paintings to the Cosa Nostra boss.”
Nightingale plucked at his pant legs exposing thin vein-colored socks. “False?”
“Yes, they were false. He is quite specific about it in his writings. He even gives instructions on how to prove they were false. I believe you when you say you didn’t know, because he’s specific about that, too.”
“That bastard.”
“So he betrayed you twice,” said Blume. “Once by swapping real paintings for forged ones, and then once again by writing about it. The stolen paintings went back to their rightful owners. Or so Treacy says. If this were to be published, it could spell a special kind of trouble for you and the Colonel, only I think the Colonel is probably better equipped than you for defending himself from the Mafia,” said Blume.
“I could leave this damned country. It is probably not worth their while sending someone abroad after me.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Blume.
“And you might be surprised to know that the Mafia threat is not my first thought. Only once was I involved in the sale of stolen works, but here you are telling me I was not. In a certain sense, I feel relieved. No doubt I’ll get round to worrying about the implications of selling forgeries to the Mafia later-though the danger was surely greatest at the moment of sale. Perhaps the buyer is dead now.”
“Don’t pin your hopes on that,” said Blume. “The Mafia has a corporate memory.”
“I see you like to comfort people, Commissioner. So have you read all his writings?”
Blume nodded. “Yes. Three notebooks. Two dedicated to his life, one to technique.”
“The Colonel was right about you, then,” said Nightingale. “Before this conversation began, I had entertained the very faint hope that Harry might have destroyed his manuscripts. Sadly, that is not the case. The reason I called in the Colonel in the first place was to persuade Harry. Force him, if you will. Harry was bound to compromise the Colonel many times over. I am sure the sale of the stolen paintings, or what we thought were the stolen paintings, is just one of several questionable episodes. Did Harry by any chance speculate as to why I broke the habit of a lifetime and went along with the Colonel that day? Does he even wonder what I felt about dealing with violent criminals?”
“No. He doesn’t speculate. He just has you turning up at the sale in the hotel room.”
“He never considered that I might have my reasons. That the Colonel might have forced me to act. That’s Harry all over. He’s always the only victim. It’s the Irish in him.”
“So what did the Colonel threaten you with?”
“He threatened Angela and Emma,” said Nightingale. “Whereas to persuade Harry, all he had to do was threaten Harry. See the difference there?”
“Yes,” said Blume. “There are many advantages to being single.” He paused. “On the other hand, Henry Treacy only pretended to cave in and swapped the works to save the rightful owners.”
“How noble of him.”
“So the Colonel knew Emma was your daughter?” asked Blume.
“He knew about Angela. I don’t know if he knew who Emma was. He was always very oblique in his threats. He never even mentioned the child directly.”
Caterina finally spoke, her voice trembling with emotion. “I don’t understand you, Nightingale. After what he did, how could you even think of going to the Colonel to tell him about Treacy’s book? How could you do that? No normal person would want the Colonel in his life again.”
Nightingale glanced at Blume as if to gauge how seriously he should take Caterina’s intervention.
“Answer her.”
“You’re right, of course. I made a bad mistake. All I can say is that the Colonel has always been there in the background. I’m used to him. And it was a long time ago, and he never did do anything to Emma or Angela, so I guessed he was bluffing.”
“Why are you so keen to suppress Treacy’s writings? So much so that you invited that evil bastard the Colonel back into your life?” said Caterina.
“Well, if you must know, it’s a question of principle. I don’t like the idea of Harry writing an autobiography or whatever it was in which I have a leading and probably unflattering role. I value my privacy, regret my mistakes, and I claim my right to a peaceful old age. How dare he write me into his version of the past.”
“And so,” said Caterina, “you called in the Colonel to dissuade him.”
“Yes,” said Nightingale. He rubbed his cheek with the side of his hand. “The thing is, I called the Colonel about a month ago, warning him that Harry was writing about the past, some of our dealings, things that might be embarrassing. Farinelli told me he would deal with it, and now Harry is dead.”
“Wait,” said Blume. “Are you saying the Colonel killed him or had him killed?”
“Hardly,” said Nightingale. “And if I were to say such a thing, it would not be to you, Commissioner. There would be no point.”
“Why not?”
“Because Colonel Farinelli has bought you off, or perhaps set you up. My lawyer received a recording of a conversation between you and the Colonel in which you are heard agreeing to take a cut from the sale of paintings found in Treacy’s house. You, Commissioner, are corrupt, and I am calling my lawyer back in, if you don’t mind.”
Chapter 25
Blume’s first instinct was to look at Caterina. She had sat forward in her seat and seemed slightly curious to hear his response. He realized with a shock that the idea was not new to her.
His second instinct was to pick up the nearest object on his desk, which happened to be a copy of the Code of Criminal Procedure and pitch it straight at Nightingale’s face. Although the man was no more than two meters from him, he missed.
Blume then picked up a massive cut-crystal ashtray that he used as a paperweight.
Caterina jumped out of her seat. “Commissioner!”
Nightingale was already halfway to the door of the office.
“Just kidding,” said Blume, and put it down.
Nightingale opened the door and beckoned in his lawyer, escorting him to the seat he had been occupying before. Then he placed himself, still standing, behind the chair.
Caterina came round, picked up the law book. She put it back on Blume’s desk.
“You don’t believe that, do you?” whispered Blume.
“He taped you in the restaurant talking about selling the pictures,” said Caterina. “Not that I care.”