After having caterina set forth the details of her conversations with Emma and her mother, Blume was very complimentary. “And I know you’re protecting Rospo by playing down the fact of his absence.”
Caterina ignored all this and looked at him expectantly.
“Your turn,” she said. “You answered the phone while I was talking, and left directly afterwards, what was that about?”
“I asked you for a report in my capacity as your commanding officer. It doesn’t necessarily work the other way round.”
“What are you talking about? You have no right to reticence. None. I’m directly involved in all this and so is my son. Jesus, you are an irritating bastard sometimes.”
“You can’t talk to me like that. Not when we’re inside these walls. That’s why there are rules to stop this sort of thing from developing.”
“What sort of thing?”
“You know… the personal entering the workplace.”
“No. Spell it out.”
“You know exactly what I mean,” said Blume.
Caterina laughed. “You should see the color of your face now. Tell you what, just tell me about what you’ve been doing. It’ll be a cinch in comparison with this conversation.”
“It’s really better you don’t know. For your sake.”
“If it’s for my sake, I give you permission to disturb my peace of mind,” said Caterina.
“No. Not in this building,” said Blume. “We can’t speak like this in here.”
“Where then?”
Blume stood up quickly from his desk. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“Have you ever seen a Velazquez?”
“No, I haven’t. Treacy spoke of the portrait of the pope, I can’t remember his name.”
“Innocent the tenth. Giambattista Pamphili, if you prefer.” Blume went over to his window and pointed. “It’s about twenty paces from where I am standing now.”
They left the police station and turned right. A few steps past heavily grated ground-floor windows brought an impressive entrance with a green flag announcing Galleria Doria Pamphili over it.
“In here?” asked Caterina.
“No. That’s the old entrance,” said Blume. “We need to walk around to the Via del Corso.”
“You’ve been in there recently? I don’t think I’ve been in a gallery since I was on a school trip,” said Caterina. “Do you visit them a lot?”
“A bit,” said Blume.
“Did you study art or something?”
“I was brought up in it. My parents were art historians.”
They turned on to Via del Corso, and Caterina got caught behind a group of tourists in bermuda and cargo shorts who had aggregated into a tortoise formation and were proceeding along with defensive care, determined not to be forced by the natives off the sidewalk and into the path of the deadly buses. By the time she had managed to navigate around them, Blume had disappeared. She was walking blithely past a massive arched entrance to what she had always assumed to be a bank, when he stepped out and gently pulled her into a peaceful courtyard. He flashed his police badge at a man in a glass box selling tickets, who shrugged and scowled, and led Caterina down a long quiet hall toward a flight of curving steps.
“My father is dying,” said Caterina into the silence. “I don’t know why I said that. Nor why it should feel like a confession.”
“It feels like a confession because you’re telling me you don’t know how you’ll manage without him,” said Blume. “But you will. When they are alive, your parents are like two fires: the focus of comfort, warmth, and light but also of anger, rage, and heated battles. When they die, they leave a sort of after-smoke which keeps expanding until it seems to be everywhere and in everything you do and drains the color from it. So you accept that for the rest of your life you’ll be walking around in that smoke. Then one day you notice the smoke is thinning out, which is good, but you feel bad about it, too.”
They entered the gallery and found themselves standing in front of a bronze centaur, and Caterina almost pointed like a little kid to say: “Oh, look!”
“We’re the only ones here,” said Blume. “Not even a tourist. Wonderful.”
A tall blond couple entered the room speaking Dutch.
Caterina stood feeling suddenly self-conscious in the middle of the room between lines of white statues with muscular bodies. The bright ceiling frescos showed scenes from stories she did not know. The walls were not just hung with paintings, but stacked with them. Lines of paintings one on top of the other, most of them too high to see. Those that were at eye level shone back the light as a black varnished sheen beneath which she could see almost nothing.
She followed Blume down to the end of a long corridor.
“Wait! Have you seen this!” Caterina pointed at a picture of six naked cherubims grappling and wrestling each other. “That’s so sweet! I mean it’s funny, too. Mainly it’s funny. I can see you’re giving me a look-I don’t have any taste for these things. Don’t make me feel ignorant.”
“ Putti in battle,” said Blume. He peered at the nameplate next to the frame. “It says it’s by someone called Andrea Podesta. Never heard of him. Funny, I thought… never mind. I’ve seen it before. Not here.” He touched her on the arm and ushered her into a small square room just big enough for the two of them, and said, “There!”
Staring sideways daggers at them was a large portrait of Pope Innocent X.
“Doesn’t he look really hassled at our intrusion?” said Blume. “I love that.”
“He doesn’t look pleased at all,” said Caterina. She turned to examine a calmer white marble bust of the same man, his eyes blank, uninterested, who seemed to be avoiding looking at them. “Nor here.”
“You can tell that Velazquez had status by the fact they allowed him to paint the pope like that and Pamphili himself didn’t object,” said Blume. “Not flattering, but therefore flattering. Like when someone picks up on your faults? It’s annoying as hell, but since it means you’re interesting enough for them to notice, you should eventually take it as a compliment.”
He gazed at the picture, nodding at it with the utmost approval. “Also,” he said, “imagine being able to give people a fuck-off look that lasts for centuries. Who could resist that?”
They left the portrait, and walked slowly through the next room. Blume halted before a painting of a woman raising her hands in despair over a dying warrior. “That’s a Guercino,” said Blume, tapping the identifying tag on the wall. “He was one of the artists Treacy liked to copy.”
“ Erminia Finds the Wounded Tancredi,” read Caterina. “Who were Erminia and Tancredi?”
“I don’t know,” said Blume. “Wasn’t Tancredi one of those Norman knights who conquered southern Italy? It’s still a name used down there.”
“There’s a Tancredi in Il Gattopardo, too,” said Caterina. “Not this guy, obviously.”
As they stood there looking at the work, which, if truth be told, she did not like, Blume began to tell her about Faedda, the staged housebreak-in and his idea of tempting the Colonel into making a rash move to get back the paintings.
“Is Farinelli really going to believe that Treacy hid something beneath the paintings?”
“I asked Faedda to deliberately leak the idea into his department, and I must say it didn’t take long for the Colonel’s source to refer the message back to him. I think that will help Faedda identify who it is, if he doesn’t know already.”
“But will the Colonel believe there is something?” said Caterina.
“In the paintings, behind them, beneath them. He doesn’t need to believe, he just has to doubt. The important thing is to confuse him, rob him of his power to make clear decisions. And it’s working. The Colonel has paintings planted in my home, then a few hours later he wants them back. He should never have given me control, even temporarily. He’s losing command of the situation and he’s not thinking straight. That’ll do me for now.”
“You tread a thin line, Alec,” said Caterina. “But the Colonel operates completely out of bounds. Be careful.”
“Decades of impunity will do that to you. Even though he knows intellectually that he’s lost most of his power, he has no sense of proportion anymore. He still acts as if there were no limits. That’s why I think he’ll make a rash move soon.”
“I want harm to come to him,” said Caterina. “And I’m angry with myself for feeling that.”
“It’s understandable. The Colonel damages people. It’s what he has done all his life. But he’s careful, too. The harm he intends for me is administrative, penal, and moral but not physical. Same goes for you and for Faedda. And he won’t touch Elia, of course. Even he knows better than to try.”
“What about the others?”
“Who’s left?”
“Emma, her mother, Nightingale.”
“He could harm them,” admitted Blume. “But for the time being, the Colonel will be focusing his energy on me and trying to get the paintings back. Then, with any luck, Faedda will get him. That’s the idea.”
“You draw his fire, so to speak. Was it your idea?”
“Not as such.”
“What do you make of Emma’s failed alibi?”
“It wasn’t much of an alibi to begin with. We have witnesses, she probably had her cell phone with her, so we could get a reading from that. You can be sure the Colonel has.”
“It means she was there a few hours before Treacy died,” said Caterina.
“It also means the Colonel will know this. But Treacy died of natural causes. She’s not going to face an investigation. There’s a Caravaggio over here that’s worth seeing. Rest During the Flight to Egypt.”
She allowed him to steer her into the next room, glanced at the painting, which didn’t look much like the few Caravaggio paintings she knew of. “I hate to say this, Alec, but the more I think about it, the dumber the housebreaking idea looks. For about ten reasons.”
“I know.”
“So why?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time. I let Paoloni talk me into it. He’s not even persuasive, it’s just I always feel I owe him something.”
“Do you want to hear one or two of the reasons I think it was not a good idea?”
“No. I already know them all. I’ve been thinking them over myself.”
“Can I talk about one of them?”
“If you must.”
“You think you’ve managed to send the Colonel off the track by suggesting the Velazquez is hidden under one of the paintings that disappeared from your house,” began Caterina.
Blume interrupted. “Not necessarily one of the ones he put in my house. It could be any one of the paintings he took from Treacy’s house. He’ll have already started on the ones still in his possession, which will keep him busy for a while, and when he finds nothing, he’ll come looking to get back the ones that I had stolen.”
“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 Velazquez 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 Velazquez.”
“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 Velazquez.”
“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.”