Blume cleared space in his living room, turned on his laptop, and fetched a series of art books from his parents’ study.
But he knew he was right even before he had finished opening the art books and Web pages. He called Caterina at the station.
“I need you to get a tactical bag. We’re going to need a battering ram, a set of chain cutters, maybe a hammer, crowbar, screwdriver, and flashlight. When you have all that, go home, pick up that painting Emma left, and come here.”
“They wanted to know why I wanted a tactical bag,” she said when she arrived forty minutes later.
“Did you tell them?”
“How could I?” She handed him the painting.
“OK,” said Blume. “Now I want you to look at this.” He gave her an Editalia art book.
“That’s Treacy’s painting!” said Caterina. Immediately. “No, wait
… ” She looked more carefully at the picture, then at Treacy’s painting. “Well, except the trees are in a different place, and the wall and arch aren’t the same either, and… I think I’m going to stop now before I come across as a complete idiot.”
“No, you’re right. The colors are similar. You can’t tell properly because this is a reproduction, but you can still see they are muddy, green, gray, beige, and depressing, same as this painting. The theme, too, the mood, the size even. You saw the likeness before the differences, same as me.”
Caterina looked at the cover of the book she was holding. “Giorgio de Chirico,” she said. “I thought he only did surreal paintings.”
“What you’re looking at is a view of Villa Falconieri,” said Blume.
“Which?”
“The one in the book. De Chirico’s,” said Blume. “Now, listen to this,” he pulled over a battered old blue hardback and read:
“During his second visit to the Eternal City, Diego Velazquez was an honored guest at the graceful Villa Medici, where it was only natural that a mind of refined artistic temperament and an innate sense of the aesthetic…”
“God.” He tossed the book aside. “I can’t stand that sort of drivel. The point is when Velazquez was in Rome and painted the portrait of Pope Innocent X which we saw a few days ago, he was staying at the Villa Medici. Where the French Academy now is.”
She nodded.
“And when Velazquez was there, he did a painting, of the gardens. It’s not as well-known as his portrait works. Now listen: In 1946, Giorgio de Chirico painted two landscapes, one of Villa Falconieri, which I’ve just shown you, and one of Villa Medici. Both of them reference Velazquez’s painting. If you take the two de Chirico paintings and merge them, you get a sort of reproduction of Velazquez’s painting. It was de Chirico paying homage to but also copying the master. Treacy went on about it in his notes.
“Now, we also know from his notebooks that Treacy was a great fan of de Chirico, he talks about a sense of affinity. More to the point, he turned down a chance to pass off forged de Chirico works to de Chirico’s niece when they were stolen.
“Now that ugly painting there is not just homage to Angela, it’s a message, too. Personal and professional. It is also a variation on the de Chirico painting.”
“Which is a variation on Velazquez’s.”
“Right. But Treacy’s painting isn’t a casual variation. It’s a landscape of a specific place. A park, in which he used to live as a guest. A park that is now open to the public, but belonged to the Pamphili family for centuries. The park where he and Angela kissed and were interrupted by an Englishwoman with dogs.”
“Villa Pamphili,” said Caterina.
“That is where we’re going now. Bring the painting and the tactical bag.”