“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.”
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.”
“Excuse us, gentlemen,” said Blume. “Inspector, outside, now.”
Blume closed the office door behind them, and pulled Caterina to one side, keeping his voice low so as not to be heard either from inside the office or from the operations room where he glimpsed Grattapaglia and Rospo and caught sight of Panebianco catching sight of them.
“First thing,” said Blume in a hoarse whisper, “you’re off this case. I want you to take over from Grattapaglia on the muggings. Whatever he’s doing, you take over. Panebianco will give you the background.”
“I already know the background,” said Caterina. “I’ve been looking into that case off and on for months, like everyone else.”
She turned to go.
“Wait,” said Blume. “I haven’t finished with you.”
Caterina gave a slight shrug and turned around again. “What else is there to say?”
“You gave the Colonel your copy of the notebooks, didn’t you?”
Caterina lifted her foot, pliéd it like a ballet dancer, and re-centered herself half a pace farther from him. She lifted her head to be defiant, but avoided his eyes. “Yes. He photocopied it. Did he tell you that himself ? I can imagine he likes to gloat.”
“Maybe he does,” said Blume, “but more than that, he likes to divide, mystify, create distrust. He did not tell me that he got Treacy’s notes from you. It’s in his interest that I don’t know. He probably told you not to tell me, didn’t he? Otherwise, why did he photocopy instead of just taking them?”
Caterina nodded slowly, remembering.
“I guessed that now because I trust you. There must be some reason you suddenly cooperated with the Colonel. Even if you gave him access to the writings, I am willing to believe you had good cause, just as you should be willing to believe I am acting in good faith no matter what you hear on a digital recording. And there is only one thing I can imagine making you do that. Elia. Is your son all right now?”
“Yes. I’m sorry,” she said.
“If Elia was in danger, you’ve nothing to be sorry about.”
“All I can think about is Elia, and it’s clouding my judgment.”
“Did he harm the boy?”
“No. Like Nightingale said, he’s oblique. Elia’s fine. Really.”
“And so he shall remain,” said Blume. “You’re off the case, like I said. That’s the first step. I’m going back in there now and I promise you this—are you listening?—I promise I will get the Colonel out of your life.”
“I want to talk about this.”
“We can do that later. Get back to proper police work now. Make sure everyone knows you’re off the Treacy case, which we don’t have assigned to us anyhow. That’s step one.”
Caterina smiled. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe you’re colluding with the Colonel. I didn’t even listen to the tape properly when he played it.”
“That’s OK.”
She leaned forward and touched his elbow. “You won’t throw anything at the lawyer, will you?”
“Nothing too heavy,” said Blume.
He stepped inside the door and was annoyed to see Nightingale just behind it.
“Eavesdropping?”
“No!”
Blume returned to behind his desk. “
Per l’amor di Dio, si sieda
.”
Nightingale remained standing.
“They say you need to use German or English to command a dog,” said Blume. “Let’s see if it works: sit, Mr. Nightingale. I won’t throw any more objects at you, unless I hear more moral judgments from the mouth of a crooked dealer.”
“I never sold a stolen work of art in my life,” said Nightingale, switching back into Italian for the benefit of his lawyer. He placed himself at the far end of the room and finally sat in the chair vacated by Caterina.
“So what, you are still a swindler, a con-artist, a fraudster, a forger’s assistant, a falsifier. If you don’t like any of those names, I’ve got some more.”
“I facilitate happiness and perpetuate good taste,” said Nightingale. “That’s what I do. And I make money from it. Morally, I have no problems with what I do.” He looked over to his lawyer, who was regarding the stained fabric of his chair with fastidious distaste. “Explain it to him,
Avvocato
.”
“If you need a lawyer to explain your ethics, you’re probably not going straight to heaven,” said Blume.
“What Mr. Nightingale means,” said Feltri, smoothing the turbulence out of the air with a stroke of his hand, “is that he helps the buyer feel that his purchase is legitimate, which is the basis of all value in the art world. At the same time, he helps the dealer conclude a profitable transaction and some of that profit trickles down to artists, art hunters, and minor collectors who supply him. You are a policeman, so I hardly need remind you what a confirmation bias is, but let me explain the term, for the sake of Mr. Nightingale. It is simply this: People believe what they want to believe.”
“Well put!” said Nightingale from his corner.
Feltri gave a slight bow of acknowledgment. “Once someone gets an idea into his head, he—and I say he advisedly, because women in this respect are a little less susceptible than men—will see only evidence that confirms his belief, and remain blind to anything that contradicts it. I do not say ignore or deliberately overlook contrary evidence, but simply not see it for what it is. I am sure that happens often in your line of work.”
“I have heard of such things,” said Blume.
“Quite. So you know exactly what I mean. So if Nightingale were to discover a painting of dubious provenance, first he would need to persuade himself of its value. Then he would need to persuade another dealer or a buyer of the same. Once that is done he has no active role in what happens next. The dealers and buyers will consciously and unconsciously gather evidence to confirm what they want to believe. Once you have a true believer, there is often a bandwagon effect, with more and more becoming convinced of the same thesis, until it is established as fact. It is a self-fulfilling process, and the value he attached to it to begin with is often well below the value finally accorded to it by others. It has nothing to do with intelligence either. The more intelligent a buyer is, the more convincing his arguments in favor of the authenticity of the work he has bought.”
“And you are here because . . .?”
“Mr. Nightingale has provided you with a great deal of information. Far more than I would have liked. In return, he asks to see the notes Mr. Treacy left. We know they are in your possession, and were illegally removed from Treacy’s house.”
“Is that all?” said Blume.
“Look, Blume,” said Nightingale. “I have told you an awful lot. I don’t believe you are the designated investigator, and I am not even sure you have a right to those notes. I think it’s my right.”
“Almost all of what you told me I found out in Henry’s notes,” said Blume. “And no, you can’t have them. Not yet, at any rate. Tell you what though,” he pulled across his notepad and flicked it open. “I took some reader’s notes . . . and . . . Here we are . . . see if you can shed some light on this.”
“Why should I help you if you won’t help me?” said Nightingale.
“No reason,” said Blume. “None at all. It’s just your lawyer’s little speech reminded me of a passage by Henry—Harry, you call him—which ends with a slightly mysterious note. Ah, here it is. Now just before the passage he has made a sort of note, in which he lays down three laws for a forger. I copied them out but I’m not sure I follow them. But they appear again in his third volume, which was evidently the first draft of a handbook for forgers and painters. Avvocato, I am afraid this is in English. I hope you can follow:
“Basic rules for forgers, interpreters, emulators, admirers, and genuine artists:
1. Authentic materials count for more than quality.
2. Quality will eventually move general opinion, but it may take time.
3. General opinion is more important than authentic materials.
“Is it me, or is there something a bit circular going on there?” said Blume.
Nightingale shrugged and said, “Harry liked to sound wise. He had almost no education, you know.”
For some reason, Blume found himself wanting to defend Treacy, or at least ruffle Nightingale’s air of self-satisfaction. On impulse, he pulled the notebooks out of his drawer and placed them on his desk.
Nightingale jumped out of his seat and came over. His lawyer, too, stood up and approached the desk.
“Are those the notebooks?” asked Nightingale.
“These?” said Blume absently. “Yes. They are. Sit down both of you.
Avvocato, si sieda, per favore
. And you, too, Nightingale, sit down.”
This time Nightingale chose the chair next to his lawyer, as close to the desk as possible.
Slowly, though he knew where to look, Blume turned over the pages, tapping passages with his finger as if searching for a word. Finally he said, “Ah. Here it is. Allow me to read to you.
“One of the simplest and best ways of building up provenance and value for a painting was to buy it. This was a trick at which John excelled. I don’t think he ever used the same route twice for getting a painting into an auction, so there was no clear pattern—not that this was of any real concern to the auction houses, which often place false bids themselves to push up prices. Nowadays they and dealers do it all the time. They have to, because they have invested in contemporary art which they all secretly know is intrinsically worthless.