sold more of his stock of paintings since he gave up being a dealer than he ever had when he was working on it full time.
Flavia, on the other hand, quite liked this aspect of the job—another mark against following Bottando into internationalism—as long as she was careful about who she associated with. It is, after all, always awkward to end up prosecuting someone who a few months previously had bought you a good lunch, but there was little to be done about it; if you want the best out of your contacts, you have to associate with the doubtful ones. Flavia was expected to be discreet, overlook any minor peccadilloes like taxes she might come across and give the occasional careful warning should that be necessary. Like, I’d be careful about having dealings with so-and-so for a few months. Or, if you were planning to buy that Domenichino in the auction next week, it might be advisable to think again. Things like that.
And in return, she expected a steady flow of information on the grounds that if it wasn’t forthcoming, she might accidentally let slip about the taxes to the financial police, or time a raid for the very moment when a particularly important client was in the gallery and about to buy a major work.
Not that such tasteless matters were ever mentioned as the wine was poured or the coffee drunk; it was understood, and there was no need to be crude about it.
And Giuseppe Bartolo, whose gallery she reached at about four after fruitless visits to half a dozen others before him, was a wise, not to say wily, old-timer who knew the rules better than she did, being twice her age and many times as cunning. Indeed, he had virtually taught them to her, having taken her under his wing when she was little older, and even less experienced, than Giulia. In a similar manner to Bottando but from a slightly different perspective, he had given her useful advice about the seamier sides of the art business, and continued to do so. He regarded it as an insurance policy; he knew as well as Flavia did that the file on him in the bureau was bursting out of its second folder. Smuggling, handling stolen goods, failure to report income, operating rings at auctions, excess zeal in authentication, fakery, the works. A lovely man he was, and a wholly delightful companion, full of entertaining anecdotes and worldly wisdom.
Apart from the occasional fine, he had been left in peace; most of his victims were foreigners in any case and removing the money of strangers too stupid to know better was a centuries-old tradition which no mere police crackdown could ever prevent. Even getting the average Roman dealer to grasp that it was wrong was an uphill task. More importantly, he was a treasure trove of useful information and had never lied to Flavia once, as far as she knew.
Which is why she had chosen today to go and check up on old clients, asking the same question of half a dozen dealers. Had they heard of any raids being planned?
“Such as where?”’
“A monastery called San Giovanni,” she said for the sixth time as they sat in the back room of Bartolo’s little gallery in the via dei Coronari, “We had a call, but it doesn’t add up. What we don’t know is whether it was a hoax or not. The one painting worth stealing is unstealable. A man called Menzies is restoring it.”
Bartolo stiffened slightly, then nodded. “I understand. But I am afraid I can be of no help. I’ve heard of nothing being planned at all. Tell me what you know.”
“That’s about all there is. Have you ever heard of a woman called Mary Verney?”’
Bartolo frowned as he tried to figure out in advance the purpose of the question. Then he gave up and shook his head. “Who is she?”’
“She’s a professional thief. A very good one.”
“I see,” he said cautiously. Odd how dealers lost their joie de vivre when you asked them about thieves. “What’s she done?”’
Flavia reeled off a list of thefts; Bartolo raised his eyebrow in unaffected astonishment. “Bless me,” he said. “Are you sure? I often wondered what happened to that Vermeer.”
“Now you know. You’ve not heard of her?”’
“Not by name. Obviously, I hear every now and then about professionals for hire, but as I have no inclinations in that direction myself, I never pursue the matter. Besides, these people are rarely as good as the legends claim.”
“This one is. And she’s in Rome.”
“I see. You think she might have Caravaggist inclinations?”’
“Who knows?”’
“Hmm. I will keep my ear to the ground, if you like. But I can’t help you much. I don’t remember ever hearing of this monastery before last week.”
Flavia finished her meal and leant back for the waiter to take her plate away. “Last week? What happened last week?”’
“This man Menzies.”
“Ah, yes. I noticed that you turned a little pale when I mentioned him.”
“Indeed. It’s fortunate you are here. You can help. He has to be stopped, you know.”
“What are you talking about?”’
“The Farnesina.”
“What about it?”’
Bartolo sighed. “You really don’t pay much attention to things, do you? The Farnesina project. Cleaning and restoring the Raphael frescoes. Galatea.”
“Oh, yes. Now I’m with you.”
“Good. A great masterpiece and one of the most important restoration projects for years. The ministry will be assigning the project in due course. There are two candidates—Dan Menzies and my friend Gianni d’Onofrio. Menzies has been lobbying hard to get it, saying that it should go to someone with an international profile, as he terms it. And he’s already lined up subsidies from rich Americans, which is the sort of thing poor Gianni can’t do. And Menzies is prepared to use methods which Gianni would never descend to.”
“Who is this man of yours?”’
“He works for the Borghese, and has a freelance business. He comes from a different tradition to Menzies. No university courses in restoration theory or any nonsense like that.”
“I see. Artisan versus Professional, is that it?”’
Bartolo nodded. “He followed in the family business, you see. D’Onofrios have been restoring paintings in Rome for generations. Certainly since the early nineteenth century. A good, artisanal trade, you know. Very respectable.”
“Not always,” Flavia murmured.
“It can be misused,” Bartolo conceded, “I’m glad to say. But the skill involved, the training, that’s the thing. A menage a trois, if you see what I mean, between painter, canvas and restorer. Very delicate; each must get its due, and the restorer must be delicate, and discreet, and never thrust himself forward. It’s like an old marriage that has broken down. The restorer is there merely to restore harmony between the partners, what the painter intended and his achievement. To bring back that balance. Not to impose his own. Never to get in the way. Always to be the loyal servant, not the master.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Now, old Giovanni, the father, he was perfect. The ideal restorer. Never a dab of paint too much. Never doing anything too much, lest he make a mistake. Always augmenting the painter’s work, never replacing it. You see? It was his character as well; a very mild-mannered, charming man, so modest about his abilities. I always thought of him as a sort of artistic family doctor. When I gave him a painting, he’d just have it in his studio for months on end, simply to look at and get the feel of it. And when he worked, it was with such reverence and honesty.”
“That must have been tiresome,” Flavia said.
“Umm? Oh, I don’t mean that, although he was that sort of honest as well. He could have been the finest forger of his generation, had he been so minded. Many a time I dropped a little hint—you know, take him an old copy and say, “Wouldn’t it be nice if this Maratta could be brought back to its full glory?” Just a hint, you see, and he’d shake his head and apologize and say that he really didn’t think it was a Maratta. He knew what I wanted, of course, but he was quite incorruptible.”
“And the son? Is he different?”’
“Young Gianni? Oh, no. Not at all. Not any more, anyway. In his youth, twenty years ago, he did a little, ah,
