If he was going to be tested, at least he would do it in better circumstances. Without asking, he took the drawing off the wall and carried it over to the window where he could see it properly. Nice frame, very old, but that meant nothing; the drawing itself was about four inches square in sepia ink, firm bold lines sketching out the torso of a man stretched in a muscular pose as if throwing something. The shading was equally effective, not a touch too much, with an economy of effort that was simply beautiful.
How do people recognize hands? Argyll, who spent much of his time and once derived much of his income from doing just that, was never sure; it is not something that can be put into words. Even the habitual patter of the connoisseur explains nothing, but merely describes an irrational feeling about a picture. It is by this person, or by that one, it is not a logical process of deduction; nothing to do with the intellect.
And in this case, Argyll was 99 percent certain he was looking at a sketch by Castiglione. Partly it was the pose, which reminded him of a painting he'd once seen in Ferrara; partly it was the line, which was also characteristic. Partly it was the ink, that brown shade like dried blood. But there was the final 1 percent of doubt that remained.
What was it? Why did he hesitate to say? The drawing was perfect, beautiful and flawless. Was that the problem? Was it too much like Castiglione? Were there too many signposts? Did any painter, quickly sketching something for a larger work, reveal so much and unwittingly put so many signposts to himself in so few lines? Maybe they did; it is not a matter of reason which allows 1 percent of doubt to challenge 99 percent of certainty. Still less to outvote it.
'I think this is a wonderful, beautiful copy,' he said, a little breathless from nervousness. He knew this was just a silly game but, having picked up the gauntlet, didn't want to drop it. 'Studio of, apprentice to, that sort of thing. I'd guess the right period, even the right place, but not authentic.”
It was part of the game, part of the bandying around of little signs, not to bother saying which artist he was talking about. That was taken for granted, he implied, only an amateur would bother even mentioning such an obvious detail. It was no more necessary than saying that it was a pen-and-ink sketch.
'If you suddenly dropped dead on me, I don't think I'd risk a visit from your vengeful ghost to take it. I'd rather have this.' He gestured at a small and bedraggled oil sketch by the side of the window, propped up on a little stand on the bureau. 'I've always liked Bamboccio.”
He'd passed; his instincts had saved him once again. He could see it in the slightly disappointed look on Bulovius's face, the way the look of triumph had to be packed away for use at a later date. That's the trouble with the younger generation, the old man had looked forward to reassuring himself, no eye. Very skilled, no doubt, read all the theorists, but no eye, and without that, what's the point? Argyll, however, had read no theorists and had spent much of the last seven years doing little but looking.
From Bulovius he got no words of impressed approval, just the gruff comment, 'Put it back where you got it, then. Don't hold it in the sun until it fades. Then come and tell me what you want.' A sort of acceptance, Argyll supposed.
'Robert Stonehouse,' he said, now he'd earned his audience. 'Nineteen sixty-two.
You visited him for a few weeks, I believe.”
'If you say so,' the old man replied. 'It's a long time ago. Should I remember it?”
'While you were there, a painting was stolen. It vanished, then was recovered from a ditch. The person responsible was never found, nor does anyone seem to know why it was stolen. I want to know everything you can tell me about it.”
He wasn't certain there'd be a great deal to say, but Argyll was a thorough person and he wanted everything he could lay his hands on. Not that it would lead to anything, but he still wanted to get it right. To his considerable astonishment, Bulovius remembered quite a lot. It just wasn't what he had expected to hear.
If it is possible to look perturbed, amused, and ill all at the same time, Bulovius came close. 'What do you want? A confession? Very well, then,' he continued before Argyll could assure him he wanted nothing of the sort, 'I confess. What else do you need me to say?”
Argyll gaped at him, now thoroughly lost for words.
'It was stupid, I know. A moment of madness, brought on by irritation. I hope you realize that I have never, before or since, done anything like it. Every picture, bronze, print, and drawing that I own was acquired honestly. I have records and receipts for everything; what's more I must assure ...”
'You stole it?' Argyll said, finally waking up to the fact that all his fond imaginings of the past few days had been completely wrong. Just as well he could still identify painters; he was obviously not cut out for anything more subtle.
'Yes, yes. I stole it. I can't even say I gave it back voluntarily; I suppose you know that already.”
'Well. . . ,' Argyll thought for a few seconds, trying to catch up with this unexpected slant on things. 'Why did you steal it?”
'Because that barbarian Stonehouse didn't value it enough. He hadn't a clue what it was, the dolt; and the way he acquired it was despicable in the extreme.”
'Why despicable? I heard he beat this Finzi man to the deal, but that's hardly despicable. All in the game, really.”
Bulovius looked irritated. 'What are you talking about?”
'I'm not sure anymore,' Argyll said. 'I heard that Stonehouse bought it in 1938 from a dealer in Rome. On the other hand, his own accounts suggest he bought it in 1940. . .
. His son told me the 1938 version is correct.”
'No, no, no. What nonsense. He's lying. Or more likely is just parroting what his father told him, as he always did. Finzi bought it; bought two panels out of a triptych from the dealer in Rome. Stonehouse would never have had the gumption to notice them. He never tracked down the third part. They must have been split up when they left the church of San Pietro Gattolia in Florence.”
Argyll was disheartened to hear that he was now dealing with two pictures rather than one. He had hoped life was about to become simpler, not more complicated. But he smiled encouragingly.
'These two pictures . . . ?”
'Finzi, as you can imagine, had trouble getting out of Italy when things became dangerous. A lot of his fortune went in bribes and many of his pictures were given over then as well. He got some out, but arrived in London with almost no money.
Stonehouse offered to lend him money, taking what pictures were left as security. After the war, when Finzi reestablished himself, Stonehouse refused to give them back, saying that they had been bought. It was a dreadful blow. The cream of his collection was dispersed and even though he built a new one, it was never quite the same. It was a deep personal wound, as I'm sure you can imagine.”
'Not how Stonehouse tells it.”
'Finzi was a natural. Loved paintings—had a better eye than anyone I ever knew, for all that he was a businessman. Everything he ever bought was a gem. And a kind man, as well; he took me on to order his collection when I was a penniless student in Rome, and paid me a salary until I got my first job. And made me the chief beneficiary of his will. Except for the pictures that went to the National Gallery.”
Ah. Argyll thought. That's where it all came from.
'Stonehouse was loathsome; he never had to earn any money himself, so didn't know its value. Just its power. And he bought rubbish; any good paintings in his collection were there by accident. Did you ever hear the story about his Modigliani?”
'Vaguely,' Argyll confessed. 'It was destroyed, wasn't it?”
'Typical of the man. Too weak to do anything about his wife having an affair with him, but becomes outraged when he paints her in the nude. People might suspect, you see. Couldn't have that; nothing else mattered to him. It was all appearances with him.”
'This picture . . . ?”
'Finzi knew what it was by instinct; I could prove it after I'd worked on the matter a little. I had it all down, tracked down the preparatory sketches in the Uffizi, identified the print by Passarotti; but I never published. Couldn't; wouldn't as long as it was in the hands of that man. Stonehouse didn't have a clue; he relied on that old fraud Berenson, who gave him an invented attribution as a joke. Berenson knew perfectly well what it was, but would rather have died than tell him. Stonehouse never had a sense of humor and could certainly never tell when he was being made fun of. I took it on impulse when I saw where he'd hung it. That was the final insult. Had it been
