place.”
Grattapaglia was standing in front of the green door, looking up at the wall, when they opened it. He took a step forward as if to enter, but Blume blocked his way with the bag, and said, “Here. Take this. Get someone to bring my car down here, put this in the trunk.” He dropped the bag at Grattapaglia’s feet and handed him the car keys. Then he leaned back and pulled the green door shut, which sagged a little thanks to his earlier efforts.
“How long do I have to stay here?” demanded Grattapaglia. “If you want me to do house-to-house and then those extra reports and write up this morning’s incident…”
Blume cut him short with a wave of his hand.
“We are having a meeting of the investigative team after lunch. At least until then.” He turned to Caterina who was hanging back trying not to overhear. “Come on, Inspector. Time for a visit to Treacy’s gallery.”
Chapter 7
Caterina and blume stood on Via in Caterina, looking at a shiny brass plaque set into the wall, with “Galleria Orpiment, 1? piano” etched into it. The door to the building was half open, and they stepped inside the small courtyard to find themselves before a wide stone staircase whose many shallow marble steps seemed designed to ease the task of climbing and to impress upon the visitor that this was a building with room to spare. Turning around on the landing at the end of the first flight, they were confronted with another, slightly steeper and shorter, leading up the piano nobile and the entrance to the gallery, which was marked by a high threshold topped with red marble and a faded coat of arms and the motto Ingenium superat vires. The large double-leaved oak door was open and led to a small access area fronted by darkened glass. Blume pressed the intercom and the door clicked open immediately.
Inside the gallery, the ceilings were high and their footfalls clacked and echoed every time they left the overlapping Persian carpets. The hall smelled of polish and lavender, and the cool air felt smooth and heavy against their skin. It was a place conducive to quiet business between people who understood one another. Pictures that looked like they had been overlaid with a veneer of treacle were set in heavy gold frames, but their irregular spacing on the walls stopped them from being too overbearing. They all seemed to feature people with complacent eighteenth-century faces in extravagant clothes, lounging on urns and surrounded by classical ruins.
At the end of the room, behind a clear desk with a flat-screen monitor, but no keyboard in sight, sat a young woman who watched as they entered. Blume noted her perfect shape, so flat, so taut.
He introduced himself and Inspector Mattiola, and the girl introduced herself as Manuela Ludovisi. She was composed enough not to stand up herself, but instead motioned them to sit down. Using the polite pronoun “ Lei,” she offered them tea, coffee, and water before finally accepting that they were declining all beverages.
“Are you alone here?” Blume decided to use the familiar “ tu ” immediately.
She nodded. Beautiful women often had heads the shape of eggs, Blume decided. It allowed them to have oval faces and tapered cheeks.
Blume’s cell rang. He flicked it open, and saw Grattapaglia’s name. He’d let Grattapaglia stew for another hour or two before letting him go. He cut off the call, turned to the receptionist with a smile, and said, “Sorry about that. Do you know why we are here?”
The girl shut her eyes without scrunching her eyelids, wrinkling her brow, or bringing her hand to her face. It was a study in self-control. She opened her eyes again, and they seemed bluer and brighter than before. Only then did he realize he was looking at eyes full of withheld tears. “Something’s happened to Henry,” she said. “Is he dead? The policeman who phoned me earlier just told me to stay here till someone came, but he would not tell me anything.”
“Yes,” said Blume. “He’s dead.”
She nodded slowly, and the tear in her left eye fell onto her table. None followed. “Where was he found?”
Caterina leaned forward and said, “The policeman who called didn’t say?”
“All he said was that someone would be calling round to talk about Henry Treacy and I was to stay put.”
“Why did you ask where he was found?” said Caterina with what Blume felt was aggression. “What makes you think he did not die at home?”
“If he died at home how would anyone even know he was missing?” said the girl. “It’s only half past ten. I don’t think he had a cleaner and I can’t think who might have gone to his house.”
“Because no one ever went to his house?” asked Blume.
“Apart from Nightingale. That’s John Nightingale, his partner here and my boss.”
“Where is Nightingale now?”
“I don’t know. He was supposed to come back from Florence early this morning, but he didn’t pass by here and he’s not at home yet. So maybe he stayed there. I tried phoning his house.”
“What about his cell phone?” asked Blume.
“He doesn’t have one. Neither did Henry.”
Caterina pulled her chair closer to the table. “What made you so sure it was Treacy who was dead. Why not your other boss, Nightingale?”
The girl leaned backwards and wrinkled her nose slightly as if she had caught a draft of bad breath from Caterina.
“It had to be Henry. He was sick. He drank. He was the one who hated himself and everyone. You know, the tortured artist.”
“You don’t like artists?” said Caterina.
“As long as they stay sober and don’t mistake their trade for genius, I don’t mind them.”
Blume nodded sympathetically. “Good attitude,” he said.
“Did Henry think of himself as a genius?” asked Caterina.
“Maybe once he did. Not since I knew him. That’s where the tortured bit came in. That’s why I knew it was him you found dead. And you still haven’t told me where.”
“Piazza de’ Renzi. Know it?” asked Blume.
“No. Is it near his house?”
“Yes,” said Blume.
She touched the tiny hollow above her upper lip. “I really need to get home,” she said. “I can’t just stay here.”
“We need you to show us around, I’m afraid,” said Blume. “Are there many more rooms?”
“Just two. Both slightly smaller than this. One for Nightingale, one for Treacy.”
Caterina shifted in her seat and leaned forward. “Where is home, by the way?”
“Via della Lupa, number 82b.”
Caterina wrote it down. “What’s the postal code?”
“00186.”
“That’s very central.”
“Yes. I walk to work.” The girl’s eyelids flickered slightly as she looked at the Inspector. “It helps keep me in shape.”
“I walk everywhere, too,” said Blume.
“How much is the rent?” asked Caterina.
The girl rolled her blue eyes sideways as if trying to remember. “Around two thousand six, two thousand seven, I think.”
Caterina lowered her notebook. “You think, but you don’t know?”
“I don’t pay it.”
“Who does?”
“Galleria Orpiment.”
“Galleria Orpiment or one of your employers or both?”
“It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”
“No.”
