“I see you have your sources,” said the Colonel. “Can I ask who they are?”
“I’m sure you can find out if you’re all that interested,” said Blume.
“I am interested. But as you have found out this detail, which I was going to tell you about anyhow, I can get straight to the point. Treacy may have written a diary or some notebooks that contain some compromising details, I won’t call them facts, regarding activities from a long time ago.”
“How long ago?” asked Blume.
“Long, long ago. 1978. There used to be a bar on Via Avicenna in the Marconi district. It was a hangout for monarchists, nationalists, patriots, activists. One regular customer was a certain Tony Chichiarelli. He, too, was a forger. He got killed in 1984. Along with his son, who was a few months old. Now Tony Chichiarelli had a good friend called Luciano Dal Bello, and you may come across this name if you decide to start delving into my past, which I really hope you won’t feel the need to do.”
The Colonel paused to allow Blume the opportunity to make a promise. When he did not, he continued, “Dal Bello was a criminal, but he was also an important informer, and I was his contact. Now, another person who used to hang out in that bar was Henry Treacy, who we all called Harry. He was also Chichiarelli’s friend. I don’t know if they worked together as forgers. It doesn’t seem likely, since Chichiarelli specialized in handwriting, signatures, checks, false share certificates, all that sort of stuff. But they knew each other. Chichiarelli knew Nightingale, too. Now, does the year 1978 mean anything to you?”
“Argentina won the World Cup. Crystal Gale and the Bee Gees were in the charts. It was the year of Disco Inferno,” said Blume.
“In its proper place, there is nothing better than bantering good humor,” said the Colonel.
“That wasn’t just to annoy you, Colonel. Those were the things that were important to me then. You may remember it as the year Prime Minister Moro was kidnapped, then executed by the Red Brigades in March. Me, I was a kid in another country. Come to think of it, I probably didn’t even know about Argentina and the World Cup. I’d have picked that up later. I know the name Chichiarelli. From books and police reports, not experience. He was involved in mysterious ways in the disinformation campaign. Didn’t he produce false messages from the Red Brigades, and from that poor bastard?”
“Which poor bastard?” asked the Colonel.
“Aldo Moro,” said Blume.
“Ah, him. Yes. That’s the sort of thing Chichiarelli did. Not under my instructions, of course.”
After a few moments, Blume said, “Well?”
“Well what, Commissioner?”
“I’m waiting for the end of your story.”
“There isn’t an end. Not a proper one.”
“If you handled Chichiarelli, you must know quite a lot about what really happened in the Moro case.”
“No one knows anything,” said the Colonel. “There are too many centers of power, none of which trusts the other, and too many transversal operators like Chichiarelli. Apart from me and a few others, most of the people from then are now dead-or in Parliament, of course. Now Treacy’s dead, too. I just need to see what he wrote. You are quite sure you found no notebooks or diaries or anything of the sort?”
Blume shook his head. He did so with vigor and relish, but felt he might have overplayed it.
“It would be a bad idea to lie to me,” said the Colonel. “Especially now that we are negotiating a possible joint venture that, let me remind you, involves no victims, no loss to the taxpayer, and no betrayal of colleagues. Let’s say the person who would be most upset at the idea of fruitful collaboration without his knowledge is Buoncompagno.”
“I could live with that,” admitted Blume.
“Good. Also because certain works, smallish, easy enough to transport, have been removed from this house and, I regret, not logged properly. It as if they never existed, or as if they were here when you arrived, and vanished during the search you and your inspector carried out. If they were to appear on the market and, say, Buoncompagno were to get a tip-off, and then the records show that the works were never logged by us or you, but you were in here first without a magistrate giving oversight, well then, unjust though it would be…”
“I understand,” said Blume. “That will do.”
“Excellent, so we have a deal?”
Blume remained silent.
“I am going to interpret that as a reluctant and principled yes,” said the Colonel. “Now, I hate to insist, but, in my capacity as your temporary business partner, I find it odd that you’re not interested in finding out more about Treacy’s papers.”
“That’s funny,” said Blume. “Because I was just about to ask you, in my capacity as a permanent policeman, how you are so certain they exist.”
“A word of warning,” said the Colonel, sitting forward in his seat. His drooping eyelids gave a soft and tired expression to his face, but, as Blume now saw, he had the eyes of a younger man, and his gaze was sharp and unremitting. Blume stared back, assuming a look of mild interest, waiting for the Colonel to deliver his warning.
“Nobody interrogates me. Is that clear?” said the Colonel. “Nobody. I will not be questioned.” He allowed his eyelids to close for a moment, and his voice took on a more jovial tone. “At least not before lunch. Perhaps you will join me?”
Blume stood up.
“It’s too early for me, Colonel. But I wish you luck in your hunt for these papers.”
“Thank you, though I am pessimistic. We shall be in touch soon, you understand that?”
“I look forward to it,” said Blume.
Chapter 10
As blume left Treacy’s house, a sudden hard bang rang out and echoed blankly against the wall beside him. It took him a full two seconds to recognize it as the noon cannon, fired from the top of the gardens behind him. The sound was martial and startling, quite different from the muffled thud he heard when in his office across the river. The Maresciallo sat in a car directly in front of him, watching. He must have seen him jump and duck as the cannon was fired, but he showed no outward sign of amusement. Blume walked past him as if he had noticed neither the car nor its occupant.
Blume reached the corner of the road where his car was slotted diagonally into the corner. Behind him, American students sat drinking beer outside a cafe. Blume was thinking about having coffee himself, when a woman rose from one of the tables and waved at him. It took him a moment to recognize Caterina. He went over and sat down opposite her. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve just had lunch.”
“Didn’t I tell you to get back to the office?”
“No, you didn’t, actually. And my shift’s over.”
“Well, you need to go back, write up reports, and file… do you still have those notebooks?”
“Yes,” Caterina pulled her bag from under the table.
“You didn’t log them in as crime scene evidence?”
“No.”
“That’s not how it works, Inspector.”
“I know. But what with Buoncompagno, the Carabinieri… I thought you might want to look at them first.”
Blume leaned over and took out the notebooks. “Have you looked at them?” He opened the first one at random in the middle. “You know, you’re going to have to stop doing that.”
“Doing what?” said Caterina.
“Touching the hollow of your throat with your finger when you’re embarrassed.”
Caterina brought her hand down from her neck and hid it under the table.
“So you were reading them here, looking like a student-no, a teacher, I think we said-drinking Coca-
