some time ago.”
Blume tapped the tip of the pen on the branches of the tree, but the dots looked more like rain than leaves. He’d make it a stormy scene. “Don’t the families deny it?”
“I have never seen that happen. A family will go to great lengths to confirm that their ancestors were perspicacious people, ahead of the curve, gifted with good taste, or on friendly terms with famous artists. It’s the celebrity culture, Commissioner, and no one is immune.”
“I am,” thought Blume to himself. He scribbled in some curly storm clouds and wrote “family.”
“Another trick that Nightingale used to do was to attribute paintings to great houses, castles, and mansions that were destroyed in one of the wars. If the place no longer exists because the Americans bombed it, who’s to say what once hung on its walls?”
Blume put down his pen. “It’s more likely that the Germans would have bombed it, no?” he said.
“No, no. The Germans occupied but the Americans did most of the bombing. They still do.”
“Yeah, well… Did you find all this stuff about Treacy and Nightingale just now?”
Silence.
“Because it doesn’t sound like it to me,” continued Blume. “It’s almost as if you were following this case before it even happened, and that’s a bit strange… what’s your first name, Colonel?”
“Nicu. It’s Sardinian.”
“Well, Nicu. How come you sound like you’ve been following the case before it even happened?”
“I am just well informed of the facts. You know, we really should meet soon.”
“Yes, I think that would be a good idea,” said Blume.
After he hung up, he added some roots to the tree, then balled up the piece of paper, threw it across the room, and, in the absence of spectators, it traveled straight into the trashcan.
First the Colonel sitting in Treacy’s living room looking for notebooks he had no reason to know about, and now another Carabiniere who seemed very well informed about Nightingale. Blume took the small key from his pocket and opened the drawer with the notebooks.
Someone tapped lightly on his door. Blume pushed the drawer closed again, locked it, slid the key beneath the green leather writing-pad on his desk, and called, “ Avanti! ”
The door edged open about wide enough for a cat, then an Agente put his head around and seemed to sniff the air before opening the door fully and coming in.
“What?”
“A Mr. John Nightingale is downstairs. I just thought you’d like to know,” he said.
Chapter 12
Certain englishmen seem to expend so much energy on being English that it empties them of natural vigor. If he had not just heard about John Nightingale’s skill at faking provenance, Blume would have dismissed the lethargic man in the downstairs waiting area as being slow-witted. Blume put him in his mid-sixties. His hair was gray and tightly curled like a scouring pad used for saucepans. He looked the kind who might be comfortable in corduroy, maybe with patches on the elbows of his jacket, but in fact his clothes, though wrinkled, were sober, silver-gray, and expensive. Blume introduced himself. Nightingale stood up, shook Blume’s hand, and smiled by curving the left side of his mouth upwards and the right side downwards. Then he sat down again and said, “E’ tutto vero?”
“Is what true?” asked Blume, switching straight into English as soon as he heard Nightingale’s accent.
“That they found Harry murdered on the street.”
“Hahwy?” said Blume, momentarily confused.
“Yes. Harry.”
“Harry as in Henry?” said Blume, resisting the temptation to say “Henwy.”
Nightingale said, “Yes. Harry. I never called him Henry.”
“Henry Treacy. How did you find out?” asked Blume.
“Dear God!” Nightingale widened his eyes. “It is true, then.”
“How did you find that out?” repeated Blume.
“Emanuela told me. Manuela, rather. My receptionist. Manuela told me, well, let me see, half an hour ago. She told me to come down here and find you or an Inspector Mazzola or some such name. It’s good to find someone who speaks English like this. I can’t quite place your accent… God, you’re not Irish are you?”
“No.”
“No, you’re American. How stupid of me. Harry was Irish, you see.”
“I see,” said Blume. “I take it you’re here to make a voluntary statement?”
“What?”
“A statement to the police. Since no lawyer is present and I am not a magistrate, nothing you say can be used as evidence in court.”
“I came to get information, not the other way round. Am I under arrest?”
“No. Absolutely not. A voluntary statement cannot be used as evidence for or against anyone, period. Whatever you tell us now is of no judicial use, but it can certainly help us. You’ll want a lawyer if the magistrate calls you in for questioning, but not now. Also, as long as we keep talking English and remain one-to-one, we are speaking off the record, more or less.”
“More or less?” Nightingale’s eyes suddenly narrowed and seemed to sharpen as his bewildered and exhausted aspect vanished for a second. But then he ran his hands through his hair again and declared, “Actually, I don’t care. I just want to help.”
He stood up and began to shuffle around the small room, rubbing his hand up his temple to his receding hairline.
Nightingale was wearing sturdy handmade shoes. Blume had often thought that if he had wealth, he would invest in really good handmade shoes. Strong shoes should give a man direction. A person with shoes like that had no right to shuffle about lengthening his A’s and turning his R’s into W’s.
“Stop wandering uselessly about and come up to my office,” said Blume, and led the way out of the antechamber. With a mixture of obedience and watchfulness, Nightingale followed him down the hallway toward the two elevators next to the stairs.
The elevator arrived, and Nightingale insisted on ushering Blume in ahead of him.
“Please, just get in, Mr. Nightingale,” said Blume.
Damned Brits. His father had not liked them, and Blume, who had never properly considered the matter, seemed to have received prejudice like a fully wrapped gift which he was only now getting around to opening.
As they passed through the operations room, a few heads bobbed up to see who was accompanying Blume. Blume waved Nightingale into his office, closed the door, and went behind his desk. He sat down and leaned back, and nodded at the space midway between the two chairs on the other side of his desk. One was a cheap red molded plastic chair, the other a comfortable low-slung black armchair. Nightingale chose the second with hardly a moment’s hesitation, then crossed his legs at the ankles, and waited for Blume to speak.
“So,” began Blume. “We were just about to go looking for you. Can you tell me where you’ve been today?”
“You say Harry has been killed.”
“Did I say that?”
“Then Manuela did. Someone must have told me. I can hardly remember. Clearly I am in a state of deep shock. I feel calm now, and lucid, but I daresay it will hit me later on.” He tilted his head and repeated his crooked smile. “Inspector…”
“Commissioner,” corrected Blume. “Where were you this morning, Mr. Nightingale?”
“Florence, but, um, I’m afraid… look, I’m sorry about this. It’s the nature of my job. Always read the small print, caveat emptor, all that sort of thing, but I’m not sure I quite believe what you just told me downstairs.”
“I can’t remember,” said Blume. “Besides definitely not mentioning that Treacy was killed, what did I say downstairs?”
“You know, about what I say not being used as evidence. I’m awfully sorry if I doubt your word. It comes
