show them how to spot a fake, and demonstrate, almost incidentally, why these paintings were originals. I spouted nonsense about craqueleture on old paintings, which had nothing to do with these modern acrylic and ink works, then about technical flaws, cracking in supports, watermarks, and so on, and talked a lot about complementary colors, the importance of light. I got into a sort of riff on de Chirico’s use of magic shadow when I happened to glance up and see these two tinted glasses looking straight at me, and I heard myself saying that if he was properly interested in seeing what I was telling him, he needed to take off the fucking yellow glasses.
The room froze. Farinelli’s soft fat smirk seemed to turn to marble. The only person still moving in the room was me.
Then the boss lifts the glasses to let me look at his eyes for a moment, then, thankfully, puts them on again, and says, “ Tutt’e bbonu e binirittu. Bel quatru questo, Prufissuri. When I take off my glasses, I can’t see properly. They are adjusted for sight, do you understand?”
Then he waves his hand around the room at the other guys standing there, and adds, “I’ve spent my whole life hiding my weaknesses, now they know I can’t see properly.”
It was not much of a witticism, but everyone laughed, even me, I’m sorry to admit. Then he asked me if I would give him a solemn pledge that the works were authentic. I gave him a solemn pledge, and he put his arm around me again, told me not to worry, that my services had been much appreciated, that he had forgotten all about the glasses incident. The only reason you and your friends here would have to worry, Prufissuri, was if these turned out not to be the originals. But I don’t imagine you just stood here for an hour making a joke of a man like me in front of his men.
They took out a suitcase full of used bills, mostly 20,000-lira notes. Then they stood there making sure Nightingale and I got as much as the Colonel, which I had not been expecting, and we were sent our separate ways. Nightingale never mentioned it to me again, and the Colonel never came to claim back the share I got.
Oh, I almost forgot the proof that they were not originals.
Measure the shadow cast by the cube in the foreground of the de Chirico. It will be precisely 2.84 cm, which is 2 mm longer than the original. I’ll leave the fun of finding the extra shadow lengths in the other de Chirico works. In each case, I have added between 1 and 2 mm.
As for the Guttuso, I sort of drew my inspiration from Monica with her little extra dot, but more than that, I drew my inspiration from Farinelli himself. Shine a bright light on the front of the painting, I recommend using a halogen or a projector lamp. See those tiny pinpricks of light coming out the back? Join them up with a pencil top left, middle, bottom, a bar across, then another tiny point of light. Continue, until you see my initials HT. I like the wordplay. Pinpricks for Mafia pricks. As for the Guttusos, they’re back with their rightful owners. Farinelli, Nightingale, and I knowingly sold the Mafia eight fakes. Personally, I feel good about it.
Chapter 20
“It’s an interesting concept, and one that I would never have subscribed to but I am glad they persuaded me,” said the Colonel. “Red currants in what is essentially a carbonara sauce. It ought not to work, and yet, and yet. The tang of the fruits offsets the smokiness of the bacon and the creaminess of the egg and parmesan. If I have any complaints it was that it was too little.” He swiped a piece of bread across the center of his plate, leaving a clean white track, then pulled out a sheaf of papers from a briefcase set on the empty chair beside him. “Here. It’s the preliminary autopsy report.”
Blume set aside his glass of water and took the papers.
“You don’t need to read it,” said the Colonel, placing a piece of pink bread in his mouth with one hand and reaching into the bread basket with the other. “It concludes that it cannot be shown that Treacy was deliberately killed, and comes down on the side of unlikely. The death was probably accidental. No murder, which should get rid of any lingering doubts you had about this being a matter for your squad. The magistrate’s not interested in any murder inquiry. You know Buoncompagno has a personal backlog of eight hundred and twenty-three cases?”
As the Colonel sponged up more sauce from his plate, Blume scanned the report.
Alcohol intoxication is determined to have impaired muscular reflexes and increased the vulnerability of the brain stem to concussive trauma… Stretching of vital nerve cells caused apnea, which is determined as cause of death (see…
“Can I offer you some mature ricotta?” asked the Colonel. Blume shook his head and waved the report at him without looking up.
“To eat alone is to lead the life of a wolf,” said the Colonel. “I wish you would keep me company.”
“Uh-huh,” said Blume, reading and not really listening. So far the pathologist had not made any arguments against a possible violent attack.
The examination revealed clear signs of a contercoup type of contusion with damage being concentrated in the frontal and temporal poles, diametrically opposite the impact point in a manner consistent with a backwards fall. The severe lacerations strongly suggest negative suction pressures and contercoup force, increasing the possibility of the injuries described in the foregoing as having being caused by a fall rather than a coup or blow.
“Its conclusions are not binding and it leaves open plenty of possibilities,” said Blume.
The Colonel tipped half a glass of red wine into his mouth. “Did you look at those ethanol readings? It is a miracle he was able to walk at all. His medical records show that he had liver cancer, heart disease, and had already suffered two strokes. His colon wasn’t in great shape either. According to this, it was unlikely that he was struck on the head by any blunt object. We are verging on a death by natural causes, though an open verdict is probably the best way to go here. We shall see. Maybe a guilty party will emerge from the woodwork. By the way, you can keep that, it’s a copy. One should always make copies of important documents.”
Blume drummed his fingers on the table. Apart from one table where two ministerial bag-carriers in bright white shirts and bright silk ties were finishing up, the only people left from the lunchtime crowd were himself and the Colonel. The waiter-owner was in the kitchen talking to the cook.
“It was the wife who made this,” said the Colonel.
“Whose wife?”
“Vito’s wife in the kitchen. She also made the strozzapreti with giant shrimp and baked ham.” The Colonel opened the briefcase beside him. “Now-are you going to keep that report?”
“Yes. I may as well.”
The Colonel said, “By the way, a funny thing happened during the autopsy. You go to autopsies?”
“Not as often as I would like,” said Blume.
“Personally, I don’t mind them. But Buoncompagno. You’d think after all these years as a magistrate he’d be used to it. Anyhow, we get there, and Buoncompagno starts cursing saying he’d forgotten to bring his jar of Vicks. He tells me he rubs some under his nose to keep the bad smells at bay. Well, as it happens, I have a small tube of camphor ointment I use for my back, so I kindly offered him some. But I neglected to mention how strong it was. This stuff goes right into the muscle. You should have seen Buoncompagno, standing there, eyes flaming red, streaming tears, blowing his nose, the pathologist asking him if-get this-if, if Treacy had been his friend!”
The Colonel’s own face was streaming with tears of laughter as he remembered this.
“And the more he rubbed his face, the more it burned. In the end he had to leave.” The Colonel began to calm down. “Well, you had to be there, I suppose. But you’d have enjoyed it. I know what you think of Buoncompagno, of course. And you’re right. A clown of a man. A weathervane.”
He peered into his open briefcase, and said, “Enough. I have already been in contact with some people, and I think we can get a good sum for those seven drawings and two paintings. I think that if we stagger the sales of the paintings we found in his apartment over, say, two years, we can earn three hundred thousand. That’s net. The gross will be closer to four hundred and fifty, but then there are the expenses and commissions and the cost of putting clear blue water between ourselves and the sale. Split fifty-fifty gives you one hundred and fifty thousand,
