The Blue Last

reason or another and carted about and the various parts went missing,” he explained, rather lamely. “Well, it was a lot of information to process, see. I have to study up on Masaccio.”

“If you had all the panels or whatever they are, it would make a nice fire screen, wouldn’t it?” said Diane as she signaled Dick Scroggs for another martini.

“How does this dealer know parts are missing if he’s never seen the entire polyptych?”

“Vasari says so.”

“Who?” asked Diane.

“Vasari, Vasari. He chronicled fifteenth-century painters and sculptors.”

Diane screwed a fresh cigarette into her ebony holder, saying, “So you spend two thousand on part of a painting, on the say-so of some Italian we don’t even know? Two thousand would buy a perfectly serviceable Lacroix.” She tapped the front of her black suit jacket to indicate one of these perfectly serviceable Lacroix.

“Life is not all Lacroix, Lacroix, Lacroix, Diane.”

“No, part of it’s Armani, Armani, Armani.” Here she reached over and tapped Trueblood’s silk wool jacket. “What d’you think, Melrose? Have you ever heard of any of these people and their paintings?”

“Mm… I’ve heard of Vasari and Masaccio. I don’t know much about Italian Renaissance art, to tell the truth.” He leaned back against the window. He had the window seat today, so sat on cushions. They took turns with this seat as it was quite comfortable and you could see people coming along the street whom you wanted to avoid, such as his aunt, Lady Ardry. “What I can’t work out is, if this is really a Masaccio, why would this Swinton gallery be selling it? You’d think they’d be shopping it about to the Tate or the National Gallery. It would be a museum piece.”

Diane blew out a ribbon of smoke. “Aren’t there tests they do on paintings that tell if the paint and so forth were actually in use at the time-what century did you say this was?”

“The 1420s, to be exact.”

Melrose said, “I assume the owner of the gallery would have done that, surely.”

“He did. But there are more sophisticated tests yet, she said-”

“Who’s ‘she’?”

“A woman named Eccleston. She manages the place when Jasperson’s not there. She’s very knowledgeable.”

Melrose frowned. “Jasperson. I think I dealt with him once. Seemed honest enough. But then the man’s been in business a long time. He wouldn’t be hawking forgeries.” Melrose had been holding the painting up. “Tell Jury to get the fraud squad on it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no fraud here; the gallery isn’t guaranteeing it’s a Masaccio. If it was I think I’d assume it was a fake.”

“Can you show it to somebody else? I mean some expert on that period?”

“Of course. There’s one in London, and we can go there tomorrow.”

Melrose raised an eyebrow. “ ‘We?’ ”

“You and I.”

“What makes you think I’m going to London?”

“Oh, come on, Melrose. You’ll want to go to London before we go to Florence.”

“Florence?” Both eyebrows shot up.

Sixteen

Benny Keegan was sweeping out the Moonraker Bookshop as a favor he sometimes did for Miss Penforwarden when the arthritis which had started to deform her hands made them painfully stiff.

Benny was whistling when the bell rang and a tall man, a stranger, entered. He had to stoop to clear the lintel. He smiled at Benny, a really nice, friendly smile that had not seemed pulled out and put on just because Benny was a kid. Benny returned the smile and opened his mouth to say he’d go fetch Miss Penforwarden, when the tall man asked him if he was Benny Keegan.

Benny frowned. Why would anyone want him, Benny? Mother o’ God, the Social! He turned around and called to the back room, “Hey, Ben, some one t’ see ya.”

Also interested in the stranger, the dog Sparky left its cushioned bench in a window and hurried over to stand by Benny. Then Benny turned back, hoping he was giving the impression of not caring tuppence for this man’s presence. He said, “ ’Course, he coulda gone down the shops.” He took a duster from his hip pocket and applied it to Miss Penforwarden’s desk. A stack of books sat there, the topmost being Interpretation of Dreams, which Benny didn’t think he’d like, but maybe Gemma would.

“Okay,” said the man, “suppose we start with your name, then.”

“Me? Well-” a glance at the books “-it’s, ah, Sigmund-Sid, for short.” Another glance at the books “- Austen.”

“Sid Austen. It’s nice to meet you. Tell me, the dog-is he yours or Benny’s?”

Sparky was looking from the man to his master as if seeking some lesson in what they were saying. Sparky gave one of his barely discernible barks.

“Oh, him. He’s just the shop dog. Always have ’em in bookshops, them or cats, if you never noticed.”

The voice of Miss Penforwarden preceded her into the main room. “Benny, would you just-oh!”

Benny shut his eyes. Cover blown, fuck it. He went to help her with the stack of books she was carrying.

“Thank you, dear.” Then she said to the tall man, “May I help you?”

“No, thanks. I was just speaking to young Sid, here.”

Miss Penforwarden looked confused. “Benny?”

Jury held out his warrant card. “I’m Richard Jury. Detective superintendent, New Scotland Yard.”

“Here, let me see that, then,” said Benny, trying to cover up his embarrassment. “I didn’t know you was-were-a copper, ah, policeman. Should ’ave showed me this.” He handed it back to Jury.

Jury had known this was Benny; he’d been described-so had the dog-by the owners of Delphinium, the flower shop. The two young men, gay as a couple of maypoles and just as thin, one in a pale yellow shirt and the other in pale pink reminded Jury of calla lilies.

“Benny? Why on earth…” The one named Tommy Peake had pressed his long fingers against his mouth, like the image on the old war poster en-joining everyone to avoid any talk of troop activities.

Basil Rice (in the yellow shirt) had said, “Why, Benny’ll be at Smith’s, won’t he?”

“No. Benny goes to the Moonraker about this time. That’s a bookshop just along the street,” he said to Jury.

“I take it the Keegan boy does a lot of odd jobs?”

Basil nodded. “And very good he is at them. Everyone says so.”

“Where does he live?” asked Jury.

This question seemed to bring Basil and Tommy up short. Tommy said, “Now you mention it, why, I don’t think we’ve ever known, have we?”

Basil shook his head, frowning, as if they should have known.

“The newsagent didn’t know either. No one seems to know where he lives or what his phone number is, if he has one.”

“No, Benny’s not on the phone. Look, I do hope our Benny isn’t in trouble.”

Jury shook his head. “No. Thanks.” He turned toward the door.

Happily, Tommy said, “Just you remember, Benny’s clever. He’s shifty.”

“I’m shiftier. Good day, gentlemen.”

When Benny asked to see Jury’s ID again, Miss Penforwarden said, “Benny, he’s a Scotland Yard superintendent.”

“You can’t be too careful, Miss Penforwarden, not these days. The thing is, why would a detective want to talk