The Blue Last

winningly drunk.

Eighteen

“You’ve got to come with us, Superintendent.”

It was Marshall Trueblood’s voice coming over the wire to Jury, who was sitting in his office at New Scotland Yard, chucking a memo from DCS Racer into his OUT box and pulling out the file on Danny Wu. When Marshall Trueblood was talking, you could do things like this, for listening only to every other word in Trueblood’s conversation sometimes made more sense than paying close attention.

“Why,” asked Jury, “do I ‘got to’? I seem to recall that trip you and Plant took to Venice, where you also said I’d ‘got to.’ But why you need my actual physical presence is a total mystery to me since you have no trouble at all making me up. For example, how I intended once to marry an alcoholic woman with four crazy kids, two in Borstal.”

There was a pause, then Trueblood said, “Not Borstal-”

Jury brought his feet off his desk with a frustrated thud. “Trueblood, these were not real people. And you made up that sob story to keep Vivian from marrying Franco Gioppino. Well, Vivian’s left Count Dracula, or he left her and marched right out of Long Pidd with some transparent story about his mum getting sick.”

“Yes, yes, yes, but she still hasn’t broken it off officially.”

“Meaning what the hell? That still doesn’t explain Florence.”

Jury took one of the papers from the Wu file. Danny Wu had never been indicted, much less convicted, for any of the various things he was charged with. He held the page up to the light as if looking for a watermark. He could scarcely believe it: Danny Wu was being investigated in a case involving some stolen art. That was as hard to believe as this phone call. “Is Melrose Plant part of this scheme? Where are you calling from?”

“The Jack and Hammer. It’s Diane’s new cell phone we’re using.”

“The real reason,” said Melrose Plant, who was now in possession of the cell phone, “he’s going to Florence is to get a painting authenticated. I think he wants you along as security. A goon.”

“He’s got that right, but why in hell does he have to go to Italy? Aren’t there people here in England who do that sort of thing? Sotheby’s? Christie’s?”

“Oh, he’s going to one in London, yes. I told him to call the fraud squad. Heh heh.”

“The Fine Arts and Antiques Division, you mean.” He heard a scuffle at the Long Pidd end, or at least a scuffle of voices. Trueblood returned. “I see no point in advertising this picture. It could easily be stolen.”

Jury was reading the details of the alleged art theft. “I know just the man for the job.”

“What?”

“Never mind. So what’s this painting, anyway?”

“A Masaccio.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He was a famous Florentine painter, a pupil of Masolino.”

“That’s two down; want to go for three?” Jury put the Wu file on his desk and leaned over it.

“The Renaissance.”

“Yes, I have heard of that.”

“We have to-” There was another scuffle around the telephone in Long Piddleton, then a female voice said: “Superintendent, I’m glad I caught you before you engaged in any idiotic plan that involves travel abroad.” Diane Demorney warned him off. “Your stars are in direct opposition to one another. Scorpios have to be careful when this happens.”

“I’m not a Scorpio.” Jury didn’t really know this. But neither did Diane. Direct opposition?

One-beat pause on Diane’s part. “Yes, I know. What I meant was that a Scorpio is going to figure prominently in your horoscope.”

Diane Demorney could make the quickest recoveries of anyone Jury knew. “I’ll bear that in mind. Now put Plant back on, love.”

She didn’t. She said, “You know what they say, ‘See Florence and die.’ ”

“Actually, what they say is, ‘See Rome and die.’ ”

“Well, it makes no difference, since you’d be dead, anyway.”

Jury heard the rasp of a cigarette lighter. “True.”

Plant came on. Jury asked, “What in hell is this call? One of those family round-robin things we used to get when we were away at school?”

Melrose Plant’s voice seemed to shrug. “I never got one. Of course, that might have been because-”

Jury squeezed his eyes shut and gave his head a few soft blows with the receiver. “Has there been an epidemic of the literalism virus there?”

“Huh?”

Jury slapped another page of the Wu file over. “I can’t go to Florence.”

“When did you last have a vacation?”

Jury’s eyes strayed to several travel brochures Wiggins had left on his desk. “Last week. I hopped over to Vegas to perform with the Cirque du Soleil. I was diving from the rafters onto a water-covered stage.”

A real silence ensued this time. They seemed to be passing the phone around again. When Melrose came on again, Jury asked, “Do you remember being evacuated during the war?”

“Good lord, that’s a bit of a change of subject. Evacuated to where? This is the kind of place people got evacuated to. Anyway, no. I wasn’t born yet,” said Melrose.

“So you don’t remember?”

“That generally is the case with the unborn. Why?”

Jury was looking at the snapshot of Kitty Riordin holding the baby Maisie (if she was Maisie). “I’m just trying to sort the identity of someone born then. Whether the mother of this baby is one woman’s or another’s.”

“Offer to cut it in half. It worked for Solomon.”

“I knew you’d help.” Jury was looking now at the snapshot of Alexandra and Francis Croft. “Do you know what a screen memory is?”

“Yes, a recollection of Agatha walking through the door as she did just now. That’s a scream memory if ever there was one.”

“Not ‘scream,’ ‘screen.’ ”

“Screen? Oh. Isn’t that a Freudian concept? The idea being one throws up an image to mask another image too painful to be let into consciousness. Is this about the women and the unfortunate babe?”

“No, not really.” It’s more about me. “Look, I’ve got to be going-”

“You picked just the time. Agatha is heading for the telephone.”

“Right. Are you really going to Florence?”

“Yes, of course. As Diane says, see Florence and die.”

“Right. ’Bye.”

“Richard! Richard! Come away from there, love; it’s too dangerous!”

The street was barely recognizable, almost leveled, flattened, not a building remaining. Small fires burned all across this expanse of concrete and rubble, as if fallen stars had ignited.

“Richard!”

His mother’s voice. He should have left. But there were too many fascinating things out here, the dusk festooned with tiny winking lights. She still called. He still stayed, rooting through broken concrete, through rubble…

His mother called again…

Had that street, that building, that voice been a screen memory? But for what? The memory of finding his mother under all of that rubble, that was what should have been screened, shouldn’t it?

“Sir?”