“Well, now, I not only observe what a man does do, but what he doesn’t do, if you take my meaning. You told me the other night that you’re here to do research into the life of the painter Edgar Arthur Tharp, Junior, the pinto painter, for a biography.”
“That’s right.”
“Yet, since Wednesday morning, mind you, until last night, you had not been in touch with either the Tharp Family Foundation, or the proper curator at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.”
Fletch said, “I’ve been busy.”
“In fact, you haven’t been. Our boyos watching you say you lead the life of a proper Boston old lady. Lunch at Locke-Ober’s, then drinks at the Ritz. You couple of hours in the offices of the
“I guess that’s true, too.”
“Do you sleep a lot, Mister Fletcher?”
“I’ve been putting together my notes.”
“Surely you would have done that in the sunny climate of Italy before you came here.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“Except for Wednesday, of course. We don’t know what you did on Wednesday. That was the day you slipped in one door and out the other at the Ritz-Carlton. Innocent as a honeybee, of course. That was before we knew we were onto a retired investigative reporter who has an innocent instinct for losing his tail. All we know is that you did not go to either the Museum or the Tharp Foundation Wednesday.”
“You’ve got to understand, Inspector. I had been traveling. Jet lag. The shock of the murder. Realizing I was a suspect. I guess I just can’t account for myself.”
“Indeed?” Before the curtains and the leaden sky, green eyes could have been cosmic lights. “You’re engaged to be married to Angela de Grassi.”
“You’re good at names.”
“I’ve lived many places. Now who is she?”
“She’s a girl. An Italian girl. Daughter of Count de Grassi.”
“Count de Grassi?”
“Count Clementi Arbogastes de Grassi.”
“Is that the gentleman who died last week?”
“We think so.”
“‘We think so!’ What sort of an answer is that?”
“He’s dead.”‘
“You said you attended a ‘sort of funeral.’”
“Did I?”
“You did.”
“I guess I did.”
“Fletch, why don’t you tell me the truth, straight out, instead of making me work like a dentist pulling teeth. It’s my day off, you know.”
“And you paid for the whiskey yourself?”
“I did. And you might start by telling me why you’re really here in Boston.”
“Okay. I’m here looking for some paintings.”
“Ah! That’s the boy. Flynn finally gets to hear the story. Don’t stint yourself, now. Be as expansive, as you like.”
“Andy de Grassi and I are engaged to be married.”
“A blissful state. Does the young lady speak English?”
“Perfectly. She went to school in Switzerland and for a while here in this country.”
“Very important to have a common. language between a husband and wife, when it comes to arguing.”
“A collection of paintings was stolen from her father’s house, outside Livorno, a couple of years ago. Very valuable paintings.”
“How many?”
“Nineteen objects, including one Degas horse.”
“A Degas horse, you say? Bless my nose. And what would you say these nineteen objects are worth, taken all in all?”
“Hard to say. Possibly ten million, twelve million.”
“Dollars?”
“Yes.”
“By god, I knew I shouldn’t have taken up the viola. Is it a rich family, the de Grassis?”
“No.”
“Of course, you’d say that, being rich yourself.”
“Andy was up in the villa with me, at Cagna.”
“Enjoying premarital bliss.”
“You love a story, don’t you, Flynn?”
“Show me an Irishman who doesn’t!”
“Your years in the Hitler Youth did you not harm that way.”
“Made me hungrier for a good story.”
“I get catalogues from around the world,” Fletch said. “You know what catalogues are, in the art world? They’re published by museums of their collections, or of special shows. Dealers put them out as a means of offering what they have to sell, or, frequently, as it works out, what they have sold.”
“I see. I think I knew that.”
“One day Andy is going through a particular catalogue issued by a gallery here in Boston, the Horan Gallery.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s on Newbury Street.”
“It would be.”
“She recognizes one of the de Grassi paintings—a Bellini—sold.”.
“This is two years after the robbery?”
“About that.”
“She shows me, and together we go through earlier Horan catalogues. Two issues back, there’s another de Grassi painting—a Perugino—also sold.”
“And this is the first you’d heard of the paintings since the robbery?”
“Yes.”
“They show up for sale in Boston.”
“It might be more accurate to say, they show up sold through Boston.”
“I’ve got you.”
“Andy’s very excited. We pack our bag, jump into the car, and head for Livorno.”
“Where the Count is. Is there a Countess?”
“I’m afraid so. But she’s not Andy’s mother.”
“You’re not too keen on her.”‘
“Oh, she’s all right, I suppose. Andy’s not too high on her.”
“Understandable.”
“We were going to show the Count the two catalogues from the Horan Gallery.”
“You didn’t call ahead?”
“We were too excited, I guess. We came off the beach, changed, packed, jumped into the car. I don’t think we even showered.”
“Must have been an itchy ride.”
“It was.”
“You said you were ‘going to show’ the catalogues to the Count?”
“On the way down to Livorno, we hear on the radio that Count Clementi Arbogastes de Grassi has been kidnapped.”
