Conor Fitzgerald - Fatal Touch

Blume’s phone rang.

“I’m taking this. You call Grattapaglia, order him to come here. You had better tell him where to find the door.”

Caterina shook her head. “I don’t want to be the one.”

“Do it,” snapped Blume.

Caterina took out her phone.

“Sorry,” Blume said into his phone. “What? Oh, I see. Good, thanks, yes…” He pulled out his notebook, and jotted a few notes.

“Treacy part owned a private art gallery called…” he checked his notes, “Galleria Orpiment S. n.c. just off Via Giulia. The Rome Chamber of Commerce database has it registered as a limited company. Treacy held fifty percent and a certain John Nightingale the other fifty percent. Apparently the gallery is listed in the Rome business directory as ‘specializing in Old Master paintings and drawings,’ and ‘original reproductions.’ By the way, did you get hold of Sovrintendente Grattapaglia?”

“He’s on his way,” said Caterina. “Two minutes. He was still going door-to-door.”

“Good,” said Blume. “Actually, Treacy’s gallery I just mentioned, it’s not on Via Giulia but on a side street named-can you guess?”

Caterina looked around her in search of clues, then shrugged.

“Via in Caterina,” said Blume. “Pretty good, huh? Via in Caterina.”

“Mine’s a common name.”

“I’m still waiting to see a Via Alec,” said Blume.

“Well, was there ever a Saint Alec?”

“Not yet,” said Blume.

“Isn’t Alec short for Alexander?” said Caterina.

“Yes. I’m named after a gay mass-murdering Greek. My mother chose it. Your street’s about ten minutes on foot from here, so I suppose it’s quicker just walking there.”

“You say that like it was a problem.”

“It’s all a bit claustrophobic. You sort of want an investigation to expand, don’t you? First, we wait for Grattapaglia. After that, we start following the money.”

“What money?”

“The gallery has to do with money.” He drummed his fingers against the underside of his chin. “OK, so we’ve got: gallery, maybe a follow-up on any bartenders who saw Treacy, then a coordination meeting. What time is it?”

Caterina looked at her watch. “It’s just after ten o’clock.”

“Right,” said Blume. “Let’s make the meeting for 1:00 this afternoon, no, make it 1:30 so people can have lunch.”

“Why don’t you have a watch, Commissioner?”

“I hate watches. I never get used to the feel of one. I’m always aware of it being on my wrist.”

“But don’t you need one?”

“I can use my cell phone. It has a clock. Or I can just ask an insolent female officer to tell me the time.”

A raucous rasp sounded from the old Bakelite intercom hanging from the wall next to the bead curtain.

“That’ll be Grattapaglia,” said Blume. “We’ll go to the gallery, leave him standing outside to guard this place.”

Grattapaglia was standing in front of the green door, looking up at the wall, when they opened it. He took a step forward as if to enter, but Blume blocked his way with the bag, and said, “Here. Take this. Get someone to bring my car down here, put this in the trunk.” He dropped the bag at Grattapaglia’s feet and handed him the car keys. Then he leaned back and pulled the green door shut, which sagged a little thanks to his earlier efforts.

“How long do I have to stay here?” demanded Grattapaglia. “If you want me to do house-to-house and then those extra reports and write up this morning’s incident…”

Blume cut him short with a wave of his hand.

“We are having a meeting of the investigative team after lunch. At least until then.” He turned to Caterina who was hanging back trying not to overhear. “Come on, Inspector. Time for a visit to Treacy’s gallery.”

Caterina and blume stood on Via in Caterina, looking at a shiny brass plaque set into the wall, with “Galleria Orpiment, 1? piano” etched into it. The door to the building was half open, and they stepped inside the small courtyard to find themselves before a wide stone staircase whose many shallow marble steps seemed designed to ease the task of climbing and to impress upon the visitor that this was a building with room to spare. Turning around on the landing at the end of the first flight, they were confronted with another, slightly steeper and shorter, leading up the piano nobile and the entrance to the gallery, which was marked by a high threshold topped with red marble and a faded coat of arms and the motto Ingenium superat vires. The large double-leaved oak door was open and led to a small access area fronted by darkened glass. Blume pressed the intercom and the door clicked open immediately.

Inside the gallery, the ceilings were high and their footfalls clacked and echoed every time they left the overlapping Persian carpets. The hall smelled of polish and lavender, and the cool air felt smooth and heavy against their skin. It was a place conducive to quiet business between people who understood one another. Pictures that looked like they had been overlaid with a veneer of treacle were set in heavy gold frames, but their irregular spacing on the walls stopped them from being too overbearing. They all seemed to feature people with complacent eighteenth-century faces in extravagant clothes, lounging on urns and surrounded by classical ruins.

At the end of the room, behind a clear desk with a flat-screen monitor, but no keyboard in sight, sat a young woman who watched as they entered. Blume noted her perfect shape, so flat, so taut.

He introduced himself and Inspector Mattiola, and the girl introduced herself as Manuela Ludovisi. She was composed enough not to stand up herself, but instead motioned them to sit down. Using the polite pronoun “ Lei,” she offered them tea, coffee, and water before finally accepting that they were declining all beverages.

“Are you alone here?” Blume decided to use the familiar “ tu ” immediately.

She nodded. Beautiful women often had heads the shape of eggs, Blume decided. It allowed them to have oval faces and tapered cheeks.

Blume’s cell rang. He flicked it open, and saw Grattapaglia’s name. He’d let Grattapaglia stew for another hour or two before letting him go. He cut off the call, turned to the receptionist with a smile, and said, “Sorry about that. Do you know why we are here?”

The girl shut her eyes without scrunching her eyelids, wrinkling her brow, or bringing her hand to her face. It was a study in self-control. She opened her eyes again, and they seemed bluer and brighter than before. Only then did he realize he was looking at eyes full of withheld tears. “Something’s happened to Henry,” she said. “Is he dead? The policeman who phoned me earlier just told me to stay here till someone came, but he would not tell me anything.”

“Yes,” said Blume. “He’s dead.”

She nodded slowly, and the tear in her left eye fell onto her table. None followed. “Where was he found?”

Caterina leaned forward and said, “The policeman who called didn’t say?”

“All he said was that someone would be calling round to talk about Henry Treacy and I was to stay put.”

“Why did you ask where he was found?” said Caterina with what Blume felt was aggression. “What makes you think he did not die at home?”

“If he died at home how would anyone even know he was missing?” said the girl. “It’s only half past ten. I don’t think he had a cleaner and I can’t think who might have gone to his house.”

“Because no one ever went to his house?” asked Blume.

“Apart from Nightingale. That’s John Nightingale, his partner here and my boss.”

“Where is Nightingale now?”