Conor Fitzgerald - Fatal Touch

“This is Nightingale’s room,” said Manuela. “He never uses it, really. Except to make phone calls.”

The other room was bursting at the seams with objects, books, and paintings. Some paintings and books were stacked on the floor. Behind the desk a full-length portrait, done in modern acrylics, showed a young man with a thin face slouched against a broken pillar, his blue eyes looking slightly sideways and half closed as against the smoke from his cigarette, yet gazing out at the viewer. The man held the cigarette between two lips curled like two tildes, his black shirt was open to reveal a smooth chest whose muscles the artist had exaggerated almost to the point of parody. Something about the man was extremely familiar, and Blume found himself staring at the painting for some time.

“I know him from somewhere,” said Blume. “But I can’t quite remember.”

“That’s Henry Treacy,” said Manuela. “It’s a self-portrait from 1966. It’s one of the only original works with his signature, and is worth quite a lot. At least, that’s what Treacy himself used to say.”

The man’s dead face he had seen earlier in the day looked nothing like this handsome youth with the curved lips.

Caterina, who had gone to the far side of the desk and was looking with casual interest into a drawer, said, “What do you mean one of the only works with his signature?”

“Treacy stopped painting soon after that portrait,” said Manuela. “I mean, he stopped painting as Treacy.”

“Who did he become after that?”

The girl gave a sideways glance at Blume as if giving him the opportunity to intervene and explain the obvious. When he did not, she continued, “Henry Treacy became a restorer and a dealer. He was one of the best draftsmen ever, and it is true that he could imitate many great artists. He did five of the Batoni portraits out there, but he did not copy.”

“Really?” said Caterina. “Manuela, tell me this: what’s the difference between copying and imitating, then?”

“A copy is just a copy, but not the original. Imitation is when you create something new out of something old. That’s what Treacy did. He created new things.”

“New forgeries, you mean?” said Caterina.

“It’s not like that. His work was his own. Everyone copies anyhow.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“I’m not sure if he told me it, but I think that was his opinion.”

“And yours, too?”

“Inspector, I’m only the receptionist. I’m still learning. You need to talk to Nightingale, not me, about these things.”

Blume heard a soft purring sound coming from somewhere.

“That’s the intercom,” said Caterina. “As you’re the receptionist, you had better see who it is.”

Blume looked over at Caterina, and for the first time noticed his colleague’s clothes. She was wearing a jacket that was slightly too tight under the arms, and he could see fabric pills and some loose threads on her black slacks. “She’s very…” began Blume, but he hadn’t prepared a careful adjective.

“She’s very beautiful is what you mean, Commissioner. And young.” Caterina fiddled at her blouse cuff, which was missing a button. “Do you think we declare the Gallery a secondary scene?”

“That’s for the magistrate to decide, and it’s not even a confirmed homicide yet. Let’s see if this Nightingale turns up.”

Blume and Caterina came out of Treacy’s office and came face-to-face with a group of eight Carabinieri, all of them wearing white gloves as if for some academy graduation. They were busy taking down the pictures from the wall and putting them into clear plastic boxes. Behind them was Manuela who was holding a piece of paper in her hand, and talking to a man in his late thirties with long curly gray hair that cascaded in ringlets over the upturned collar of his yellow and black waistcoat.

“Who’s that?” said Caterina as the man turned around, saw them, and cast a bright-toothed smile in their direction.

“That creature,” said Blume, “is Investigating Magistrate Franco Buoncompagno.”

“So that’s what he looks like,” said Caterina.

“You’ve heard of him?”

“Of course,” she said.

The investigating magistrate moved toward Blume and Caterina, and Blume circled away, standing in front of one of the last pictures not to have been removed from the wall as if it were his. If the magistrate noticed, he did not let on, and took Caterina’s hand, clasped it briefly between his own, saying, “You must be…?”

“I must be Inspector Mattiola, Third Section, Squadra Mobile,” said Caterina, pulling her hand away.

“Well, I am-You’re so pretty, I’ve forgotten who I am. Just kidding. Breaking the ice, as the fat penguin said. It doesn’t do to be too formal. Investigating Magistrate Franco Buoncompagno.”

“How do you do,” said Caterina.

Blume stepped in front of Caterina and looked over Buoncompagno’s head at the young Carabinieri removing the paintings. “What’s going on here, Dottore?” said Blume.

A young Carabiniere hovered behind the magistrate, waiting for them to finish before he took the painting on the wall behind. Blume motioned him away with a flick of his hand.

“Commissioner Blume!” said Buoncompagno, his voice full of surprise and delight. “Finally!” he tapped his nose as if revealing a secret. “I called your office. Twice.”

“Did you try my cell phone?”

“Of course.”

As Blume took out his cell phone and started thumbing through the missed call list, Buoncompagno added, “I didn’t call you personally, of course. I have been very busy. I left word in the office that they were to call you.”

Blume found three unanswered calls, all from Grattapaglia, and nothing else. “Well, they didn’t,” he said.

“That was remiss. I’ll have some harsh words to say to the staff when I get back. But no matter. We’re here now. But you can relax, Commissioner. This is definitely a case for the Carabinieri rather than the police.”

“Why the Carabinieri?” said Blume, finally lowering his gaze to look the magistrate in the face.

“Listen to him!” said Buoncompagno to Caterina. “He loves working! I’m glad I give him orders rather than take them. He hates to lose control. He must be a real slave-driver, eh?”

Caterina did not even allow herself a flicker of a smile. She watched as Blume’s eyes seemed to scope the magistrate’s upper body and face as if selecting a target.

“OK. So we’re not so friendly here,” said Buoncompagno at last. “No problem, since we’re not going to be working together.”

“What I want to know is what the Carabinieri are doing here right now, with these paintings,” said Blume.

“We are sequestering all the works of art in this gallery. And anything else of use, of course. As part of the investigation into the death of Henry Treacy, the forger. I have just dropped the order on that sex-bomb at the reception desk.” He winked at Blume, then said to Caterina, “Not that you are any the less fair.”

Caterina moved away from him.

“That’s what I get for trying to be chivalrous. As if there was even any comparison between her and…”

Blume lunged forward suddenly and Buoncompagno skipped back out of range, and collided with a Carabiniere, who pushed the magistrate away from him before seeming to recognize him. The Carabiniere excused himself, and walked away. Buoncompagno hooked his thumbs onto his jean pockets and looked across a stretch of Persian carpet at Blume. “I see. I want you out of here now. Take your woman inspector with you. I’ve assigned a proper expert to the case: Colonel Orazio Farinelli.”

It took Blume a second or two to understand. “A colonel?”