by Connor, Alex
Luca held his gaze. ‘Oscar Schultz was your wife’s lover. Your wife was involved with the dealers. They used her. She used them. She used you.’ He paused, knowing he had scored a direct hit. ‘Bernard Lowe employed your late wife to smuggle for him.’
Gil could hardly breathe. ‘How d’you know all this?’
‘I was there at the start, remember? Seven years ago, in Berlin. Your wife was very interested in what I had to tell her about my heritage, and what I knew about the paintings. She used to tell me things too. Thought I wasn’t really listening, or that I wasn’t really sane. Who knows? She could be very indiscreet sometimes.’ He smiled winningly at Gil. ‘I liked your wife – your late wife. She was the only person I really talked to – before I learned it was wiser to stay quiet.’
‘Did Holly tell you about Der Kreis der Acht?’
‘She told me half the story, but that was enough. I found out the rest. I’m a good researcher, Mr Eckhart. Like you, I follow the facts. That was how I discovered who my ancestor was – from gossip. From things my father said, and my grandmother. People talk in front of children. They never realise how much a child retains.’
‘But you said you had proof.’
‘You have the material proof! The rest is hearsay. My father could tell you a great deal, but when he realised how interested I was, he became scared. Sicily is not a big place, The Nativity with St Lawrence and St Francis was thought to have been stolen by the Mafia. My father didn’t want to encourage any curiosity that might endanger his family.’ Luca was eager to talk. ‘I was in the hospital when I heard about the story of Bertholt Crammer smuggling the Fillide Melandroni painting out of the flak tower.’
Gil interrupted him. ‘I checked up on that. Harvey Crammer said it was a joke. And he should know – it was his family.’
‘All the more reason to deny it,’ Luca replied. ‘Do you trust Mr Crammer?’
‘I don’t trust anyone.’
‘Not even your wife? I mean, your present wife.’ Gil ignored him. ‘It was Holly that taught me how to use a computer. She encouraged me, said it was good therapy to write things down. I took to it easily, but then again, she was a good teacher. People have so many faces. Too many faces.’ He looked around at the moulding remains. ‘They can’t talk. All their tongues are dried up.’ He paused, listened. ‘Sssh! Can you hear something?’
‘What?’
‘I thought I heard footsteps.’ Luca sighed, relaxing. ‘No, not yet. They’ll come soon. They’ll come.’
‘Who are you talking about?’
‘You should know, Mr Eckhart. Think back, remember Berlin.’ He sighed again, glancing around him. ‘I’ve paid the men on the door to go away for an hour or two. We have the place to ourselves. We’re the only two living bodies among a sea of dead ones.’ He looked at Gil, expressionless. ‘Who’d notice one more corpse among so many?’
Ninety
Palermo
Harvey Crammer dressed himself with his customary care. A clean white shirt, a double-breasted navy suit and a silk tie. To finish his outfit on such a cool morning, he arranged a fine wool scarf around his neck and pulled up the collar of his overcoat. Satisfied, he left the hotel and headed towards the centre of the city.
It was a place he knew well and had visited often, but this time the visit was not for pleasure or for business. It was simply a matter of resolution. Harvey Crammer had relied on his intellect to establish him, and his power to maintain his status in life. When he had finished collecting and dealing in art he had promised himself a dabble in politics. Not as a candidate, more as a puppet master. But before he could slink into his new role he wanted to make one final coup. One last triumph. To retire from the art world as a titan, with a flourish that would reverberate for decades.
If he was the man who found the missing Caravaggios his reputation would have a place among the greats. For a modest man, it was enticing. For an ambitious man, it was irresistible.
Ninety-One
Gil was watching Luca Meriss cautiously. The Italian was talking too much and too fast. He ran his hands along the steel grilles, tipping his head from one side to the other as though he was listening. Gil thought of Bette and swore he was not going to die in the catacombs of Palermo. Turning towards him, Luca stared at Gil as though he was reading his thoughts, then looked away. His fingers curled around the grille, then unfurled slowly, the cool dankness of the place eerie. Quiet.
‘Where’s the painting?’
Luca turned back. His eyes were black, densely black, without visible pupils, his full lips opening as he prepared to speak. But before he could a noise startled both of them. Gil glanced over his shoulder at the corridor. No one came.
Uneasy, he turned back to Luca. ‘Who are you expecting?’
‘They’ll come.’
‘Who?’
‘You’ll see.’
He stared at Luca impatiently. ‘Where’s the painting?’
‘D’you think he would approve of you, Mr Eckhart? You think Caravaggio would like you?’ He seemed to consider the question gravely. ‘He was a violent man too. A killer …’
The hairs stood up on the back of Gil’s neck.
‘He stabbed a man out of jealousy. Killed him.’ Luca paused. His feet moved, but made hardly a sound. ‘How much do we inherit in our genes? Can you inherit a killing gene?’
Gil faced him, implacable. ‘Is that a serious question?’
‘Yes. Can you inherit traits?’
‘If you can, you should be a genius,’ Gil retorted. ‘Have you got any artistic talent, Luca?’
He let the question go.
‘Perhaps we only inherit certain traits—’
‘Where’s the bloody painting?’ Gil asked again. ‘I’m not going to stand here all day listening to you. I’ve finished with listening to you, Luca.’
The Italian moved, but not towards Gil. Instead he slipped around the corner which led to a separate cubicle.
‘Come on, Mr Eckhart, keep up!’ he called, his voice disembodied. ‘You don’t want to get lost in here.’
Hurrying on, Gil moved into an arched antechamber where Luca’s shadow loomed up on the back wall. There were two stone racks behind him, on which a skull and various sundry bones lay, discarded, unnamed.
‘You know how this place worked?’ Luca asked. ‘They brought the corpse here and dried it out on ceramic racks. Some bodies were later washed with vinegar. Slowly the body mummified. But some were better prepared than others.’ He touched the edge of one of the racks listlessly. ‘As I said before, families paid for their beloved to rest here. They provided the church with a stipend to look after them. Thing is,’ Luca’s eyes were densely, impenetrably black, ‘if the family reneged on the fee, the body was moved. Demoted, if you like. Pushed onto a shelf in the background until they paid up.’ He sighed. ‘Even dead, there’s a pecking order.’
The dry walls were mottled with crumbling plaster, the dim light making the bones glow. Gil kept his back to the wall, making sure he stayed close to the exit. If Luca Meriss rushed him, he wanted to give himself a chance to escape. Gil wouldn’t allow himself to consider the obvious – that Meriss knew the catacombs intimately. That he could draw Gil further and further in, disorient him, and then strike. One more corpse in a charnel house of bodies.
Silent, Gil let the Italian talk.
‘I should be famous. That was what I wanted. I think that’s what everyone wants these days. But I had something to say. Caravaggio is my ancestor – I have something of interest to the world.’ Luca’s head tipped to one side. ‘Seven years is a long time to wait, Mr Eckhart.’
He sighed, then darted past Gil into the corridor, only pausing when he reached a sign marked Cardinali over the entrance to another vault.
Pointing to it, Luca said, ‘Behold, the holy men.’
Then he moved into their sanctum.
In rows along the walls stood the dead priests, cardinals and monks. Some of the oldest, poorest monks ha
d slumped forward in their supports, the ropes they had worn as a penance in life now hanging pointlessly from their withered necks. The cardinals – interred with all their regalia – had grown brittle, fingers breaking off, faded birettas slipping forward over grinning skulls. All the pomp of the church’s ceremonies and costumes had dried up, the vestments breaking apart, decaying lace yellow as pus.
A hundred empty eye sockets stared hellishly at Gil as he faced Luca. ‘I’ll ask you one more time – where’s the painting?’
Gil thought for a moment that Luca would lunge at him, but instead he began climbing. His grip fastened on the grille as he shimmied up the wire, clambered over it, and nestled for a moment between the bodies of two dead monks. Then he reached behind one and drew out a long, weathered cylinder.
Gil held his breath. Was this the Caravaggio which had been missing for so long? Number 1 on the FBI’s Most Wanted Missing list? Had it been hidden in the catacombs since 1969? Had the Mafia stolen it and abandoned it here? Or had it been taken by amateurs unable to offload such a notorious work? Incredulous, he stared at the unmarked cylinder. All the theories, all the searching, all the money and man hours had come to nothing. A thousand conspiracy theories were left unproven and a myriad dealers had failed. Because The Nativity with St Lawrence and St Francis had been here all along, hidden behind the corpse of a dead monk.
‘Is that it?’
To his surprise, Luca tossed it over the wire to Gil. ‘I told you all along I had the proof.’
Catching the cylinder, Gil was surprised by the weight of it, the faded cardboard container sealed at each end with a metal cap.
Luca clambered back over the grille and jumped to the floor, putting out his hands.
‘Give it to me. It’s mine. I’ve earned it.’
Gil handed him back the cylinder. ‘Was it worth it?’
‘The murders?’ Luca asked. ‘How would I know?’ He walked around Gil slowly, tauntingly.
‘You want to make a move?’ Gil snapped. ‘Then make it. I’m not scared of you. Come on, give it your best shot.’
He could see Luca’s eyes flicker and his head tip back slightly.
Then he flinched.
There was the sound of approaching footsteps, then a shadow fell on to the passageway behind Gil. He tensed, hearing the sound of breathing behind him. Luca stared ahead, immobile, transfixed.
His heart pounding, Gil turned round.
Ninety-Two
Even though Harvey Crammer’s Italian was perfect, it had still been no match for the two guards on the entrance to the catacombs. However much he had tried to persuade them to let him in, he had been rebuffed. Even the usual coercion of money left them unmoved, and he walked back to his parked car and called Gil on his mobile.
But instead of Gil answering, the call had clicked over to voicemail. Crammer threw the phone onto the passenger seat beside him. If Gil Eckhart was underground in the catacombs he wouldn’t be able to get a signal. Enraged, he slammed his hands against the car steering wheel. He had to get into the catacombs. Nothing was going to stop him now.
Ninety-Three
Gil turned, struggling to make out the man’s face as he stood with his back to the light. Then he moved, his features illuminated, his expression relieved. It was Naresh Joshi, flustered and out of breath.
‘Harvey Crammer’s in Palermo!’ he said frantically. ‘Are you all right?’
‘How did you get here?’ Luca asked. ‘I told them not to let anyone in.’
‘I said it was an emergency. And it is. I’ve just seen Harvey Crammer. He must have followed you.’
Gil raised his eyebrows. ‘Just like you did.’
‘I wanted to find out what was going on,’ Naresh replied. ‘I hired you, Gil. I’m entitled to know what you’re doing. I guessed you’d come over to Palermo after Luca announced he was coming here. I was right. And so was Harvey Crammer.’
Luca interrupted him. ‘Why are you worried about me all of a sudden?’
‘It’s not all of a sudden. I hired Gil to find you and protect you.’ Naresh moved over to the Italian. ‘I’m sorry, I was wrong about you. I should have listened, believed you when you first came to me. I dismissed you out of hand.’
‘You thought I was crazy!’
‘No! That wasn’t it. It was just that your claims seemed so incredible.’
‘Too late, Mr Joshi. You could have been there from the start.’ Luca’s tone was sneering. ‘You could have shared the glory of finding the Caravaggios, but you missed out.’
‘I can help you!’ Naresh was almost pleading. ‘I have a reputation – people will accept what I say. If we publicise the Caravaggios together, the art world will listen.’
‘So you make me respectable and I make you famous?’ Luca countered, leaning back again the wire grille, the cylinder suddenly visible. Behind him, the corpses stared out over his head, grey with mould, ash-coloured, dry mouths opening silently.
Naresh stared at the cylinder, his voice hoarse. ‘Is that the painting?’
‘I told you all along that I knew where it was.’
‘We have to sort this out before Crammer gets to you.’
Surprised, Gil turned to the historian. ‘How d’you know what Crammer wants?’
‘He’s after Luca, it’s obvious,’ Naresh replied. ‘He wants the paintings. Crammer’s insane – he’s killed six people. We have to get Luca and the painting safe.’ His gaze moved back to the cylinder. ‘Is that it?’
‘Of course it is. I wasn’t lying,’ Luca said solemnly.
Naresh put out his hands. ‘Let me see.’
But before the historian could get hold of it, Gil grabbed the container and shouted for Luca to run. Then he swung the cylinder round, catching Naresh Joshi on his left temple with the metal seal. Stunned, he fell heavily, striking his head against the stone wall. As Luca’s footsteps faded away down the corridor a cut opened beside Naresh’s eye. His fingers went to it, his expression incredulous.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘It’s you,’ Gil said, still holding on to the cylinder and looking down at the historian.
‘Are you insane? I’ve told you, Harvey Crammer’s in Palermo. He’s the killer—’
‘No,’ Gil replied. ‘I wasn’t sure who it was. I even thought for a moment that it might be Luca. Until you came in.’
‘I came to help!’
Gil shook his head. ‘No, you came to find Luca. And the painting. You had to get hold of Luca, or it would all be for nothing—’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The murders.’
‘I had nothing to do with them. It was Crammer.’
‘No, it wasn’t,’ Gil replied. ‘You gave yourself away just now. You said that Crammer had killed six people. But only five dealers were killed. The other person was a nurse. And Frieda Meyer was supposed to have been killed by Gary Rimmer.’ He held the historian’s gaze. ‘You finally made a mistake. You didn’t say Crammer killed five dealers, you said six people. Only the killer knew that.’
Silent, Naresh thought for a moment, then looked back at Gil and pointed to the cylinder in his hands.
‘That painting’s worth a fortune. We could come to some arrangement.’
‘And then you could kill me?’ Gil sighed. ‘I don’t think so. And besides, you threatened my family. I’m going to make sure you pay for that.’
‘I only wanted to scare you!’ Naresh replied, moving his legs as though he was about to stand up.
‘Stay where you are!’ Gil warned him.
He flopped back against the wall. ‘You’re wrong.’
‘Why did you do it?’
‘You’ve no proof I did anything.’
‘Was it Greta?’
His eyes flickered. ‘What about Greta?’
‘Her parents had the Huber Gallery. You knew them – you married Greta, after all. But the marriage was a secret, wasn’t it?’ He stared at the fallen man. ‘Did it sta
rt because they disapproved of your relationship with their daughter?’
‘I’m saying nothing. I’ve an unblemished reputation, and a good lawyer could sort this out in a minute—’
‘Only if you get out of here.’
The historian faltered, looking at Gil and remembering his reputation. In a fight, Naresh knew he had no chance. A physical coward, he resorted to his intellect.
‘We can sort this out between us,’ he began. ‘No one need know.’
‘I’d know, and that’s more than enough. Face it, Naresh, it’s over. You’re not getting away with this.’ He peered at the historian curiously. ‘Did it start with your animosity towards the Hubers?’
The historian touched his head again, staring wonderingly at the blood on his fingers.
‘It started before Greta. That was just another reason to hate the Hubers. You should have worked it out before this,’ he continued, almost admonishing Gil. ‘You had the information, you just couldn’t fit it together. Der Kreis der Acht was when it began.’
‘The dealers’ group. What was the matter, Naresh? They didn’t invite you to join?’
‘They were bigots, every one of them. I was an Indian to them, a joke. The lowest of the low. Especially Jacob Levens. He was a bastard, set up the dealer group. Didn’t invite me to join although I’d known him for years. Greta didn’t know about Der Kreis der Acht: she just hated Oscar Schultz and her uncle because of the way they treated me. But it was Greta who told me that Jacob Levens had given Caravaggio’s portrait of Fillide Melandroni to Alma.’
‘I thought Harvey Crammer’s grandfather took it from the flak tower in Berlin.’
‘He did,’ Naresh agreed. ‘But what Crammer didn’t know was that his estranged grandfather sold it after the war. It was drifting around Europe for a while and then Jacob Levens got it. He bought it off a senile old man in Turin for virtually nothing. When the man’s son found out, he threatened to go to the police. Levens bought him off, but recently the son had been blackmailing him, threatening to ruin him.’