Every Picture Tells a Story

by Gregory Dowling

  “Yes, I know. So did his sister. She told me.”

  “My sister mustn’t be involved,” Toni broke in. “Why do you bother her?”

  “I didn’t bother her. I just asked her some questions. She’s very worried about you.”

  “You must leave her alone. She has nothing to do with this story.”

  “Okay.” I turned back to Mr. Robin. “So you recognized him. And you knew he was on the run from the police.”

  “Yes, I knew that. But sometimes personal feelings can take precedence over—”

  “You mean he looked at you with big eyes and said, ‘Don’t give me away,’ and you were bowled over.”

  His voice was very stiff as he replied, “I was naturally moved by his predicament.”

  “Because after all he was a count’s son.” I was sure that this had been the deciding element in Mr. Robin’s choice of action. A member of one of the leading families of the city, who would thus be eternally grateful to him.… Who knew what invitations might ensue? And, of course, it couldn’t be ignored that Toni was, by all accounts, a lad who knew how to switch on and off the charm: on that occasion he had presumably switched and left it on. I decided not to probe too deeply into this side of the matter, since it could be of no importance now, and Mr. Robin certainly wouldn’t care to discuss it.

  “I knew the family well,” Mr. Robin continued, “since they had decided to patronize the school, and this naturally imposes a certain sense of obligation.”

  “Okay. If that’s how you like to put it. So what did you do—just keep him in food?”

  “It was Antonio’s idea. He said that after a week or two he would leave for somewhere abroad. So all I had to do was pass him provisions at night. I could scarcely refuse such a simple request.”

  “But there must have been another request as well: ‘Would you mind looking after one or two paintings for me while I’m away?’ No?”

  “Well, yes. They weren’t, as far as I knew, of inordinate value, but would doubtless be of great use to Antonio. I felt it would be churlish to refuse.”

  “So in the middle of the night,” I said, “he passed them from one window to another, right?”

  “It wasn’t difficult. They weren’t very big. And after midnight the windows in the house opposite were always shuttered.”

  “And when Toni got arrested, didn’t it strike you that it might be quite a good idea to mention that you knew where they were?”

  “Now, how could I do such a thing, when Antonio had gone to such lengths in court to deny that he knew anything about their whereabouts? It would—”

  “Don’t tell me—it would be churlish. Perhaps even caddish. So you hung on to them all that time for when Toni came out, right?”

  “Yes. After all, I had no idea of how one might set about selling them.”

  “You being so upright in all your dealings.”

  “Well, with the exception of this one, em, compassionate peccadillo, I think you will find that I have always abided strictly by the letter and spirit of the law. This was a special case.”

  “And Toni came out having decided he wouldn’t bother selling through his old friend Busetto, right?”

  Toni said, “He was no great friend; he had merely helped the organization. We’d sold a few paintings to him.”

  “But you were the only person in the organization who knew him.”

  “Yes. But so what? We all had our special duties assigned to us. I was responsible for funds at that time.”

  “But then after prison, when you weren’t thinking about the organization but yourself, it struck you that you’d get more money if you went direct to his buyer, Osgood.”

  “Yes. Busetto mentioned me his name once.”

  “And that brings us to the next big coincidence: or was it one?”

  “You mean Toni’s meeting you?” Mr. Robin said.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, no. Toni went to London, as he’d told me he would, to see this man Osgood, and discovered that he was no longer at the address Toni had. Apparently he wasn’t in the phone book either, and Toni was nervous about going round asking people, since he didn’t wish to call attention to himself. It so happened that Professor Perkins had just told me that you were then having an exhibition in London, so I suggested to Toni he should go along and get in touch with you.”

  “Me being the sort of shady character who’d know about someone like Osgood.”

  “Well, it struck me that after your little, em, mishap, you probably wouldn’t feel in a position to ask possibly embarrassing questions of Antonio.”

  “I see. Unlike Professor Perkins, who would want to know everything. So Toni went along to my gallery, found out I’d be there for a private view, and got into ‘casual’ conversation with me. And I upset the whole thing by being so shamelessly insensitive about my moral status as to persist in asking embarrassing questions. As I am still doing now. Where are the paintings?”

  “Now really, Martin, try and see other sides to the question—”

  “You try and see the people of Treganzi’s side—”

  “Come now, a few superstitious old women—”

  I could merely stare stupefied at the patronizing arrogance of this remark. Then, deciding it was hardly worth replying to, I said, “Anyway, now that Busetto and Osgood are both dead, what are you planning to do with the pictures?”

  Mr. Robin said, “I don’t know what Toni’s decided, and I’ve decided I don’t want to know. I’ve merely told him he must remove them from these premises. He’s been waiting till Carnival to be able to do it unobserved.”

  I detected a rather belated attempt to distance himself in these words. “I see,” I said. “So I’ve come just in time.”

  “Well, of course Antonio had hoped to conclude things more quickly, but when these murders started, he felt he’d better stay hidden here until Carnival.”

  Outside the music came to a crashing end—as if the whole band and the loudspeakers had fallen through the platform. The cheering that followed rather seemed to confirm this hypothesis.

  Toni said, “It was your interfering that caused the deaths of Busetto and Osgood, you know, don’t you?”

  “I’d feel really hurt by that if I didn’t know that all you’re thinking of is the damage to your pocket.”

  “You complacent borghese pig—”

  “Now you really do sound like your old compagni, Padoan and his friends.”

  He stared at me. “Who told you about Padoan?” The silence outside added to the sudden sense of tension in the room.

  “I’ve met him—and heard what he intends doing to you.” I was instantly sorry I’d said this, which sounded like mere gloating. “But don’t worry, he’s far from invincible.”

  Suddenly Mr. Robin raised his right index finger—in a flawlessly vertical gesture of course. “Ssh.” He was listening, his head leaning in the direction of the flat’s entrance door.

  We all listened: there were footsteps on the stairs.

  “Did you close the door?” he said, turning to me.

  “Yes,” I said. I was sure of this.

  He got up and moved out of the room into the corridor; Toni and I followed him. Outside, the music started up again: maybe they were performing live from hell now.

  Mr. Robin put his eye to a little spy hole in the front door; at the same time he took a key from his pocket and double-locked the door. He straightened up and looked at me. “Did you bring them here?” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  “What?” I shouldered him out of the way and looked through the spy hole myself. It was one of those holes with a lens that gives you a slightly distorted but wide view of what’s outside the door: I could see two people coming up the flight of stairs; they were both carrying guns and both wearing Donald Duck masks.

  The imagination of these people.

  21

  “OH, my God,” I said. I could hear Toni asking, “Who is it? Who is it?” I kept looking. Neither of
them was small enough to be Padoan: so they had to be Alfredo and Piero, the grunter. They reached the landing.

  “What do you want?” I yelled in Italian before they could knock—or fire.

  “That’s Pheeps, isn’t it?”

  “And so?”

  “We followed you from the hospital.”

  I suppose it must have been the shoulder that had given me away. Even below the sheet, the immobility of my arm must have been noticeable: or perhaps they’d even spotted me in the hospital, putting the costume on.

  The voice went on: “We want those paintings. And Toni Sambon.”

  I said to Mr. Robin quietly, “Go and phone the police. There’s no choice.”

  “We’ve cut your telephone lines,” the voice went on—Alfredo’s, I thought. “Just be intelligent and open the door.”

  I was fairly sure I didn’t agree with their definition of intelligence. Mr. Robin had gone to the telephone on a little stand in the hallway, and was doing that useless little act people do if they’ve seen too many old films: tapping the receiver stand and repeating “Hello? Hello?” Toni was standing with his hands close-wrapped around his gun; his face had gone dead white and was twitching like the skin of milk coming to the boil. “No no no no,” he repeated in a low moan.

  “Give me the gun,” I said. “You go and shout out the window for help.”

  “It isn’t loaded,” he replied in Italian.

  “All right, let’s all go and shout for help,” I said, running into the nearest room, which had windows overlooking the square. Behind me I heard Toni saying, “And who’ll hear with this noise?”

  He was, unfortunately, right. When I opened the window and yelled, I was competing on far from equal terms with the lead singer whose yell was being broadcast by two twelve-foot-high speakers—not to mention with the drummer, the guitarists, and the stomping crowd. And, I suppose, even if anybody were to see us waving our arms, they’d only think we were joining in the fun—or complaining about the noise. Mr. Robin’s flat was also much higher than any of the surrounding buildings, so we couldn’t try to contact the neighbors.

  “We’ll give you fifteen seconds,” said the voice, “and then we start breaking the door.”

  I came back to the door. In the corridor I saw Mr. Robin putting the phone down and plucking at his tie—obviously his eternal resource in any emergency. Toni had gone back to the living room and was opening the window there, which gave onto the canal.

  “Ten seconds,” said the voice.

  “Antonio,” said Mr. Robin. “What on earth—”

  I looked around and saw Toni hoisting himself up to the sill.

  “Five seconds.”

  Then he was gone—I imagined I heard the faint splash through the music.

  “Hey!” I shouted through the door.

  “What?”

  “We can’t give you Toni.”

  “Why not?”

  Oh, my God, I thought, with sudden sick realization, I can’t give him away like this, just to save our own skins. I said, rather feebly, “Because he’s not here.”

  “Don’t lie.”

  “He isn’t,” I said. “There’s nobody here—”

  Mr. Robin pushed me aside. “He’s just jumped into the canal,” he said in his precise Italian.

  “Tell them to hurry,” I muttered, “or they’ll miss him.”

  He ignored me. “If you don’t believe me,” he went on addressing the door, “go down to the next landing and look out of the window.”

  I pushed Mr. Robin aside (it was getting a bit like Punch and Judy, in fact) and put my eye to the spy hole. I could see one of them standing with his gun trained on the door and the other leaping down the stairs. When this second one reached the landing, he turned out of my line of vision. Moments later he yelled. “It’s true.”

  The man outside the door cursed and ran down to join him. I ran to the living room and stared down; some yards down the canal, Toni was hoisting himself out where a small alley ended in the canal. Seconds later he had disappeared.

  I stepped away from the window. “So what happened to your sense of bloody obligation?”

  “We had to take some decisive action,” Mr. Robin said behind me. “You surely can’t have wanted them to break in.”

  “They’ll still want the pictures.”

  “Well, I’ll give them to them. No painting is worth bloodshed. I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  I shrugged. “That doesn’t seem to be their opinion.”

  “You don’t think it’s possible they might, em, concentrate their attention on Antonio now?” he said, with a note of hope.

  “Not with the crowds as they are. Bird in the hand and all that. The pictures are secure, but not if they leave us. They’ll be back.”

  He stroked his beard. “I think you’re probably right.”

  “Where are the pictures?”

  He moved to one of the bookcases and reached into an alcove behind it. He pulled out two narrow cardboard cases, each about waist height and four feet wide.

  I said to Mr. Robin, “Are they on canvas or panel?” It was fairly typical of my slapdash approach to the whole case that I couldn’t remember—or had never known this.

  “I’ve no idea,” he said. “I’ve never really looked at them.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say to this. Anyway, it was good to know that if they were on canvas, they clearly hadn’t been rolled; careless rolling can cause a good deal of damage. Presumably the terrorists had just lifted them off the church walls as they were, frames and all. It’s been known for paintings to go like that during High Mass.

  The boxes were sealed all round with packing tape; this was clearly not the moment to check up on the paintings. It struck me, however, that it would be very irritating to get killed without having had one little peep at the Cima.

  Well, I’d just have to do my damnedest not to get killed.

  There was a thump at the door. They had come back. A voice called out: “We still want the pictures.”

  I said, “You can’t have them. And by the way, the people next door are phoning the police.”

  “That is a lie.”

  “Wait and see,” I said in what I hoped was a tone of calm complacency.

  Mr. Robin broke in, “If you go down the stairs, we’ll put the paintings outside the door. Then you can take them and just go away.”

  There was a moment’s discussion: at least I presume they were discussing the proposal—the music didn’t allow us to hear any noise quieter then a yell. Then the same voice said, “We agree. We’ll go down the stairs now and come up again in one minute’s time.”

  I couldn’t think of any more stalling tactics and even helped Mr. Robin carry the paintings to the door. I was wondering whether we couldn’t fob them off with something else, but a map of Venice or a photo of Mr. Robin would hardly be very convincing. I checked through the spy hole: there was nobody to be seen on the landing or the stairs. I nodded and Mr. Robin turned the key and opened the door. I shoved the two boxes outside with a sense of furious frustration—and treachery. Mr. Robin slammed the door and turned the key again.

  I watched the two Donald Ducks come up the stairs. It struck me that if they were to pick up a painting each, then might be the moment to try a counterattack: but of course they weren’t so stupid. One of them stayed with his gun cocked and the other heaved one of the cases up and set off down the stairs, his beak pointing to the ceiling. The one with the gun stayed on the landing.

  A couple of minutes later the “porter” returned. He didn’t suggest an exchange of roles, which surprised me: maybe he felt he had to prove what a he-man he was, even without a gun. He heaved up the other case and I wondered forlornly, uselessly, whether it was Cima or Alvise Vivarini. He started down the stairs, followed by his colleague, who made his way crabwise down the stairs, the gun still pointed in our direction.

  When they’d disappeared I turned back to Mr. Robin. I caught him rolling his
tie around his finger; he instantly removed the finger and pulled his tie straight. “So now what?” he said. “Have they gone?”

  “Well, let’s see.” I made my way back into his bedroom and leaned out of the window. The rock band had just started a more or less combined assault on a Bruce Springsteen number, the words of which were being savaged by the singer’s Preganziol accent (“wee wenna down toody reeva…”). A group of youths were throwing beer cans at the stage, whether in jubilation or criticism it was difficult to tell; the action seemed fairly in keeping with the spirit of the performance. All this was easy enough to see. Unfortunately, however, the wide windowsill made it impossible for me to make out what was happening directly below, at the entrance to the palazzo. I grabbed a chair and clambered up, sitting on the sill and leaning out as far as I dared. I now saw the two figures with their Donald Duck masks leave the palazzo, carrying one of the two cases between them. Their guns had been put away inside their coats. The one at the rear pulled the door to behind himself.

  So, I thought, they’ve already carried off the first painting. They walked along the front of the building; as I watched them it suddenly struck me that the one at the front seemed shorter than either of them had done when seen through the spy hole. I couldn’t be sure, however—the spy hole, after all, rather distorted things—and the coat and jeans were indistinguishable.

  I kept watching. They turned into the first alley off right, which led to the canal—not, however, a stretch of canal that could be seen from the flat. I stepped off the chair and turned around and looked at Mr. Robin. He was studying the photographs on the wall—Mr. Robin shaking hands with the mayor of Venice, Mr. Robin shaking hands with the Patriarch of Venice, Mr. Robin shaking hands with Gianni De Michelis, Mr. Robin shaking hands with Sir Ashley Clarke, Mr. Robin shaking hands with John Julius Norwich.… Remembering happier times, no doubt. I said, “There’s one of them still in the building.”

  “What?”

  “Well, think about it: they’re not going to want us to go straight off and tell the police. And they’ve got a score to settle with me.”

  “Oh, my God. Why did you come here?”