The Immaculate Deception ja-7

by Iain Pears

  Which, of course, are taken to be code words for biding my time until I trip him up.”

  Flavia shook her head once more and felt a wave of nostalgia for nice simple criminals. You always—generally, at least—knew where you were with them.

  "I see," she said. "I think. What do you think Sabbatini was up to, then?”

  "I have no idea, and I don't care. The picture has been recovered, and happily he is dead. May he rot. Three million dollars is a small price to pay for that.”

  He reached over his desk and picked up a picture frame, which he handed to her. It was of a young woman, holding a bunch of white flowers, smiling at the camera. It had the look of distant history on it already.

  "She was pretty," Flavia said, not knowing what else she could say.

  "She was delightful. Everything I ever wanted. We never had any children, alas. That would have been some compensation, at least. He denied me even that.”

  "I'm sorry.”

  Di Lanna made an effort to bring himself back to the present.

  "Why did you provide the money for the ransom?”

  "Because the prime minister knew the moment he heard of the theft who had committed it, and when he told me I offered to help. One must take responsibility for members of one's family, however despicable they may be. Sabauda was very worried about using public funds; the chances of someone noticing would have been large. I assisted. That is all. As I say, for me it was a small thing financially. The emotional cost, you might say, was much higher.”

  Di Lanna looked at his watch. "Now, I'm afraid you must excuse me, signora . . . ,"

  he said gently.

  Flavia got to her feet. "Of course. I apologize. I have taken up far too much of your time already.”

  "What will you do now?”

  "I will tiptoe delicately around the matter, and see if there is anything to be done to tidy things up.”

  "May I give you a word of advice? Leave it be. There is nothing to be gained from it.

  My wife was buried without explanation. Let Maurizio go the same way. He deserves no better.

  "And," he added, showing for the first time the slightest flash of claw—not much, nothing overt, but nonetheless there and all the more impressive for it—"it will win you no thanks from anyone.”

  11

  Try as he might, Argyll could not rid himself of the idea that there was something decidedly odd about Bottando's little Virgin, and the thought of it preyed on him mightily. It was not that it was urgent, that was certain, but it was a distraction and Argyll, when Flavia was occupied and there was, in theory, nothing to keep him from his work, loved distractions. He sought them out, in fact, finding almost any reason, good or bad, to avoid settling down, concentrating, and putting pen to paper. An almost physical itch came over him, and the need to jump up and go off and do something—check some detail, verify some fact—became overwhelming.

  Bottando's picture was the perfect distraction. So perfect that even Argyll knew that his feeble attempts at resistance would be dismissed by the overwhelming, primary urge to delay, dither, and hesitate on the subject of the art collection as work of art.

  In fact, he got down scarcely more than a sentence before giving way: "The study of collecting has a long history, but the collection itself has never, to my knowledge, been analyzed as an aesthetic object in its own right. In this paper I intend to ...”

  A good start, he thought to himself, leaning back and reading it over once more.

  Definite. Say what you mean, then get on with saying it. But, as with all good starts, it was important that the next sentence be just as effective. No letdown; no bathos. That would be disastrous. Suddenly grasping that such second sentences need to be crafted with precision, he threw down his pen, and decided that long reflection was required to get it just right. And he reflected best when walking. And he could justify walking only if he was doing something.

  So why not just spend some time—only half an hour—having another little stab at the Virgin? Having thus convinced himself that stopping work entirely was by far the best way of getting his paper done, he brought his mind to bear on the problem of approaching the old Englishman Tancred Bulovius, perhaps the only person left alive who could tell him about the events at the Villa Buonaterra in 1962. He was not entirely enthusiastic, and, if writing his paper hadn't been the only alternative, he might well have recoiled from the prospect. There is something about the Grand Old Men of connoisseurship that, if not actually repellent, is at least a touch offputting. Few are wholly agreeable; most have ideas of their own importance far in excess of the normal human tendency for self-aggrandizement. Many, in other words, are ticklish characters to deal with.

  But there was no escape. It was Bulovius or hard graft. After many hesitations, he picked up the telephone and held his breath. An hour later, he was on his way to meet the last great Titan of Italian Renaissance studies. It would, no doubt, have been more polite to have waited, and to have made a proper appointment for the following day, or following week, but that would have given him time to write the paper. Besides, he reasoned, Bulovius was at least ninety-two. And with people like that you really can't afford to wait. Even an hour might make a difference. He could pop off at any moment.

  Also, the person who answered the phone seemed quite happy to have him come around.

  How did these people manage it? he wondered as he arrived. Maybe it was just their age, their good fortune to have been born when sterling was a giant among currencies and modest means by English standards meant you could live en grand seigneur almost anywhere in Europe. Happy days, indeed, if you had the right passport, but those days were now long since gone. Even though he lived in it only a few months of the year, just after the war Bulovius had taken over the piano nobile of a sizable palazzo a stone's throw from the Piazza Navona. The city's notorious rent control saw to the rest. Unfair.

  A palace is a palace, even if it clearly needs a bit of rewiring, the windows look as though they might fall out at any moment because of rot, the plumbing leaves more than a little to be desired, and the whole thing has the air of not having been lived in properly since Rome was ruled by a pope. You always have to make a choice between elegance and comfort; the Palazzo Agnello perhaps erred a little on the side of elegance, but in Argyll's opinion the sacrifices would have been worth it. Except in winter, when the lack of heating might have been a disadvantage.

  In spring, late on a warm afternoon, few of these problems were obvious, except the fact that the old Roman aristocracy's distaste for fresh air meant that there were no balconies or terraces to sit out on. Turns the skin brown, makes you look common; no noble would have been seen dead looking anything other than pasty-white. Times change, palaces don't; Bulovius received Argyll in the grand salon, in semidarkness, and it was nearly ten minutes before his eyes adjusted fully to the gloom.

  He could barely make out some of the renowned Bulovius collection hanging on the walls, and much of it wasn't that interesting; most had been spirited back to England over the years and now rested in Bulovius's house (less grand, more practical) in Queen Anne's Gate, where it awaited its owner's death: Bulovius had long ago done a deal with the British government for his collection to go to the National Gallery in exchange for a forgiving approach in the matter of death duties on the rest of his fortune. Argyll suspected from what he had heard over the years that the government probably wouldn't do so well out of the deal; Bulovius's fondness for money and for art were equal, and both matched his antipathy toward paying taxes of any sort.

  Either way, it looked very much as though the National Gallery should be busying itself clearing out a room or two in preparation for receiving its legacy, for Bulovius did not seem long for this world. In fact, Argyll thought after he sat down opposite the old man, he looked as though he'd died several years ago. Not the picture of health: shriveled, gray, tiny, and hunched up in his chair, wrapped up despite the balmy afternoon heat in a thick tartan rug, with watery ey
es and hands that shook uncontrollably. Argyll was surprised; it was not what he'd been expecting, and when Bulovius spoke he understood why.

  "And how can I help you, young man?" Instead of a thin weedy voice to match, Bulovius positively boomed across the room at him, speaking with a firmness that was astonishing given his decrepit frame. Argyll paused before saying anything, uncertain whether he should speak according to what he saw, or what he heard. He decided it would be more polite to address the voice.

  "Well," he said, "I wanted to ask ...”

  He got no farther. Bulovius shook his head, grimaced, then looked around him. "Is the door closed?”

  Argyll said it was.

  "Good. In the cupboard over there. Quickly. There's a bottle. Bring it to me.”

  Alarmed and convinced that without his medicine the old man would conk out on him and ruin his afternoon, Argyll leapt out of his chair and hurried across the room in the direction indicated. He could find no pills or potions.

  Bulovius clicked his teeth in a clatter of impatience. "Whiskey, man. Whiskey. There must be a bottle there.”

  "No. Nothing.”

  "Damnable woman, she must have found it.”

  "Pardon?”

  "My nurse. She keeps on confiscating it. Says it's bad for me. Of course it's bad for me. But, good heavens, what does that matter? Go to the kitchen. It must be there.”

  "What if she won't give it to me?”

  "She should have gone out. Quickly, quickly. Bring yourself a glass as well.”

  Very doubtful about the wisdom of all this, but taking the old man's point about the futility of a keep-fit regime, Argyll walked in the direction indicated, and spent the next ten minutes wandering around the vast apartment looking for the kitchen, and even more time rummaging in kitchen cupboards looking for the bottle Bulovius so ardently wanted.

  "Where have you been? I could have died of old age waiting for you," he said when Argyll finally got back. Argyll looked at him uncertainly. "A joke," he continued. "Don't worry. I can make them at my age. I'm ninety-three. Don't look it, do I?”

  "Ah ...”

  "Of course I do. That's what you're thinking. And you're right. I could drop dead at any moment. Right in front of you. What would you do then, eh?”

  "I don't know," Argyll said. "It's never happened before.”

  "I'd take that drawing, if I were you.”

  "Pardon?”

  "That one. Very valuable." Bulovius pointed to a small sketch by the fireplace, in such a dark and dingy corner Argyll could barely see it. "You could grab it, walk out, and who'd ever know, eh? Go on. Take a look. What do you think?”

  Oh, dear. Games. Argyll did hate them. The little examinations these old buffers like to set. It's no longer considered good behavior to ask who your parents are, what school you went to, never has been to ask how much money you have, but for some reason it is still acceptable to set these little tests. Can you spot a hand? Ascribe a subject? Argyll reluctantly heaved himself out of his chair, and took up the challenge.

  If he was going to be tested, at least he would do it in better circumstances. Without asking, he took the drawing off the wall and carried it over to the window where he could see it properly. Nice frame, very old, but that meant nothing; the drawing itself was about four inches square in sepia ink, firm bold lines sketching out the torso of a man stretched in a muscular pose as if throwing something. The shading was equally effective, not a touch too much, with an economy of effort that was simply beautiful.

  How do people recognize hands? Argyll, who spent much of his time and once derived much of his income from doing just that, was never sure; it is not something that can be put into words. Even the habitual patter of the connoisseur explains nothing, but merely describes an irrational feeling about a picture. It is by this person, or by that one, it is not a logical process of deduction; nothing to do with the intellect.

  And in this case, Argyll was 99 percent certain he was looking at a sketch by Castiglione. Partly it was the pose, which reminded him of a painting he'd once seen in Ferrara; partly it was the line, which was also characteristic. Partly it was the ink, that brown shade like dried blood. But there was the final 1 percent of doubt that remained.

  What was it? Why did he hesitate to say? The drawing was perfect, beautiful and flawless. Was that the problem? Was it too much like Castiglione? Were there too many signposts? Did any painter, quickly sketching something for a larger work, reveal so much and unwittingly put so many signposts to himself in so few lines? Maybe they did; it is not a matter of reason which allows 1 percent of doubt to challenge 99 percent of certainty. Still less to outvote it.

  "I think this is a wonderful, beautiful copy," he said, a little breathless from nervousness. He knew this was just a silly game but, having picked up the gauntlet, didn't want to drop it. "Studio of, apprentice to, that sort of thing. I'd guess the right period, even the right place, but not authentic.”

  It was part of the game, part of the bandying around of little signs, not to bother saying which artist he was talking about. That was taken for granted, he implied, only an amateur would bother even mentioning such an obvious detail. It was no more necessary than saying that it was a pen-and-ink sketch.

  "If you suddenly dropped dead on me, I don't think I'd risk a visit from your vengeful ghost to take it. I'd rather have this." He gestured at a small and bedraggled oil sketch by the side of the window, propped up on a little stand on the bureau. "I've always liked Bamboccio.”

  He'd passed; his instincts had saved him once again. He could see it in the slightly disappointed look on Bulovius's face, the way the look of triumph had to be packed away for use at a later date. That's the trouble with the younger generation, the old man had looked forward to reassuring himself, no eye. Very skilled, no doubt, read all the theorists, but no eye, and without that, what's the point? Argyll, however, had read no theorists and had spent much of the last seven years doing little but looking.

  From Bulovius he got no words of impressed approval, just the gruff comment, "Put it back where you got it, then. Don't hold it in the sun until it fades. Then come and tell me what you want." A sort of acceptance, Argyll supposed.

  "Robert Stonehouse," he said, now he'd earned his audience. "Nineteen sixty-two.

  You visited him for a few weeks, I believe.”

  "If you say so," the old man replied. "It's a long time ago. Should I remember it?”

  "While you were there, a painting was stolen. It vanished, then was recovered from a ditch. The person responsible was never found, nor does anyone seem to know why it was stolen. I want to know everything you can tell me about it.”

  He wasn't certain there'd be a great deal to say, but Argyll was a thorough person and he wanted everything he could lay his hands on. Not that it would lead to anything, but he still wanted to get it right. To his considerable astonishment, Bulovius remembered quite a lot. It just wasn't what he had expected to hear.

  If it is possible to look perturbed, amused, and ill all at the same time, Bulovius came close. "What do you want? A confession? Very well, then," he continued before Argyll could assure him he wanted nothing of the sort, "I confess. What else do you need me to say?”

  Argyll gaped at him, now thoroughly lost for words.

  "It was stupid, I know. A moment of madness, brought on by irritation. I hope you realize that I have never, before or since, done anything like it. Every picture, bronze, print, and drawing that I own was acquired honestly. I have records and receipts for everything; what's more I must assure ...”

  "You stole it?" Argyll said, finally waking up to the fact that all his fond imaginings of the past few days had been completely wrong. Just as well he could still identify painters; he was obviously not cut out for anything more subtle.

  "Yes, yes. I stole it. I can't even say I gave it back voluntarily; I suppose you know that already.”

  "Well. . . ," Argyll thought for a few seconds, trying to catch up with this unex
pected slant on things. "Why did you steal it?”

  "Because that barbarian Stonehouse didn't value it enough. He hadn't a clue what it was, the dolt; and the way he acquired it was despicable in the extreme.”

  "Why despicable? I heard he beat this Finzi man to the deal, but that's hardly despicable. All in the game, really.”

  Bulovius looked irritated. "What are you talking about?”

  "I'm not sure anymore," Argyll said. "I heard that Stonehouse bought it in 1938 from a dealer in Rome. On the other hand, his own accounts suggest he bought it in 1940. . .

  . His son told me the 1938 version is correct.”

  "No, no, no. What nonsense. He's lying. Or more likely is just parroting what his father told him, as he always did. Finzi bought it; bought two panels out of a triptych from the dealer in Rome. Stonehouse would never have had the gumption to notice them. He never tracked down the third part. They must have been split up when they left the church of San Pietro Gattolia in Florence.”

  Argyll was disheartened to hear that he was now dealing with two pictures rather than one. He had hoped life was about to become simpler, not more complicated. But he smiled encouragingly.

  "These two pictures . . . ?”

  "Finzi, as you can imagine, had trouble getting out of Italy when things became dangerous. A lot of his fortune went in bribes and many of his pictures were given over then as well. He got some out, but arrived in London with almost no money.

  Stonehouse offered to lend him money, taking what pictures were left as security. After the war, when Finzi reestablished himself, Stonehouse refused to give them back, saying that they had been bought. It was a dreadful blow. The cream of his collection was dispersed and even though he built a new one, it was never quite the same. It was a deep personal wound, as I'm sure you can imagine.”