Picture of Defeat

by John Harris

  At lunchtime, they stopped beside the road and made a fire and, finding water in a stream running down from the hills, prepared to make coffee. The sun was warm for a change and they sat around enjoying the drink, the Italians rolling their eyes at the quality after the acorn coffee they’d been drinking for years.

  As they talked, they decided to choose the best of the remaining paintings for offer to a reliable dealer, so Foscari removed the lid of the coffin and they took out the canvasses, unrolled them and propped them up among the rocks round the fire.

  ‘Nine,’ Pugh said. He looked at Tamara. ‘Not as many as we set off with.’

  She shrugged. ‘Italy is full of disasters.’

  They discussed the paintings for a while, huddled round the rear end of the hearse.

  ‘The Stolen Embrace is better than the sheeps’ backsides,’ Tassinari said. ‘But it is still not what I would call a good Detto Banti. The green of the man’s trousers is right, of course, but there’s something about the way he’s standing that seems to miss Bocco’s exactness of line. What are we planning to do with the rest of them?’

  ‘We’re going to hide them,’ Pugh said. ‘And offer one only, until I’ve had time to check on just who’s interested. It might bring a few surprises.’

  Tassinari didn’t object. ‘Which one?’

  They began to discuss the relative qualities of the remaining paintings. Pugh stared at Washerwomen at a Stream, frowning.

  ‘The one on the left looks as if she has a wooden leg,’ he said.

  Marco glared at him. ‘She looks all right to me,’ he growled.

  ‘The self-portrait would be condemned straightaway,’ Tassinari observed. ‘It was copied from the photograph. He’s just changed the clothing and the hat. You’ll notice that the hat’s small so there need be no shadow on the face.’ He gestured. ‘The March on Rome. I wonder if Mussolini ever saw that.’

  ‘Perhaps he did,’ Pugh said. ‘And when he did, he didn’t like it. Which is why it ended up in the cellar.’

  ‘Three Sisters.’ Tassinari stared shrewdly. ‘There is much fraud about these paintings, Sergeant. As though Bocco dashed them off in a hurry.’

  ‘He did sometimes,’ Marco growled. ‘Between bottles.’

  ‘As if he were using the tricks but not a lot of skill.’

  ‘He was getting old and his skill was fading.’

  Pugh turned to Tamara. ‘Which do you think is best?’

  ‘I like the Still Life with Chessmen.’

  ‘A good choice,’ Marco said.

  Tassinari nodded. ‘I think so, too,’ he agreed. ‘It’s not Bocco’s style or even his usual choice of subject but he seems to have taken time over that one.’ He glanced at Marco. ‘Perhaps at that time he wasn’t drinking.’

  Marco shrugged. ‘He had periods when he didn’t touch it.’

  ‘We’ll make it the still life then,’ Pugh said. ‘But it’s still only the best of a poor lot and probably not even genuine. It’s a good job we also have the three small ones Enrichetta tried to steal.’

  He fished them from the coffin and propped them against the wheel of the hearse. ‘These are first-rate Detto Bantis,’ he said. ‘The way he painted when he was young.’ He gestured at the one on the left. ‘That’s a reunion. In good rousing style. One of his best, with the green very prominent. The others are pictures of soldiers and gypsies, which he always enjoyed. Both solid nineteenth-century paintings. Better than Garibaldi and Vittorio Emmanuelo and more stylish than any of the others.’

  ‘They’re not very big,’ Marco complained.

  ‘Size isn’t value,’ Pugh said. ‘But it’s the larger ones that are the problem so I think it should perhaps be one of those. We’ll stick to the still life.’

  They were just about to rise when a noise in the bushes near them whipped their heads round. Immediately they were all on their feet.

  Pugh stared about him, in his mind the thought of the solitary goumier who had escaped the harsh ministrations of the village of Cavaltino.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said to Marco. ‘Keep your eyes open.’

  Pushing into the bushes with Foscari, he hadn’t gone more than twenty yards when he heard a yell from where they had been sitting. Foscari, who was just ahead of him crashing through the bushes, didn’t appear to have heard, so Pugh turned at once and headed back. Snatching up a broken branch, as he emerged from the trees he caught sight of Tassinari stretched on the ground unconscious and Marco reeling away and falling. Then he heard Tamara give a shuddering sound that was half a scream and half a cry of alarm, and saw a figure which had been crouching over Marco rise to its feet. It was a man in a grey woollen cloak-type garment striped thinly with brown. His black eyes glittered and his nose was curved like a scimitar.

  One thin brown hand stretched out and grasped Tamara’s wrist and the other wrenched at her dress. As it tore, Pugh yelled and the Moroccan turned, his face twisted into a grin made tigerish by the thin moustache that curved round his mouth. He was just reaching for his rifle, which he had rested against the wheel of the hearse, when Pugh hit him with the branch. It caught him at the side of the head so that he seemed to be lifted off his feet. One of his booted feet caught the picture of the washerwomen and sent it whirling away, then he fell back, half under the hearse. The noise had startled Fiorello and he jerked nervously and tugged at his tethering rope. Pugh snatched up the rifle and flung it away as far as he could before reaching for Tamara. She flung herself at him and he held her in his arms, but it was Tamara who pushed herself free.

  ‘Oh, Piu,’ she cried. ‘Look!’

  Whirling round, expecting to see the goumier coming at them with a knife, he saw what had caused her distress. The picture of the washerwomen had fallen face upwards on to the fire, and already there was a brown spreading scorch mark in the middle of it, almost obliterating the figures as the paint bubbled and ran.

  As he snatched it from the flames, Foscari reappeared. Then Pugh realised that the Moroccan had vanished from under the hearse and, as Foscari gestured, he saw a figure bolting across the fields, almost like something out of a ghost story, thin and ungainly with its long legs and huge boots, the brown-grey cloak flapping as it ran.

  Marco was sitting up now, holding his head, and Tamara, trying to hold her dress together, was staring at the Washerwomen. As she dropped to her knees, Pugh saw that she was weeping.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tamara,’ he said. ‘But there are still eight others.’

  She looked up. ‘Caro Piu,’ she said softly. ‘It isn’t the painting I’m weeping for. It’s for me. My past. These paintings are all I had of my family. There’s nothing else. Nothing at all. I never knew it, and now it’s dwindled just a little more.’

  They stopped at midday to eat the sausage and bread they had bought from the farmer the night before and to drink a bottle of wine as acrid as vinegar. Tamara was still a little shaken after the attack by the goumier and seemed low in spirits. She had managed to make repairs to the neck of her dress but, Pugh noticed, she never left his side, as if he were the only one she felt she could trust.

  As there was grazing for Fiorello, they took him out of the shafts and tethered him to a tree so he could bury his nose in the grass. When they backed him into the shafts again, he held his head up for at least five minutes before allowing it to sink.

  ‘I think he is feeling better,’ Foscari said. ‘He looks almost as if he might be alive.’

  They set off again, the old horse plodding slowly round the slopes of the hills. As they approached a wood spread on either side of the road, a man stepped out. He looked like a farm labourer and Pugh yanked at the reins, thinking he was looking for a lift. But as Fiorello clopped to a halt, a revolver as big as an anti-aircraft gun appeared, pointed directly at Pugh’s head.

  ‘Oh, God, no!’ Pugh said, wondering if they would never be free of villainy.

  ‘Mani in alto!’

  As Pugh lifted his arms, more men appeared from the trees.
They were all armed, some with rifles, some with revolvers, two or three even with tommy guns. From among them a tall, burly man stepped forward. He had a neck like a bull, broad shoulders and crinkly black hair. His smile was wide.

  He began to walk round the hearse, studying it, staring at the chrome lamp-holders, cherubs, skulls and wreaths. Tapping the glass and peering closer, he scratched at the whitewashed side with his fingernail until the black varnished paint showed through.

  ‘This is a hearse,’ he said.

  Pugh admitted the fact.

  The burly man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

  It was Tassinari who answered. ‘We are the family of Arturo Fornaciari,’ he said, without batting an eyelid.

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Nobody special.’ The old man was becoming an expert liar. ‘He died in Moccino and we are taking him to Caserta to bury him alongside his son. The Germans were shelling the cemetery where his wife lies.’

  The young man’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. ‘Did this Arturo Fornaciari have money?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Tassinari said. ‘He had once, but he spent it all.’

  The man drew himself up. ‘You know who I am?’ he asked. ‘I am Corneliano.’

  Pugh had suspected as much from the start, though he was surprised to see how unlike the descriptions he was. He was by no means young and had a twisted nose, a wide mouth and straggly hair. It seemed to be an indication of the Italian wish for romance. They wanted to see their local bandit as a handsome romantic figure and so the stories had grown, and the rumours of his gallantry probably didn’t match the truth either.

  Corneliano took off his hat, and stood with it across his chest as he gestured with his tommy gun. ‘That hearse looks as if it might be valuable,’ he said.

  ‘If you take the hearse, Signor Corneliano,’ Tassinari pointed out, ‘how do we get Arturo Fornaciari to Caserta? How do we bury him alongside his son, who died in 1941, a victim of the Fascists?’

  Corneliano’s smile disappeared. ‘I sympathise with you, old man,’ he said. ‘You can keep the hearse. What about the horse?’

  ‘Fiorello’s no good for anything but horsemeat. He’ll probably drop dead before we reach Caserta, anyway. But it would be nice if he got us so near we didn’t have to carry the coffin too far.’

  Corneliano considered for a moment. ‘There must be money,’ he said.

  ‘No, Signor Corneliano. No money.’

  ‘I think you are not telling the truth, old man. Why otherwise does Arturo Fornaciari have so many mourners? Poor men in Italy these days find it difficult to attract mourners. Mourning is an expensive business, and here we have five mourners. Why are five mourners all so anxious to see Arturo Fornaciari safely buried?’ By this time he had opened the doors at the back of the hearse and was peering inside. ‘What is that inside?’

  ‘The coffin, signore, containing Arturo Fornaciari.’

  ‘You are not giving Arturo Fornaciari a very good funeral, old man. This is no more than a cheap box.’

  Tassinari shrugged. ‘All we could afford.’

  ‘You have curtains in there?’

  ‘Very dirty curtains, Signor Corneliano. They were all that were worth taking from Arturo Fornaciari’s house.’

  Pugh was holding his breath, praying the bandit wouldn’t explore any further because underneath the curtains was the lascivious gentleman and his naughty girl friend of The Stolen Embrace.

  ‘The fittings look as if they might be valuable,’ Corneliano said. ‘I think we’ll take them. They’ll fetch a good price.’

  The crucifix that wouldn’t stay upright was wrenched off. The screws came out of the ancient woodwork without effort, so Corneliano’s men began to wrench at the lamp-holders and the other chrome fittings. When they’d finished, the old hearse looked more dilapidated than ever.

  Corneliano was looking thoughtful. ‘Rings?’ he asked.

  Tassinari took out his watch chain – which had always been minus a watch – and offered it. Pugh handed over his wristwatch, Tamara a necklace. Corneliano looked at Foscari.

  ‘You?’

  ‘He’s an escaped British prisoner of war we picked up,’ Pugh said quickly in case they tried to force him to join them. ‘He is trying to reach the British army. He has nothing. He had nothing when he first appeared. The poor of Italy helped him this far.’

  The bandit leader patted Foscari’s shoulder. ‘Good luck, my friend,’ he said. ‘See that you destroy the tedeschi.’ He looked at Marco. ‘And you? We have had nothing from you yet?’

  ‘I haven’t got anything.’

  ‘What about a wedding ring?’

  ‘I’m not married. I’ve never married. I’ve never been able to afford being married.’

  Corneliano scowled and began to clean his fingernails with a knife. ‘I don’t believe you, my friend,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you need persuading to tell the truth. You have the look of a man who has money.’

  He gestured and two of his men grabbed Marco’s arms. ‘Perhaps we will start by breaking a few fingers.’

  ‘No, no!’

  Tamara turned towards Pugh, who put his arm round her.

  ‘On the other hand, perhaps it might be better to cut off an ear first.’

  ‘No!’ Marco’s voice had risen to a shriek. ‘The painting!’

  Corneliano lowered the knife. ‘Painting?’ he said. ‘What painting?’

  Tassinari interrupted. ‘There is a painting in the hearse,’ he said quietly. ‘It has no value, but you might be able to sell it.’

  ‘Get it.’

  Pugh climbed into the hearse and produced The Stolen Embrace from under the old curtains. Losing pictures seemed to be part of the game now but, like Tassinari, he was growing more and more suspicious about the Detto Banti canvasses and was determined not to risk anyone’s life for them.

  Corneliano held the canvas at arm’s length and stared at it, then he handed it to two of his men and gestured. They moved away so he could study it at a distance.

  ‘I think it is a good painting,’ he said. ‘I don’t know much about painting but it looks good to me.’

  ‘It’s a Detto Banti,’ Marco shrieked.

  ‘What is a Detto Banti?’

  Tassinari explained. ‘Detto Banti was a painter of some renown,’ he said.

  ‘Like Tintoretto and Titian? Like Longhi and Lotto and Canaletto?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Tassinari agreed. ‘But they were great painters. Detto Banti was not a great painter.’ He shrugged. ‘Though he painted some good things and some of his works have value.’

  ‘And this one?’

  Tassinari shrugged again. ‘It has his signature on it.’ He pointed to the scarlet scrawl. ‘That’s it, but he had students and they copied his work. He even signed some of them and sold them as his own. He was a greedy man and not very honest.’

  Corneliano’s eyebrows lifted. ‘This is what artists do?’

  ‘Some of them do it a lot.’

  ‘And this is one?’

  ‘This one belonged to Arturo Fornaciari. He obtained it years ago in payment of some debt. I don’t know where it came from or whether it is genuine or not.’

  Corneliano grinned. ‘I think we shall be able to persuade someone it is genuine,’ he said. ‘How much is it worth?’

  Tassinari shrugged. ‘If it’s genuine, perhaps a million lire!’

  ‘È vero? As much as that?’

  ‘Perhaps more. If it’s not genuine, two or three thousand. No more.’

  Corneliano’s smile came again. ‘I think it will become genuine,’ he said. ‘We will make sure it becomes genuine. I will take advice from experts. Will people question it?’

  ‘They might ask for the provenance.’

  ‘What is that?’

  Tassinari explained. ‘However,’ he admitted, ‘I’ve no doubt you could produce some. A man of your ability and intelligence should be able to find a dealer who, for a small fee, would pr
oduce what you want. That would convince a buyer.’

  ‘I think it would.’ Corneliano rolled the painting again and pointed at the hearse. ‘I think you had better go now, family of Arturo Fornaciari. Before I change my mind and take the horse and the hearse, and even the coffin.’

  They climbed back to their places and Pugh jerked the reins. Fiorello leaned against the harness and the hearse moved slowly away. As it passed him, Corneliano waved the rolled painting.

  ‘A good day’s work, my friends, I think,’ he said.

  Three

  ‘Don’t ever complain again about giving pictures away,’ Pugh snarled.

  Marco scowled. ‘He’d have cut my ear off,’ he said.

  Pugh had to admit that there had been that possibility, but it was useful to have a lever to halt Marco’s constant complaining about what was happening to the pictures. ‘You’ve got a spare,’ he said. ‘At the other side of your head.’ He frowned. ‘I’m beginning to think that if we get half a dozen of the paintings to Naples, we can count ourselves lucky.’

  ‘We haven’t tried hard enough,’ Marco said.

  ‘How else would we have done it?’

  Tamara spoke from alongside Pugh. ‘Considering we started on the wrong side of the line, have been halted by rapacious Germans, partisans and gangsters, we have been lucky to lose only four.’

  ‘Five,’ Marco growled. ‘You gave one to the nuns.’

  ‘Which I do not regret. And since they are supposed to be mine, I think I should be the one to complain. We still have seven – worth about 28 million lire – and that is a fortune to anyone.’

  ‘Together with three small ones,’ Pugh reminded her, which might well be more valuable than all the others put together.’

  ‘Also the family silver which Enrichetta was about to remove and didn’t. Fortunately, Corneliano didn’t think of that.’

  They reached Origono by darkness. It was a quiet town, built on the side of a wooded hill and far enough from the war to have recovered some of its poise. They could hear music, African in manner, not the sweet Neapolitan melodies, as they halted in the square under the inevitable statue of Garibaldi. The questura, the police station, stood opposite them and, after a long discussion, they decided to inform the police what had happened.