He gathered his own files together and got to his feet, his smile bright with camaraderie and boyish charm.
“I’ve asked for coffee to be brought to you here and I hope that you will introduce yourselves. I look forward to working with you. Gentlemen, good morning.”
As Simonetti swept out, trailing imaginary silk behind him, the Marshal let out a long breath and congratulated himself for having stayed alert throughout the proceedings, which had gone on, he noted with a surreptitious glance at his watch, for a good two hours. It was fortunate that he wasn’t required to demonstrate how alert he’d been because, in truth, apart from the bit about the anonymous letter and that last part about the judicial warning and the coffee, he couldn’t have repeated a single word of what Simonetti had said.
Outside the Tribunal on the broad stone staircase a large group of journalists jostled and scribbled and gossiped. Though it was as warm as ever, their collars were turned up as fine specks of rain punctuated the grey mist.
“Don’t worry, they’re not waiting for us,” Ferrini said, sensing the Marshal’s hesitation. “The Chief Proc and Simonetti are giving a press conference any minute. They’ll be on telly tonight and won’t they be pleased.”
The Marshal made no comment and they started down the steps. Two carabinieri cars were waiting and Bacci was getting into the one in front.
Ferrini looked about for a third. “You’re not on foot?”
“I try to walk when I can. Besides, for short distances it’s quicker.” The traffic was barely crawling past them and some drivers, irritated beyond the limits of their patience by endless queues and the grey, exhaust-laden atmosphere, were leaning on their horns.
“It’s going to rain hard. We can drop you.”
The Marshal was easily convinced. He hated getting wet but mostly he wanted to talk to somebody about all this, somebody from his own force and of his own age and rank—only of course Ferrini wasn’t any longer a marshal.
“I should congratulate you.” He offered a glance at the stars on Ferrini’s epaulettes.
“Thanks.” They settled into the back of the car and the driver started signalling his hope of nosing his way into the mass of the cars crawling towards the river. “To tell you the truth,” Ferrini added quietly, “I’ve often regretted it. Oh, I suppose I could hardly have turned down the opportunity, but I was happier as an NCO. Ever since this”—he flicked a finger at an epaulette—“I’ve been stuck in an office worrying about how to fight off the next transfer order. You know, when you refused I thought you were a fool. Now …”
The two of them had worked together successfully on a transsexual murder case and the Marshal would be eternally grateful to this man for acting as his guide to the underworld. Afterwards, when both of them were offered promotion to officer status, the Marshal had been horrified at the thought of Officer Training School, the exams, and posting to God knows where. He liked his job the way it was and he liked Florence and so did his family.
“At least you’re still here,” he pointed out to Ferrini, “and that’s lucky.”
“It’s not luck. It’s the wife and kids—you know what it’s like.”
“I know.”
“You did right. I’ve managed to stay here, at least for the moment, but the price is being stuck in an office moving paper about. I liked being out on a case, but there’s no hope of me getting what I want in Florence. Anybody else my age is a lieutenant colonel and investigations are being run by lads half my age with the same rank. To get the sort of position I want—and I want to be an investigator, always did—I’d have to take a transfer to some dump where nobody else wants to go.” He stopped and leaned forward to the driver, remembering: “We’re dropping the Marshal at the Pitti Palace first.”
“Yes, sir.”
He leaned back again with a sigh. “You did the right thing. You’ve got your independence and you run your own shop.”
“Well … not just at the moment.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, at the moment you’re out of your office investigating and I’ve certainly no independence on this job.”
“You’re right there. At the beck and call of the civil police. I never thought I’d see the day. Well, none of it means anything so it’s as long as it’s short. What d’you think of Simonetti, anyway? Because I don’t like him.”
“No.”
“Ever work with him?”
“Once.”
“Bit of a steamroller, is he?”
“Mm.”
“Well, I was glad to see you this morning, I can tell you—is there no other road we can take?” This addition was to the driver. They hadn’t moved more than three yards upriver.
“No, sir.”
“Well, wave your lolly and whip past up that bus route or we’ll be sitting here till tomorrow.”
The driver did as he was told and they made a heartening burst of speed as far as the next traffic lights. It was raining in earnest now, the big drops hissing and splashing into the churned-up muddy river. The miserable queues at the bus stops huddled down into collars and under umbrellas that blocked the narrow pavements so that passers-by had to step into the road and almost under the wheels of the honking cars.
The queue of traffic on the left bank making for the Ponte Vecchio moved steadily for a while and then snarled up. A municipal policeman, his white helmet streaming with rain, was waving at some invisible transgressor and blowing his whistle angrily.
“I was glad to see you, too,” the Marshal said when the noise level had subsided a bit, “though I don’t know why I should have been there at all, and that’s the truth.”
“No?” Ferrini gave him a sidelong look but if he knew the reason he wasn’t saying. “You’re right about it being quicker to walk. You’d get wet, though. Thing is not to get flu, at least not until the strategic moment.”
“Is there a strategic moment for getting flu?”
“There will be on this case. You can’t afford to waste flu when you don’t need it. Listen, I’m thinking, we’ve about a month’s reading to do here in three days.” He patted the file on the seat beside him. “When you’ve had a glance through what do you say we get together on it?”
“That’s a good idea.” Far from getting through a month’s reading in three days, the Marshal felt he was likely to need three months.
“Good. You’re here. Give me a ring—wait”—he fished out a card—“use my direct number—and I wouldn’t say too much about our getting together. You understand me.”
“Of course.” The Marshal, who had never said too much about anything in his life, nevertheless realized that the situation was anomalous. As he watched his friend being driven away under the stone archway he wondered if other secret alliances were being formed among the six men and what it would all lead to. He didn’t feel comfortable about it himself. He didn’t feel comfortable at all.
Three
“I’m behind a tree so he can’t see me but I can see him. So: he’s standing right there looking into the car—it’s pitch-black, right, and he’s near the car watching them screwing, as close as I am to you now, and he’s got a gun in one hand and a knife in the other. I can see the knife glinting. So, I’m standing there, right, and I see them start getting dressed and I can see everything she’s got, every detail, and he’s standing there, like a statue, he is, and they pull their jeans on but nothing on top and then he shoots. Eight, nine, ten times, he shoots, easy, and then he goes round to the passenger side and starts dragging her out …”
His voice trailed off, waiting perhaps for the Marshal to contradict or prompt him, or at least to interrupt with a question, but the Marshal remained silent, bulging eyes expressionless, his big hands planted on the desk before him.
“Anyway … so … he drags her out and away from the car and he rips her jeans off and opens her legs—”
“Get out,” said the Marshal quietly.
“Wait! He’s got the knife—”
“Get out,” repeated the Marshal, and stood up.
The old man on the other side of the desk was small and fat and the buttons of his check shirt barely met over his stomach. His eyes were rheumy and glittering with the pleasure he’d got out of telling even this much of his story.
“There’s no call for taking it out on me,” he said, pulling his green overcoat round him and putting his hat on. “I’m doing my duty telling you, that’s all. You ought to thank me.”
“Take yourself off home and don’t let me see you in here again or you’ll be sorry.”
“I’ve done no harm …”
When the door closed behind him the Marshal went to the window and opened it for a moment, feeling the need for clean air. If this was a foretaste of what life was going to be like once the names of all the investigators were known … Not that it was Bertelli’s first visit. He was forever coming round with his invented stories, but in the first place he habitually buttonholed one of the younger carabinieri—an eighteen-year-old National Service lad—and would get through quite a long tale before the unsuspecting boy would cotton on. In the second place, his stories were undoubtedly lifted more or less straight from the pornographic magazines his tiny restoration workshop was crammed with, but with the sexes reversed. He would be sitting in the bath, having forgotten to lock the front door and the woman from the next flat would just walk straight in and start touching him, etc., etc.
Now that the newspapers were splashing the Monster again he had no need of his magazine stories. The Marshal tried to remember whether he’d been round during the eighties when ‘Monster fever’ was at its height, but he was pretty sure not. He’d probably presented himself at Headquarters across at Borgo Ognissanti to whoever was on the case then.
The door opened behind him. Surely the wretched man wasn’t still—
“Marshal?” It was Brigadier Lorenzini. “There’s that young man still waiting to see you. Had you forgotten?”
“Marco. Of course. It had gone out of my head for a minute. Listen, don’t let that character in here again, all right?”
He reached for his greatcoat from the coat stand behind the door.
“Give me Signora Dini’s handbag and I’ll go down to Porta Romana with it.”
“You want me to deal with the young man?”
“He’ll come with me. Where is he? Marco?”
Landini stood up as he saw the Marshal come out, buttoning his coat.
“If you haven’t got time to see me I’ll …”
“No, no. If you don’t mind a short walk, we can talk on the way.” He adjusted his hat and Lorenzini held out the old lady’s handbag.
“No, no! For heaven’s sake find a polythene bag for it, I can’t carry it like that. Well, Marco, I should have called you before now and I’m sorry. It’s a bad time.”
“I can imagine. I heard—well, it’s in the papers, so …”
“Hmph. Let’s go.” He took the polythene bag and the two of them went off down the narrow stairs together.
It had been raining on and off for days and the gravel walk they took through the Boboli Gardens behind the palace was soaked. It was both pleasanter and more practical to walk that way rather than down the Via Romana, narrow and busy as it was. The pavement was only wide enough for one person, so it would have been impossible to carry on a conversation, even supposing you could make yourself heard over the echoing din of traffic roaring between the high buildings.
The gardens, on the other hand, were even quieter than usual since the dampness and fog discouraged the tourists visiting the galleries in the palace from venturing out there. Not a single person was sitting on the damp stone tiers of the amphitheatre as they passed below it, and the cats, whose diet was supplemented by what they could cadge in the way of picnic-lunch leavings, wandered about wet and disconsolate and very much disposed to be quarrelsome.
“It’s not going to be as easy as I thought.” Marco was searching for a lighter in the pocket of his tweed jacket. “I imagined at the start that it would be quite straightforward because Franchi kept very careful records of every one of his paintings, who commissioned them and how much he was paid. It looked as if all I had to do—since this painting doesn’t belong to my family—was to prove that no such painting existed, as Franchi had kept no record of it. I’m assuming now it’s a forgery. If it isn’t, and it does show up in Franchi’s records then I’ll have to face the fact that it might be stolen. Only it seems it’s not that simple. First of all, there are more paintings than he lists, quite a lot more, especially portraits like this one, because during the time when he was court painter here at the Pitti Palace the Grand Duchess, Princess Violante, had him paint all her ladies in waiting for her. Those are all listed by him as commissioned by her, but—and it’s a big but—he made further copies of those same portraits and I can’t count on his having listed all of those.”
“Why should he copy his own pictures?”
“Money. It wasn’t always easy to get your money out of people as rich as they were.” He waved a hand to his right where hundreds of orange and lemon trees sheltered from the rigours of winter in the long conservatory. “They were always keen on commissioning work but less keen on paying for it. Franchi made ends meet by copying those portraits for the young ladies themselves. They, not being rich and powerful, paid up. They got theirs cheaper, of course, since they were copies and took less time and effort to produce, but you can imagine that the Grand Duchess wouldn’t have approved of this commercial initiative and, what’s worse, in some cases he gave the Princess herself copies because he’d already made portraits of these ladies and been paid by the sitters. I doubt he gave her a discount.”
“No. Well, I see your point. It’s a bit difficult …”
“You haven’t heard the worst. On top of that, Franchi being the most famous painter in town, a lot less famous painters made some pretty efficient copies of his works, sometimes real size, sometimes reduced to cut production costs—and Franchi himself made copies of pictures by painters he admired!”
“In that case it’s a real mess.”
“It’s a mess all right, as far as attribution is concerned and as for my problem … wait, I’ll show you where I found all this …”
They paused a moment beneath the white marble statue of Pegasus, and Marco searched his pockets for a small notebook.
“I found all this out only this morning and I just had to come straight to you. Here: ‘Ordered on February 10th, 1692 by the Prior of San Marco for the Grand Prince who wished to remove Fra Bartolommeo’s beautiful and celebrated painting of San Marco to his own palace, replacing it by a careful copy made by our Antonio Franchi, the most choice of all Florentine painters, who executed same with such exquisite perfection in the imitation that it truly seems to be the original.’ So there you are.”
“Mmph.”
“So you can imagine. It’s a lot more complicated than I bargained for.”
“Can’t somebody help you? Somebody expert, I mean.”
“Somebody will have to—at least to read the Thieme/Becker for me. I don’t know a word of German.”
“Read what?”
“It’s the standard dictionary of artists. I thought of getting some German history of art student to help me with that so I wouldn’t have to explain anything.”
“No, no, Marco, you can’t deal with this on your own—”
“I can’t tell anyone. If this picture is a fake, think how many others there might have been. If I’m honest with myself I have to admit that I always knew, or felt, that my father had more money than could be explained, but I could hardly say so. Of course, there’s no saying how much he made out of authentications and so on, and he was quite capable, anyway, of appearing to be richer than he was. He was a great showman, you know.”
“I can imagine.”
Marco pushed his hands deep into his pockets and looked down at the wet gravel as they walked.
“At times I don
’t blame him for despising me.”
“And you’re going to such lengths to protect him.”
“To protect my mother.”
“But surely, if she wasn’t in any way involved … And they were divorced.”
“She suffered enough from him when he was alive. Another story of this sort would kill her.”
The Marshal walked on in silence and only a brief sidelong glance betrayed his having registered that “another.” Marco, his head still lowered, his face dark, seemed unaware of his mistake. They went on their way for a while with only their crunching footsteps and the chinking of birds in the sad wintry laurels for company. The Marshal was willing to bide his time. A forced confidence was never more than half a confidence and he knew Marco well enough to be sure that he was held back by shame, not guilt. A gleam of sunlight was just beginning to penetrate the fog, and in its faint warmth, the wet bay leaves released their perfume, which mingled with the sharper scent of their pruned and burning branches. The gardeners tidying the laurel maze rising on their left were silent and invisible. Only the thin plumes of smoke told where they were.
“There’s one thing I think you should do,” the Marshal said at last, “and that’s go to one of the bigger antique dealers in the city—do you know any of them personally?”
“I know two. One was at school with me and works for his father now in the business.”
The Monster of Florence Page 5
