The Monster of Florence Read Online Free PDF

don’t pretend …” Then it sank in. What in God’s name had he been thinking about? How could he havemade such a stupid mistake? What would the painting from the gallery be doing here? Just before the curtain dropped down and covered it he registered the difference. The same face, the same silk cloak but he was sitting differently and there was something missing in his hand—
    It was gone.
    “I’m afraid you’re something of a fraud, Marshal. You know a great deal more than you like to admit.”
    “No, no. That’s not true.” But how could he explain about his friend Mario? He’d already made a fool of himself so he wasn’t going to confess that as well.
    “You can tell your friend Biondini”—Benozzetti’s gesture invited the Marshal to leave—“though I don’t pretend to know how he found out about this painting, that it is not and won’t be on the market, that the private collector who owns it doesn’t want its existence bruited about and that if I receive a visit from him or anyone else from the Ministry, I shall simply say that I painted this picture myself. Do you understand me? And if they doubt my ability to have painted it, I can paint another in front of their eyes. I hope I’ve made myself clear. Now I’m sure that you have as busy an evening ahead of you as I have.”
    He was trying to waft the Marshal out of the room, but if the Marshal had a talent it was for rooting himself to the spot when people wanted him out of the way.
    “There was no offence meant,” he said, “and Biondini’s never heard of you or this painting as far as I know.” How had he got himself into this mess? He’d frightened this man badly without understanding how, and if he wanted him to make an appearance at Marco’s studio after this he was going to have to offer him some sort of propitiatory confidence. He toyed with and rejected the story of Mario the custodian, not to save face now but because, like so many true and simple things, it wouldn’t be believed. And that left only one possibility.
    “Still,” he began, “I owe you an apology. I have been hiding the real reason for my visit from you, but not for any sinister reasonand nothing to do with Titian or with Dr. Biondini. I was just chattering on, distracting you. I should have realized that a man of your intelligence would see through me, but in my job I don’t do much more than deal with snatched handbags, lost cameras and so on, so I’m a bit out of my depth. Anyway, I’d better tell you all. Young Marco wants you to go round to the studio, not to choose a memento of his father, though I know you’ll be welcome to do that, but to look at a painting that’s there. I’d rather not have mentioned it, just as I decided I’d rather not see it at all myself. The reason for that I don’t need to tell you since you have the same problem yourself with the Titian there …”
    “Not, strictly speaking, my problem. I’m restoring it, that’s all.”
    “Even so, you understand what I mean. It seems Marco’s father intended to sell. The auctioneers have been to see him. But he can find no record of the painting in his father’s collection and he’s afraid of getting involved in something he can’t deal with. Like me, he’s out of his depth. He needs advice. I’d be grateful if you’d give him some and officially you and I have never met. It’s up to you. Now I really will leave you in peace.”
    Benozzetti showed him to the door in silence and in silence closed it behind him.
    “Where on earth have you been?”
    The table was laid for two in the tidy, brightly lit kitchen and Teresa was tasting something from a saucepan on the cooker.
    “Have the boys eaten?”
    “Half an hour ago. They were hungry. You didn’t say you were going to be late.”
    “No … well, I didn’t think I would. There’s a good smell; are we having pasta?”
    “This sauce is for tomorrow’s lunch. Supper’s in the oven—oh, Captain Maestrangelo rang