job. But don’t worry,” the general added. “I’m not going to make things difficult for you with your friends in London. All I want is my Caravaggio.”
They left the waterfront and headed up the slope of the hill toward the center of town. Gabriel wondered why anyone would want to holiday here. The city reminded him of a once-beautiful woman gathering herself to have her portrait painted.
“You misled me,” he said.
“Not at all,” replied the general.
“How would you describe it?”
“I withheld certain facts so as not to color your investigation.”
“Did you know the Caravaggio was in play when you asked me to look into Bradshaw’s death?”
“I’d heard rumors to that effect.”
“Had you also heard rumors about a collector on a shopping spree for stolen art?”
The general nodded.
“Who is it?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“Are you telling me the truth this time?”
The general placed his good hand over his heart. “I do not know the identity of the person who’s been buying every piece of stolen art he can lay his hands on. Nor do I know who’s behind the murder of Jack Bradshaw.” He paused, then added, “Though I suspect they’re one and the same.”
“Why was Bradshaw killed?”
“I suppose he’d outlived his usefulness.”
“Because he’d delivered the Caravaggio?”
The general gave a noncommittal nod.
“So why was he tortured first?”
“Perhaps his killers wanted a name.”
“Yves Morel?”
“Bradshaw must have used Morel to knock the painting into shape so it could be sold.” He looked at Gabriel gravely and asked, “How did they kill him?”
“They broke his neck. It looked like a complete transection of the spinal cord.”
The general grimaced. “Silent and bloodless.”
“And very professional.”
“What did you do with the poor devil?”
“He’ll be taken care of,” said Gabriel quietly.
“By whom?”
“It’s better if you don’t know the details.”
The general shook his head slowly. He was now a party to a felony. It wasn’t the first time.
“Let us hope,” he said after a moment, “that the French police never discover that you were in Morel’s apartment. Given your track record, they might get the wrong impression.”
“Yes,” said Gabriel morosely. “Let us hope.”
They turned into the Via Roma. It reverberated with the buzz of a hundred motor scooters. Gabriel, when he spoke again, had to raise his voice to be heard.
“Who had it last?” he asked.
“The Caravaggio?”
Gabriel nodded.
“Even I’m not sure,” the general admitted. “Every time we arrest a mafioso, no matter how insignificant, he offers us information on the whereabouts of the Nativity in exchange for a reduced prison sentence. We call it the Caravaggio card. Needless to say, we’ve wasted countless man-hours chasing down false leads.”
“I thought you came close to finding it a couple of years ago.”
“So did I, but it slipped through my fingers. I was beginning to think that I would never get another opportunity to recover it.” He smiled in spite of himself. “And now this.”
“If the painting’s been sold, it’s probably no longer in Italy.”
“I concur. But in my experience,” the general added, “the best time to find a stolen painting is immediately after it’s changed hands. We have to move quickly, though. Otherwise, we might have to wait another forty-five years.”
“We?”
The general stopped walking but said nothing.
“My involvement in this affair,” said Gabriel over the drone of the traffic, “is now officially over.”
“You promised to find out who killed Jack Bradshaw in exchange for keeping your friend’s name out of the newspapers. The way I see it, you haven’t completed your commission.”
“I’ve given you an important lead, not to mention three stolen paintings.”
“But not the painting I want.” The general removed his sunglasses and fixed Gabriel with his monocular stare.
They left the waterfront and headed up the slope of the hill toward the center of town. Gabriel wondered why anyone would want to holiday here. The city reminded him of a once-beautiful woman gathering herself to have her portrait painted.
“You misled me,” he said.
“Not at all,” replied the general.
“How would you describe it?”
“I withheld certain facts so as not to color your investigation.”
“Did you know the Caravaggio was in play when you asked me to look into Bradshaw’s death?”
“I’d heard rumors to that effect.”
“Had you also heard rumors about a collector on a shopping spree for stolen art?”
The general nodded.
“Who is it?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“Are you telling me the truth this time?”
The general placed his good hand over his heart. “I do not know the identity of the person who’s been buying every piece of stolen art he can lay his hands on. Nor do I know who’s behind the murder of Jack Bradshaw.” He paused, then added, “Though I suspect they’re one and the same.”
“Why was Bradshaw killed?”
“I suppose he’d outlived his usefulness.”
“Because he’d delivered the Caravaggio?”
The general gave a noncommittal nod.
“So why was he tortured first?”
“Perhaps his killers wanted a name.”
“Yves Morel?”
“Bradshaw must have used Morel to knock the painting into shape so it could be sold.” He looked at Gabriel gravely and asked, “How did they kill him?”
“They broke his neck. It looked like a complete transection of the spinal cord.”
The general grimaced. “Silent and bloodless.”
“And very professional.”
“What did you do with the poor devil?”
“He’ll be taken care of,” said Gabriel quietly.
“By whom?”
“It’s better if you don’t know the details.”
The general shook his head slowly. He was now a party to a felony. It wasn’t the first time.
“Let us hope,” he said after a moment, “that the French police never discover that you were in Morel’s apartment. Given your track record, they might get the wrong impression.”
“Yes,” said Gabriel morosely. “Let us hope.”
They turned into the Via Roma. It reverberated with the buzz of a hundred motor scooters. Gabriel, when he spoke again, had to raise his voice to be heard.
“Who had it last?” he asked.
“The Caravaggio?”
Gabriel nodded.
“Even I’m not sure,” the general admitted. “Every time we arrest a mafioso, no matter how insignificant, he offers us information on the whereabouts of the Nativity in exchange for a reduced prison sentence. We call it the Caravaggio card. Needless to say, we’ve wasted countless man-hours chasing down false leads.”
“I thought you came close to finding it a couple of years ago.”
“So did I, but it slipped through my fingers. I was beginning to think that I would never get another opportunity to recover it.” He smiled in spite of himself. “And now this.”
“If the painting’s been sold, it’s probably no longer in Italy.”
“I concur. But in my experience,” the general added, “the best time to find a stolen painting is immediately after it’s changed hands. We have to move quickly, though. Otherwise, we might have to wait another forty-five years.”
“We?”
The general stopped walking but said nothing.
“My involvement in this affair,” said Gabriel over the drone of the traffic, “is now officially over.”
“You promised to find out who killed Jack Bradshaw in exchange for keeping your friend’s name out of the newspapers. The way I see it, you haven’t completed your commission.”
“I’ve given you an important lead, not to mention three stolen paintings.”
“But not the painting I want.” The general removed his sunglasses and fixed Gabriel with his monocular stare.
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