Drawing Conclusions - Donna Leon [91]
Before he answered, Brunetti cast his eyes around the gallery. On the wall to his left was a small portrait of Santa Caterina of Alexandria, her head turned to her left, glancing off towards martyrdom and beatification, one traitor hand placed protectively on her single string of pearls. She already wore her martyr’s crown, but that too was compromised by a row of inset pearls. Her right hand was placed negligently on her martyr’s wheel, the palm frond about to drop from her fingers. Which is it to be, girl? Earth or heaven? Pleasure or salvation? Poised in a moment of perfect indecision, she stared at a ray of light in the top corner of the painting, uncertainty evident in her every feature.
‘She’s lovely, isn’t she?’ Turchetti asked. He stepped aside to look square at the painting. ‘I’ll hate to see her leave,’ he said, just as though the woman in the painting were capable of making the decision about when to pick up her skirts and walk out of the gallery.
Then, turning away from the painting, the dealer faced Brunetti and said, ‘You were interested in one of my clients?’
‘Yes. Benito Morandi.’
The name registered in Turchetti’s eyes and his mouth contracted a bit at the corners, as if he had been reminded of an unpleasant taste. ‘Ah,’ he sighed, a noise that could register confusion as easily as recognition but, in either case, would give him time to consider his response. Brunetti, familiar with the tactic, stood and waited, saying nothing and offering only his impassive face.
‘Why don’t we go and sit down?’ Turchetti suggested, turning back towards his desk. Brunetti followed him, sat in one of the chairs placed on the client side and glanced around the gallery, taking in the paintings and drawings but seeing nothing as inviting as the martyr. At first Turchetti leaned back against the desk and folded his arms, but then, as if suddenly conscious of how this placed him so much higher than his guest, sat in a chair facing Brunetti. ‘Your father-in-law,’ Turchetti began, ‘has told me the work you do.’
Brunetti had to admire the exquisite sensibility that could not bring itself to pronounce the word, ‘policeman’. He nodded.
‘And that you are a man with a certain … how shall I put it?’ Turchetti said, pausing as if in search of the most flattering term. Brunetti, for his part, sat, resisting the impulse to tell the other man he didn’t much care what he called anything, so long as he told him about Benito Morandi. Instead, he tilted his head rather in the manner of Santa Caterina but in a fashion he hoped would suggest mild curiosity rather than angelic rapture.
‘… sense of justice? Is that the term I’m searching for?’
Brunetti thought it probably was and so nodded.
Turchetti renewed his smile. ‘Good, then.’ He sat back and crossed his legs, suggesting that, now that the preliminaries were established, they could start talking. ‘Morandi is a client of mine in that he has occasionally sold me things.’
Brunetti smiled as at the hearing of truth, already known, universally acknowledged. So Turchetti must remember, perhaps regret, writing those cheques to Morandi. Had he been short of cash? Had he needed to delay payment? Or had he paid with cheques so as to allow time to have whatever he bought authenticated? Or to verify the provenance?
‘What things?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Oh, this and that,’ Turchetti said with an easy smile and an airy wave of his hand.
‘What things?’
Displaying no surprise whatsoever at Brunetti’s tone, he said, ‘Oh, the occasional drawing.’
‘What drawings?’
While Turchetti thought about how to answer this, Brunetti reached into his pocket and pulled out his notebook. He opened it to the page that had the name of Chiara’s teachers and looked down the list.
Before he could repeat his question, Turchetti said, ‘Oh, minor artists, no one you’ve ever heard of, I’d guess.’
Brunetti took a pen from his inside pocket, opened