‘If Bruno was what you were looking for, I don’t admire your taste,’ said Smythe, taking my arm and turning me away.
‘I was just confirming a theory.’
‘It can’t be much of a theory. The count has a financial interest in the antique shop, as you may have surmised. When I had the good fortune to meet you, I was checking the books.’
‘And Bruno was helping you. I suppose he has a degree in accounting.’
‘He was in charge of the dog,’ Smythe said.
We had entered a kitchen garden, with neat rows of cabbages and feathery sprouts of carrots.
‘That reminds me of a bone I have to pick with you,’ I said. ‘What have you done with Caesar?’
‘I haven’t done anything with him. I assure you, he is living off the fat of the land. We had to give up using him at the antique shop. He turned out to be rather a poor watchdog.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes. He’s quite a remarkable animal, though. He has learned to open tins, not with his teeth, but with a tin opener. He developed a regrettable passion for foie gras, and sulked when we offered him ordinary dog food.’
‘I’d like to see him.’
‘No, you wouldn’t.’
‘Yes, I – ’ I stopped, before the discussion could degenerate into one of those childish exchanges Smythe seemed to enjoy. We were still in the service area, so, obeying a wild impulse of the sort that often seized me when I was with Smythe, I threw back my head and shouted, ‘Caesar? Caesar, where are you, old dog? Cave canem, Caesar.’
There was a moment of silence, then a furious outburst of barking. Giving Smythe a triumphant glance, I followed the sound through the kitchen garden, into a courtyard filled with trash cans and empty crates, under an archway. Caesar never let up barking, and I encouraged him with an occasional hail. When he saw me he reared up on his haunches and his barks rose to a pitch of ecstasy. His lunges dragged the dog house to which he was tied a good six feet.
I squatted down beside him. He looked better than he had when I first saw him. His ribs weren’t so prominent. The dog house was not elegant, but it was adequate, and his chain gave him ample room to roam. His water dish was full.
‘What a touching sight,’ said Smythe, looking down his nose at the pair of us.
‘I always say you can’t trust a man who doesn’t like dogs,’ I remarked, pulling Caesar’s ears.
‘I prefer cats myself.’
‘You’re trying to mislead me. Cat people have a lot of good qualities, usually.’
Caesar settled down with his head on my lap and his mouth hanging open in canine rapture. I scratched his neck and looked around.
Caesar’s yard was a grassy plot, roughly mowed and enclosed by high brick walls. Against the far wall was a small building. It hadn’t been painted in fifty years, but I observed that the structure was quite solid. The door was heavy and the windows were tightly shuttered.
Was this one of Smythe’s tricks? To anchor Caesar in front of a mysterious-looking building might suggest that that building held something he didn’t want me to see. Or it might be that he wanted me to waste a lot of time investigating a red herring. Or it might be that he would want me to think it was a red herring because it really did contain something . . .
I decided I would investigate the building. Obviously I couldn’t do it then. So I stood up – not an easy job, since neither Caesar nor Smythe assisted me. Caesar started to howl when I walked away. After I had closed the gate, I could hear the dog house being dragged along the ground, inch by scraping inch.
‘He’s bored,’ I said indignantly. ‘He needs exercise. Why don’t you let him run? The field is fenced.’
‘You can come round twice a day and exercise him,’ Smythe said. ‘Good for both of you.’
‘Go away,’ I said.
‘I shall. You’d better come along and have a bath. You smell like Caesar.’
‘If I thought the smell would keep you away, I’d bottle it,’ I said rudely.
Smythe grinned and walked off.
I might have gone back to the house to shower if Smythe hadn’t suggested it. Instead I went towards the garage. Two men were polishing the Rolls, but Bruno was no longer one of them.
I sought the rose garden next, thinking that scent might overpower the smell of Caesar – an assumption which proved to be erroneous. I wondered why Smythe had chosen to leave when he did. And where was Bruno? What did it all mean? I threw up my hands, figuratively speaking.
The roses weren’t doing me any good, so I proceeded into a part of the gardens I hadn’t seen before. It contained one of the larger fountains, a spray of shining crystal water that dampened the marble contours of a complex sculptural group of nymphs and water gods. Beyond an oleander hedge I could make out the walls of a building. Once I got a good look at the place I knew what it was. I had found Luigi’s studio.
It was a singularly unimpressive establishment for the heir to all the grandeur I had beheld – a low brick building that had once been a shed. Part of the roof had been knocked out and replaced by the skylight that is indispensable to a painter, but that was the only improvement that had been made.
The door was open. It had to be. With the sun beating down through that glass roof, the interior of the room had the approximate temperature of a pizza oven. Luigi was stripped to the waist. His paint-stained jeans hung low on his lean hips, giving me a view of a tanned back as smoothly muscled as that of Lysippus’ athlete. I couldn’t imagine how he kept his paints from running in the heat. Then I caught a glimpse of the canvas he was working on, and I realized that it didn’t matter. No one would have known the difference.
I coughed and shuffled my feet. Luigi turned. He had a brush between his teeth and his face was stippled with red and aquamarine dots. Those, I regret to say, were the major colours of his canvas. I don’t know what else I can say about it. It conveyed nothing in particular to me except ‘red, aquamarine.’ And particularly horrible shades of both, I might add.
Luigi was a lot nicer to look at. He was beautifully tanned, every exposed inch of him; the sheen of perspiration made his skin glow like bronze. He took the brush out of his mouth and looked at me soberly.
‘You came. I thought you had forgotten your promise.’
‘I didn’t know whether I should come without being invited,’ I said. ‘It can be annoying to have one’s creative process disturbed.’
Luigi’s sulky face broke into a smile.
‘I had reached an impasse,’ he said, with a comical attempt at dignity. ‘That does occur at times, you know.’
‘So I understand. I’ll leave, if you – ’
‘No, no.’ He caught my arm in his hard young fingers. ‘You must stay. Tell me, what do you think of this?’
I know the routine. I stepped back a few feet, put my head on one side, and squinted. I looked through my fingers. I moved to the right and squinted, to the left and squinted. Then I advanced on the painting and squinted at close range.
‘Fascinating,’ I said finally. Luigi let out his breath. ‘Yes, it’s a very interesting conception. Suggestive technique.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Luigi said eagerly. ‘You understand.’
We discussed the painting. I pointed out several places where the tonal values weren’t quite as sound as they might have been. Luigi told me what he planned to do about that. He had a very nice time. Once he caught me off guard when he asked me point-blank what the painting suggested to me, but I talked fast and got out of that one. The only thing it suggested was sheer chaos.
After ten minutes in that heat I felt as if I must smell like a goat. Luigi didn’t seem to notice, and I couldn’t walk out on him, he was so pleased to have an audience. He showed me several other canvases. They were different colours. Mostly yellow and purple, I think.