A Glancing Light (A Chris Norgren Mystery) Page 4

  "Well," our other tablemate said in his rich baritone, "at least we can be grateful that the painting's safe, what do you say?"

  The speaker was Benedetto Luca, Regional Superintendent of the National Ministry of Fine Arts. Despite his imposing title, I had never gotten his precise function quite straight. But he had been extremely helpful in tunneling through the bureaucratic maze—sometimes terrifying, sometimes slapstick—that had to be negotiated in getting the thirty- two paintings in Northerners in Italy out of the country for a year. He was, therefore, a man of power and fortitude, and he was made for the part: white, leonine mane; patrician nose; craggy, lined face; voice as mellow and subtly colored as a bassoon.

  The impression he made was so commanding, so mesmerizing, in fact, that I had known him for a year before I realized I had never heard him say anything intelligent, let alone profound. It was one banality after another—but, ah, what style.

  "God willing," his resonant voice continued with conviction, "we'll get the others back, too."

  "I hope so, dottore," Di Vecchio said absently. As host, he topped off our glasses with delicate, fruity red wine; Zuffa Sangiovese, locally made, and as pleasant and relaxing a wine as Italy produces.

  By now the pasta course had been removed and the main dish brought: cuscinetti di vitello, veal scallops stuffed with prosciutto and cheese. The reverence with which the waiter and his assistant set it down made it clear that we were to give it our full attention, at least for a while, and we complied willingly. We concentrated on our plates and made discreetly appreciative noises.

  That is, most of us did. Di Vecchio wasn't the type to murmur agreeably over food. For him, eating was a necessity, and from the looks of it, a grim one. He chewed in silence, slowly and methodically, sweating slightly, his mind somewhere else, his jaw ligaments shifting and cracking. Periodically, the fork was forced between unyielding lips, carrying one morsel of food at a time, at an unvarying rate; swallow one piece, shove in another, chewing rhythmically all the time, on the principle of the revolving garbage crusher.

  Max, expectably, had a different approach. He was a man who enjoyed the pleasures of the table, and he made no bones about it. There were lip-smackings, eye-rollings, sighs of pleasure, exclamations. The food was tossed into his mouth with quick, happy little flips of the fork, which he held upside down in his left hand, European style (less time wasted that way). And all the while he managed a stream of cheerful chatter.

  Dr. Luca had his own modus operandi, too, masticating slowly and weighing each mouthful with grave, head-tilted deliberation. The stock in which the veal was simmered—a trifle too salty? No, on second thought, quite good. The wine stirred into the drippings—is it not too, er, austere? No, no, on second thought, quite fine. Perfect, in fact. He seemed to be doing more cogitating than eating, but somehow the food was disappearing as fast as Max's.

  Have I stumbled on a new psychological principle? Are people's eating styles extensions of their personalities? I'll have to ask Louis what he thinks. I know he enjoys my theories of psychology every bit as much as I enjoy his on-the-house counseling sessions.

  After a few minutes the conversation came back to the theft of the Rubens. "You know what I keep thinking about?" Max asked. "I keep thinking about all the inside knowledge they needed. Somebody had to know the picture was in my shop at the time; somebody had to know exactly how to get by my door and window sensors, how to dismantle both security systems—"

  "Who would know such things?" Di Vecchio asked, He looked uncomfortable. Somebody had known such things about his museum, too.

  "I wasn't very smart about it," Max said with some bitterness. "A lot of people knew. Well, a few. Five, to be exact. I've gone over it a thousand times in my mind. Five people. The only thing they didn't know was that poor Ruggero would be there," Ruggero Giampietro was his longtime night watchman, an old friend hired whenever there was something particularly valuable in the shop. "So they killed him." He chewed steadily. "Or maybe they did know."

  "A terrible thing, terrible." This from Dr. Luca, of course.

  "I was familiar with your security arrangements," a prickly Di Vecchio pointed out. "I helped you plan them. Am I one of your five?"

  "Sure," Max replied equably, "but I doubt if you did it." He followed this with a happy chuckle.

  Di Vecchio was amused, but just barely. "I'm extremely happy to hear it."

  I made my first contribution in a while. "Max, this list of suspects , . . Surely the police followed up on it?"

  The look that passed between the three of them was hard to describe but impossible to misinterpret. A swift glance that managed to combine amusement, derision, awareness of secret knowledge, and cognizance of the venality of mankind—especially official mankind. All very Italian; done with the merest flick of an eyebrow, the faintest of shrugs, the most minute contraction of the lips. Even Max did it as if he were born to it.

  "The police were bought off?" I said to show them it hadn't gotten by me.

  "Who can say for sure?" Luca asked rhetorically. "Let us simply say that Captain Cala strutted furiously upon the stage, producing sound and fury, but in the end signifying nothing."

  Despite the garbled paraphrasing, it was the meatiest thing he'd said all evening. And beautifully delivered.

  "Captain Cala," Di Vecchio muttered with a snort of contempt. "Well, he's been removed now, and it's about time. I hope this Colonel Antuono who's coming is better, but I have no high hopes."

  "I do," Max said, "I have an appointment with him the day after tomorrow."

  Me too, I almost blurted out. Colonel Cesare Antuono was the man I was supposed to contact on Wednesday, according to Tony's instructions. I caught myself in time and kept it to myself. Not because I didn't trust them, but because Antuono would no doubt expect a report on the conversation we were having at that very moment. And I would no doubt give him one. Ratting on people, I thought miserably, would be easier if they didn't know about it.

  "I think we'll find him a different sort, Amedeo," Max continued. "He's a big wheel, you know; a deputy director of the carabinieri's art theft unit. He's the one who got back those Pisanellos from Verona."

  "Certainly, he has a fine reputation," Luca agreed wisely. "They call him the Eagle of Lombardy."

  Di Vecchio gulped some wine, and snorted again. "And how much of the ransom from the Pisanellos found its way into the Eagle's own pockets, do you suppose?"

  "Well," Max said with warmth, "I'm sure going to give him a chance." He swallowed the last of the wine, wiped his lush mustache with the back of a finger, and refilled his glass. Max could tipple with the best when it came to good wine, and he had already put away quite a bit of the Sangiovese. While he wasn't exactly smashed, his gestures had grown more expansive, his voice louder. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.

  "I'm really going to give him an earful," he declared, loosening his belt a notch. "There's a lot I can tell him."

  The look that passed between Di Vecchio and Luca was a dark one this time. Di Vecchio glanced warily around at the other tables. Luca slowly licked his lips, frowning.

  Di Vecchio laid a slim, cautionary hand on Max's forearm. "Massimiliano, you have to be careful. You can't go around shouting things like that."

  "Someone might overhear," Luca said.

  "I'm not shouting," Max said, and promptly lowered his voice. "Well, maybe a little. Anyway, what do I care if people overhear? I haven't made a secret of it." He made an impatient gesture. "Am I the only one who wants the rest of those pictures found?"

  Di Vecchio made soothing noises. "Of course not. We don't say you shouldn't cooperate with the police. Don't you think I'm going to cooperate? But do you see me going around advertising it?"

  "Think," Luca said somberly. "Think about what happened to Paolo Salvatorelli, God rest his soul."

  "Paolo Salvatorelli?" I repeated. "Is he connected with Trasporti Salvatorelli?"

  "Of course," Luca said. "The two
brothers founded it; Paolo and Bruno."

  At this point I got what is commonly, and accurately, referred to as a sinking sensation. Trasporti Salvatorelli was the firm I was counting on to ship thirty-two paintings worth over $40,000,000 from Italy to the United States. I had an appointment with them on Friday to confirm the arrangements and sign the papers. They had been recommended unreservedly by Max, who did most of his shipping through them, and by the Pinacoteca and the Ministry of Fine Arts— that is to say, Di Vecchio and Luca—both of whom had a lot more to lose than I did, since most of the paintings belonged to the state. Luca had, in fact, generously assigned one of his deputies to the onerous chore of grinding through the preliminary paperwork with Salvatorelli, which would have otherwise fallen to me. For this, I probably owed him my sanity.

  So far, I had no cause for complaint, but lately the Salvatorelli name seemed to be cropping up in ways that did nothing for my confidence. Accidentally shipping Clara Gozzi's Rubens to Blusher without even knowing they had it, for example. And now, if I was understanding Luca, one of the two brothers who ran the firm had been done in by the Mob. You will understand when I say that I was starting to get just the least little bit apprehensive.

  "What did happen to Paolo?" I asked woodenly.

  They explained. It was a matter of common supposition that the Salvatorelli brothers had some knowledge of the art thefts of two years earlier—

  I came halfway out of my chair. "What? We're trusting those paintings to—"

  Luca's sonorous, calming laughter bathed me. "Knowledge of," he said. "That is not to imply any connection with. They are simply in a position to hear things, you understand."

  "They're wholly reliable," Di Vecchio said. "We've used them many times. We've trusted our Guido Renis to them, and our Raphael. There's no cause for concern, believe me."

  I settled back, not entirely pacified, while Luca, with some help from Di Vecchio, filled in the pieces: Despite these suppositions of "knowledge," the notorious Captain Cala, for all his sound and fury, had been no more inclined to seriously pursue the subject with the Salvatorellis than with anyone else. But Colonel Antuono was a different matter, and expectations had risen that the brothers would be subjected to painstaking interrogation when he took over. There were even rumors that Paolo had set up a secret contact with Colonel Antuono on his own. At that point the underworld had taken matters into its own hands.

  Max brought his lengthy story to its point. "He was shot," he said to me with a shrug.

  "Killed," Luca emended gravely.

  "Not merely killed," Di Vecchio said, his small mouth twisted by a grimace of repugnance. "He was found in the Margherita Gardens with a cork stuffed between his lips. There were one hundred and sixteen bullets in his body."

  "My God," I said.

  "I have a friend," Luca said, his creased face grim, "the physician in charge of the mortuary. He told me that the bullets fell out of his body and rattled on the table like beads from a rosary." He let the unsettling image sink in a moment. "And now, of course, his brother, Bruno, will say nothing. Who can blame him?"

  But even this wasn't enough to subdue Max entirely. "Look," he said, "nobody would hurt me. Paolo Salvatorelli was one of them. Everybody knows that. He could tell secrets, inform on them, break the code—"

  Di Vecchio stiffened in the way that many Italians do when the Mafia comes into the conversation, even indirectly. "The code?" he repeated coolly. A long time before, he had made a point of telling me that the long arm of the Mafia no longer reached to Bologna. "The spirit and collective solidarity of the cooperative movement have eliminated it here," he had informed me. Amedeo Di Vecchio frequently sounded like the dedicated Communist he was.

  "Hell, forget it," Max mumbled, a little bellicose now. "Don't worry about me, I can take care of myself just fine." He got up to head for the restroom with the doggedly straight, precise stride of a man who's had too much to drink and is therefore bent on showing how steady he is on his feet.

  "Ah, but can he take care of himself?" Luca asked doubtfully, watching him go. "Massimiliano has many virtues, but is prudence one of them?"

  "Oh, I think Max is pretty prudent," I said. "He's had a little wine tonight, but—"

  "When the theft at the Pinacoteca occurred," Di Vecchio interrupted, "the first thing I did was to telephone the other local museum directors and some of the more prominent gallery owners to tell them to be on their guard. These things often occur in clusters, you know."

  "I know."

  "I awoke Massimiliano from sleep. When I warned him he could be next, his response was to laugh." Di Vecchio allowed himself a thin, retributive smile of his own. "The only painting of value in his shop, he informed me, was Clara's Rubens, and it was unlikely that the thieves would know about that or even bother with it, given the riches they had already helped themselves to at the museum. No, they were probably already on their way to Rome. What did he do? Nothing. He went back to sleep, simply leaving the useless Giampietro to his task." He twirled his wine glass irritably by the stem. "Do you call that prudence?"

  "No, indeed," Luca answered for me.

  "What about Clara Gozzi?" I asked. "Did you warn her?"

  "No," Di Vecchio said defensively. "Why would it occur to me they would go to Ferrara?"

  Max came back looking fresher. He'd washed his face and dampened and combed his hair, and I caught a whiff of the cologne the Notai stocked in its restroom.

  He was more conciliatory, too. "Look," he said amicably, "all I meant was, what can I do that anyone would be so afraid of? I don't have any inside secrets. I can just tell what happened to me, that's all—the same as you. It's my duty. They're not going to go around killing ordinary citizens."

  Luca waved a magisterial hand. "It makes no difference. These policemen are all the same, you'll see. One way or another this Colonel Antuono will line his pockets."

  He let go a deep sigh. "0 tempera!" he said "0 mores!" Understandably, he did better with Cicero than with Shakespeare.

  Chapter 4

  With Luca's Ciceronian world-weariness the evening's energy seemed to fizzle out. Conversation tapered off at the other tables as well, and people began coming up to wish me good night, to thank Di Vecchio for the dinner, and to pay their respects to Luca, who accepted them in kingly fashion.

  Among them was Ugo Scoccimarro, one of the three contributors—along with the Pinacoteca and Clara Gozzi—to Northerners in Italy. He was also the owner of the Boursse I was hoping to get for Seattle. I was surprised to see him there at all. The thickset, balding Scoccimarro, a native Sicilian, had complicated things for me by moving from nearby Milan, where he'd lived for three years, back to Sicily several months before; I was planning to fly down there to settle things with him before I left Italy. But as it turned out, he was in Milan on business, and when word had gotten to him about the reception, he had taken the two-hour train trip to Bologna.

  Scoccimarro was an extraordinary being in the world of art collectors; a peasant in the literal sense of the word. Like his father and grandfather, he had provided meager and toilsome sustenance for his family by making olive oil, growing almonds, and keeping a few sheep for the production of romano cheese, which he made himself twice a year. Then providence had smiled. The Aga Khan had decided to put up a condominium development on the Strait of Messina, and Ugo Scoccimarro's rocky eleven acres on the coast near Scaletta Zanclea just happened to be the perfect spot for it. Smooth-talking representatives in suits and ties had appeared at Scoccimarro's decrepit stone farmhouse one day in 1967 to ask him what he wanted for the land. The flabbergasted, twenty-three-year-old Ugo got up his nerve and stammered out a demand for fifty times what he thought it was worth, then almost fainted when it was accepted on the spot; no arguments, no bargaining

  He had slapped his forehead and grinned when he told me the story. "I could have asked for ten times more. " But it had been enough to start him on a remarkable career.

  Ugo had turned ou
t to be a shrewd businessman, putting his money first into country land, then into commercial developments in Catania, and finally into the production of an aperitif called Jazz!. This was one of those awful medicinal concoctions the Italians seem actually to enjoy. Made from olives and almonds, and based on a family recipe, it was an immediate success. Reluctantly, Ugo had moved to Milan to build his new factory; it was the only place he could find the technical skills he needed.

  Some years ago he had gone to an auction and bought himself a ready-made art collection of twenty-five paintings, mostly of the Utrecht School, a group of seventeenth-century Dutch artists who had come to Rome as students and been heavily influenced by Caravaggio. Ugo had bought them as an investment, he said, but although they had quadrupled in value in nine years, he had never tried to sell one, as far as I knew, although he'd bought a few more. The truth of the matter, I thought, was that Ugo Scoccimarro, former tiller of the soil, was thrilled at being a gentleman art connoisseur, and saw little need to make any changes. The day I had asked him if he would lend some of his pictures to the exhibition, he had swelled before my eyes and practically floated away like a helium-filled balloon.

  The reason I hadn't seen him during the reception, he explained now, was that he had just arrived. His train had been delayed for two hours before it ever got out of Milan. Knowing he was going to be late, he had eaten en route in the dining car. He was lucky to have made it at all.

  The others clucked at his misfortune; he had missed a fine dinner. But I thought I knew better. Ugo Scoccimarro, like many a self-made man before him, was of several minds about his social position. On the one hand, he was pugnaciously proud of his peasant background. On the other, he was often desperately insecure. I knew him, for example, to be uneasy about his table manners. He was happiest with a napkin tied around his neck, a tumbler of wine at his elbow, and a plate of pasta in front of him (which he preferred to eat with the help of a spoon), and he went to considerable lengths to avoid dining among the gentry. I didn't doubt that his missing dinner was premeditated.