“Riccardo.” Caterina Savona stopped and took in a few breaths. “Are you a runner too?”
“It’s the best way to start the day.”
“I have a rule never to interrupt my morning run, but I’ll break it for you.” Her hands were on her hips and she breathed heavily. “They told me this morning at the desk that we have another murder.”
“I know. The police talked with me last night since I had a drink with Sarchetti just before it happened.”
She looked hard at him. “Oh dear, that doesn’t sound good. But you’re not in jail so they must not consider you a suspect.”
Rick shrugged.
“Do you think it could be connected to the other death?” She was still breathing heavily. “What was his name?”
“Fortuna. It would be too much of a coincidence if it didn’t.” He considered adding that it might be connected with the two missing paintings, but kept it to himself. “Did Sarchetti say anything to you when you met him yesterday morning that might shed some light on why he was killed?”
She started jumping lightly on her toes. “No, we just chatted briefly. We were going to have dinner back in Milan. Riccardo, I’m starting to tighten up, so I must get back to my run. Let’s talk sometime.” She laughed. “I say that every time we run into each other.” She waved and headed down the path toward the town.
Rick started to walk back to the other section of path, but turned to watch her. She had a good long stride, like someone who had been coached, and she kept her head down in concentration. Ahead of her a row of tall pines lined the path, forming a corridor of evergreen. He watched the morning sun reflecting off their needles when another glint caught his eye.
“Caterina!” he shouted. “Stop!”
Her head jerked back toward him, and she lost her balance, landing on her hip and leg. She skidded along the wet pavement and spun around to face him. The scowl on her face could have been for her own clumsiness or annoyance at Rick, who was now running up to her. “What was that for, Riccardo?” She rubbed her side while holding up a hand so he could bring her to her feet. But before pulling her up he pointed above her head.
“The sunlight picked it up from where I was standing. It was at just the right angle or would have been invisible.”
A thin piece of wire strung across the path at about neck height. Rick brought Caterina to her feet and then walked to the tree where one end of the wire was wrapped around the trunk. He unwound it and carried it to the other side, leaving it on the ground. “That could have done some damage.”
She rubbed her hip and stared at the wire on the ground. “I had my eyes on the path. That could have taken my head off. Who would do such a thing?”
“The police may have a theory.”
Her head turned quickly toward Rick. “Police? No, I don’t want to get involved with the police, Riccardo. It’s just some horrible prankster. A twisted kid. No, we’ll just keep this between ourselves.” She came up to Rick and embraced him before turning back to the wire. “You may have saved my life, Riccardo. I owe you a big favor. But no police. This will be between the two of us.” She continued down the path, but slower, and keeping her head up, as she disappeared around a bend.
Rick crossed the grass and returned to where he’d stopped running, determined to finish his normal route. There was no doubt in his mind that the wire was meant for him, and he knew why. Last night’s murderer knew about the meeting on the bridge, and could even have watched from the shadows as Rick came out of the bar. If Sarchetti was killed because of something he knew, the killer could believe that Rick had been given that information. So Rick could be next on the list. But like Caterina, he didn’t want to get the police involved. The last thing he needed at this point was a police inquisition or body guard.
The path started its loop before turning in the direction of the town. Though it was doubtful there could be another wire, he carefully scanned the trees when they came close to the path. Passing where Caterina had slipped, he thought about her reaction to the incident. She clearly wanted to avoid contact with the police at all costs. What was she afraid of? Should he ask his uncle to run a check on Caterina Savona? No, he immediately rejected the idea. It would mean telling him about the two murders, and that Inspector Occasio headed the investigation. He didn’t want that. He would find out about Uncle Piero and Occasio in due time, after he got back to Rome. He puffed up the hill and into the town. The stone buildings and narrow streets of Bassano closed in on him, making him feel safer.
***
Rick sat in the hotel lobby checking his phone messages, his hair still damp from the shower. He was relieved—given their agreement to keep nothing important from each other when they talked—that there were none from Uncle Piero. There was one message to call from Betta, which must have come through when he was on his run. The girl gets up early, another plus. He hit the button for a return call.
“Ciao Betta, sorry I missed your call. I was on my morning run.”
“I hoped it was that, and you hadn’t been murdered.”
What was it in her voice? Annoyance? Fear? “So you heard about Sarchetti.”
“On the radio. It must be connected with the two missing paintings.”
She certainly goes right to the heart of things. “I agree. But how?”
“I was hoping you’d figured that out. Have the police talked to you?”
“Last night. Let’s meet so I can tell you about it.”
“I was going to suggest the same thing. How about a bike ride to clear our minds? It always helps me. I’ll pick you up.”
He immediately remembered having his arms around her waist. “Sounds good. But I have work to do here. Detective DiMaio wants me to translate when they interview Muller and Oglesby again. They’re in with—wait, Gaddi’s coming out now.” Rick watched a haggard Professor Gaddi emerge from the make-shift interview room. He gave Rick a weak smile and walked to the elevator. “The poor guy looks terrible. I’ll call you when I’m done—it shouldn’t take more than an hour.”
“Fine, I’ll await your call. Ciao.” She hung up.
As Rick slipped his phone into his pocket Occasio appeared at the door followed closely by DiMaio. The inspector spotted Rick and turned to his assistant. He gestured toward Rick and spoke into DiMaio’s ear before hurrying toward the door. A moment later the sound of a police siren wailed to life on the street outside and then disappeared in the distance. Occasio has left the building, Rick said to himself before walking to the detective’s side.
“I don’t get the pleasure of assisting the inspector in his investigation?”
DiMaio cracked a half smile. He looked tired. “Surprisingly he has left the interview of the German and the Englishman to me. I don’t think he enjoys sharing the stage with a translator. Cramps his style.”
“I’m starting to wonder if his style is to let you do all the work.”
“I reserve comment on your comment.” The elevator door opened at the other side of the lobby and George Oglesby appeared. “Before we talk to the Englishman, perhaps you would like to hear about our visit with Rinaldi last night after we left the bridge.”
“I’m all ears.” Rick signaled to Oglesby that they would be with him shortly, and the two men entered the conference room. The hotel had provided fresh water and clean glasses, but otherwise it looked the same. They took seats opposite each other.
“Angelo Rinaldi greeted us wearing a smoking jacket. I’d thought people only wore them in old movies, the ones where they used white telephones. And he wasn’t even smoking. Occasio, as I’d expected, demonstrated the proper amount of obsequiousness with the man. No bowing and scraping, but close to it. Rinaldi waved it off—I almost think he was enjoying it all—and offered total cooperation, even after he was told that Sarchetti had been murdered. Not the reaction of a man who had anything to hide.”
Rick shifted in the chair, remembering that at dinner Beppo’s uncle never mentioned meeting Sarchetti. Of course he never said he hadn’t, either. “What did he say about his encounter with the murder victim?”
“Strictly business, if you can call the sale of art a business. Sarchetti had been recommended to him by another businessman who is also an art collector, so he called Rinaldi when he got to Bassano.”
“Did Rinaldi buy anything?”
DiMaio looked at his watch, as if remembering that Oglesby was waiting. “He said the encounter was simply to meet the man, to size him up. No offers made nor accepted. I suppose one has to be careful when one buys expensive paintings, and those on the walls of that villa looked very expensive.”
You don’t know the half of it, Rick thought. “Did he have an alibi?”
DiMaio chuckled. “It was almost painful for the inspector to ask, given the high status of Rinaldi, but he reluctantly did, and our host said he’d been at the villa alone all evening. Listening to opera, no doubt, in his smoking jacket. But his staff could corroborate his story if the inspector wished to interrogate them. Occasio waved it off. A pillar of the business community would be believed.”
“It doesn’t sound like you got much.”
“No. Except that Occasio was able to make a new contact.” He flipped open his notebook. “Let me move on to information that is actually verifiable and not the testimony of a peripheral suspect.” He noticed Rick’s frown. “Forgive me, Riccardo, but despite Rinaldi’s being the uncle of your friend, we must consider him a suspect.” He turned the pages of the notebook until he found the one he was searching for. “The initial medical examiner’s report came in, which you may find of interest. Sarchetti was stabbed at close range, but since few stabbings take place at long range, no surprise there. The weapon was a knife, again expected. But it is almost certain that it was the same weapon that killed Fortuna.”
“So the same killer.”
“Riccardo, your powers of deduction are extraordinary. Your uncle would be proud.”
Rick accepted the gibe, but could not help wondering why DiMaio was giving him such details of the investigation. A family connection with the police was one thing, but the detective was sharing more than would be expected under the circumstances. Certainly Occasio would not have approved.
DiMaio stood. “We should not keep our two foreign guests waiting, but let me mention one more thing. I talked to our colleagues in Milan this morning about Sarchetti. He apparently had some shady dealings, but nothing they could ever prove. Exporting things he perhaps shouldn’t have, that sort of thing. It sounded more in the purview of the fiscal police or even the art cops. They were going to check around to see if any Milanese criminal element could have had it out for the man. My guess is that they’ll never come up with anything. Shall we talk to our British friend?”
When Oglesby entered the room Rick was not sure if he was wearing the same clothes as he had the previous day in the bar. Maybe he’d packed just enough clothing for the length of the seminar. And having the hotel do laundry is not cheap, especially if you need it done quickly. “You remember the drill, George, I’ll translate back and forth for both of you.”
Oglesby nodded deliberately, making Rick wonder if he’d already been to the bar. Ironically it was Marcello, the barman, who could confirm that the Englishman had not left the hotel all evening, since that question would likely come up. It did. DiMaio asked about other contacts with Sarchetti, and the answer was that there were none. Other questions followed, but the interview went nowhere, the policeman realized it, and grew impatient. Finally he thanked Oglesby for his cooperation, signaling an end to the session.
“Can I leave now? I mean return to England?”
“I’m afraid not yet,” was DiMaio’s answer, then duly translated. Rick was sure that Oglesby would be heading straight to the bar when he left the interview. When he was gone, DiMaio stared at his meager notes and gave Rick a silent wave of his hand to bring in Muller.
The German was dressed in a herringbone tweed jacket and brown slacks, a solid gray knit tie covering the front of his button-down shirt. Apparently in the fatherland one dressed well when meeting with the authorities, especially the police. He entered the room with a frown, but his mouth turned more pleasant when he realized that Inspector Occasio was not in attendance. They took their places, Rick sitting at the head of the table with the other two on either side to facilitate the translation. The detective was about to begin when Muller spoke.
“I should tell you immediately that I had dinner with Franco Sarchetti last night.”
“Tell me about it,” said DiMaio after Rick had translated. He turned the page in his notebook.
“He suggested that we dine together, saying that we’re both prisoners in the town and should make the most of it. He also wanted to know if I was familiar with some art dealer in Munich he was considering doing business with. His German, by the way, is—or I should say was—quite good. He learned it in Vienna, and spoke with a definite Austrian accent. Do you speak any German, Rick?”
“Just enough to order a beer.”
Muller nodded, and glanced at DiMaio. “Anyway, Sarchetti insisted that the dinner would be on him. Naturally, I accepted.” He took a sip of water and continued. “The man was in a jocular mood, which surprised me, since he had been somewhat serious on the few occasions during the seminar when we’d spoken. With the help of the wine, he dominated the conversation. The food was excellent, so I made a point of enjoying it and let him talk. He began by giving me his opinions of everyone at the seminar, and they were so negative I wondered what he would have said about me outside my presence. Fortuna was a bully, George Oglesby is a lightweight, the banker Porcari is pompous—that sort of thing. I almost defended my friend George but decided he was too far into his cups to make a difference.”
Rick translated, marveling at Muller’s English fluency by using the phrase “in his cups.” DiMaio scribbled a few notes, but mostly listened.
“He asked about the dealer in Munich, but I think it was perfunctory. What he really wanted to talk about was the two missing Jacopo Bassano paintings.” The policeman looked up quickly at Rick before writing something down. “Have you heard about this mystery, Detective?” When DiMaio indicated that he was familiar with the two paintings, Muller continued. “Sarchetti wanted my opinion on whether they would ever be seen again. The issue had been hashed over in the seminar, goodness knows, but for some reason he wanted to hear from me directly. I told him.” He paused to take another drink of water, but also, it appeared, for effect. “They will never be seen again, at least in our lifetimes. The works of a second tier painter are not immediately recognized by the layman, and I believe they are hanging on the wall of someone who has no idea of their value. A Leonardo, or a Titian, people know that style, but who is aware of how Jacopo Bassano painted? Or even who he was? Very few.”
“And how did he react when you told him?” It was Rick who asked, but DiMaio didn’t seem to mind, likely because he knew of Rick’s interest in the subject.
“I expected him to be disappointed, but he wasn’t. I remember that he merely smiled and poured himself more wine. By then we were into our second bottle. Then he brought up the murder of poor Fortuna. I expected that, of course, since it is the reason we have all been forced…the reason we have all remained in Bassano.”
“Did he have any theories?” DiMaio’s voice indicated he didn’t expect much in return for his question.
“He was convinced, Detective, that it was one of us involved with the seminar. I trust you’ve been told of the argument between Fortuna and Tibaldi, the museum curator. There may have been other confrontations outside the formal part of the program. Fortuna had a way of antagonizing people, if I might understate.”
“We’ve heard that a lot,” said DiMaio. “Did Sarchetti tell you that he was going to see anyone l
ater in the evening?” His eyes turned to Rick, but Muller likely thought it was an invitation to translate.
“He did, but he didn’t say who he was going to meet. When he asked for the check I recall him looking at his watch. I think it was about nine-thirty at that point. Yes, that would be about right, since I left him in front of the restaurant and walked back to the hotel. When I got there it was a few minutes until ten.”
DiMaio tapped his pen on the table top. “Is there anything else Sarchetti said that could be helpful? Anything that sent up a red flag in your mind, especially now in light of what happened to him?”
Muller rubbed his chin in thought. “There was one thing, though it’s likely of no consequence. When he was talking about Fortuna’s death, he said something like, ‘Well, that’s one less Jacopo scholar to worry about.’ He laughed when he said it, but I felt uncomfortable since I consider myself a Jacopo scholar. A very peculiar comment.”
***
After Muller left the room, the policeman flipped through his notes before looking over at Rick. “What does the nephew of Commissario Fontana think of what our German said?”
“It sounds like Sarchetti was already in a good mood during his dinner and it continued when I met him on the bridge. He told me that Bassano had been good to him, though he wasn’t specific. Perhaps some real business was transacted with Rinaldi, despite what the man told you and Occasio last night.”
“Or Sarchetti thought there was a good chance of future business,” DiMaio said, still reading his notes. “And that final comment, about one less Jacopo scholar?”
Rick shook his head. “No clue. Perhaps he’d had his fill of academics in this seminar. Can’t say I blame him. But that reminds me of something Sarchetti told me at the bridge. He said in the past he’d had some dealings, whatever that means, with Fortuna.”
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