Rick turned and greeted Landi, whose German clients were walking toward the door carrying a large paper bag marked with the tasteful logo of Galleria Landi.
“I was shocked to hear of Canopo’s accident, Signor Landi.” Rick could not decide if actual condolences were in order for the dead man’s employer. “It must have been terrible news for you.”
“Yes, yes, we are all stunned.” He clasped his hands together and held them to his mouth, almost the caricature of mourning, before dropping them to his sides. “When the police appeared here last night, I did not understand at first. I assumed that Orlando was with you at the workshop, but when I called there—at the request of the Commissario, of course—I was told that you never appeared.” Landi paused and looked at Rick, waiting for a comment.
“Just outside the shop,” Rick said, “he spoke to someone on the street. Then he told me he would have to show me the shop tomorrow. That is, today. And he rushed off.” That was probably about as much as Conti would want him to say.
Landi digested the words for a few seconds, shaking his head slowly. “What could that have been about? He certainly didn’t tell me of any possible appointments. I don’t suppose he told you who the man was.” Rick shook his head. “Well, life must go on,” said Landi, his wiry smile returning. “Do you have time for a visit to our workshop now? I think that Graziella can handle the store for the moment, and my wife is in the back if she needs help. Shall we?”
“By all means.”
It did not appear that Landi was suffering in his grief.
***
Powdered stone dust floated through the air and covered everything, its dull white softened by the light of the florescent lamps hanging from the ceiling. Large blocks of stone lay scattered around the floor, like some of the ruins Rick knew well in Rome. Finished sculpture stood on the shelves, and unfinished pieces were clamped firmly on the wooden tables. Five men wearing long coats and folded paper hats stood at work stations around the shop, but only the nearest of them looked up when Landi and Rick entered. The others were too intent on their labors. In the dusty haze of the room there was little to distinguish the workers from their work; had it not been for their movement, the men could well have been mistaken for crudely carved gray statues.
The sound of machinery had been audible on the street, but now it was so loud that Landi had to raise his voice to be heard. The main culprit was a large lathe at one side of the room which was shaving a trunk of alabaster about three feet long. Landi shouted that the piece would be sliced into thick discs which would then be carefully made into bowls or dishes. He pulled a flat plate from a nearby shelf to demonstrate the nearly-finished product. It was already thin but would be made even thinner, he said, allowing light to shine through it. They moved to a heavy wooden table where another worker was chipping away with a small chisel at a cherub about two feet tall. An assortment of other chisels in various sizes and angles were loosely arranged on the table, their wood grips shiny from years of use. The man held the tool in his right hand and slid it over the pointed index finger of his left, like a small pool cue, softly grinding the alabaster to open a space between two of the angel’s toes.
Landi did not identify the first two workers, but the man at the third table was introduced as Signor Malandro, the foreman of the shop. Rick saw that the coat he wore was a different color, a light blue in contrast to the dirty white on the other men, no doubt to indicate his foreman status. Even in the smallest of work groups rank was important. Otherwise the foreman didn’t appear much different from the others, though the blue of his coat showed more dust. The man’s hands were thick and rough, the hair under the newsprint hat a dark gray, though it could have been stone dust rather than natural color.
Malandro’s unshaven face and hollow eyes took stock of the visitor with a long stare before he turned silently back to his table. Rick wondered for an instant if the man knew he was the last to see Canopo alive, and was somehow holding him responsible. Malandro was carefully making marks with a thick pencil on a large block of stone, but it was too early in the process for Rick to even guess what form this piece would eventually take. Landi, with a louder shout, asked his foreman to give the workers a break. Putting down his pencil, he walked over to each of the workers, tapped them on the shoulder and signaled with a chop of the hand to stop working. They were soon seated at various wooden stools, half of them lighting cigarettes. All sat silently, but only Malandro watched the two men who had interrupted their work routine.
“There, that will allow us to talk,” said Landi in a relieved tone. He went on to describe the work in the various corners of the room. This shop, he said, specialized in more traditional styles, the kind of sculpture turned out by Volterra’s artisans for thousands of years. Bowls, human figures, vases. Designs were mostly classical to appeal to buyers who wanted something with a clear Italian look to it. Other shops turned out nontraditional alabaster art, both practical and whimsical, but since Rick had mentioned Etruscan-style items, he wanted to bring him here. Was his assumption correct?
“Yes it was,” Rick replied. “This is certainly the kind of thing that would interest the gallery. How much of it is done by hand, and how much by machine? Handmade pieces would certainly be more attractive to our customers.” Rick thought how easy it was to slip into his role, and he was enjoying the challenge.
“Well, as you can see it is a combination of both, but when it gets to the final stages, it is mostly by hand. We save time, and of course expense, by using machines to get the stone into the general shape required, but then it is small drills and a lot of old-fashioned chisels which create the final contours. We can use sanding machines up to a certain point, but in the end handrubbing is the only way to bring out the brilliant shine from a perfect piece of alabaster.”
He walked with Rick to a corner table holding a rectangular slab whose surface was decorated with classical figures in bas-relief. Two women in diaphanous gowns danced under a tree, while a hoofed satyr sitting between them played a double flute. The scene was framed by garlands of leaves and fruit.
“This work started from a piece of alabaster cut to size using that large mechanical saw over there. Then its figures were shaped with small electric drills, but mostly the worker used chisels whose design and function have not changed for centuries. Many of the techniques go back to pre-Roman times.”
Rick turned his eyes from the stone to his host. Landi had an expectant smile on his face, spoiled somewhat by the row of yellow teeth. No doubt he was hoping for at least a pro forma compliment about the merchandise, or perhaps something about a firm sales order. But instead Rick went to a new topic. It was time.
“Signor Landi, your mention of ancient art brings up something else of interest to me. While these pieces could be appropriate for our normal customers, we also have very affluent collectors in our city who are, might I say, looking for something exceptional, even extraordinary. They see a beautiful work of art in a museum and want to own such genuine art themselves. When they purchase rare works they often keep them locked away in a private room, for safety and for the joy of owning something unique. If you know of any items like that on the local market, my associates in America could be interested. Obviously the gallery would show our appreciation to you if we were pointed in the right direction.”
Landi’s face went serious as he took in Rick’s words. Did he get the message? And if he did, was he the right person to do anything about it? Rick was beginning to doubt it when the man began to nod slowly.
“I think I may know someone who could be of help. Let me make a phone call when I get back to the store.” He was smiling again as he turned to the men who sat near where they stood. “Dino, our thanks, we will let you get back to work.” The foreman nodded sullenly and got up, followed by the other craftsmen who put out their cigarettes and shuffled to their tables. The air, which was now almost clear, would soon be filled with
dust again.
Back in the street, Landi brushed off his clothes with rough slaps. “No matter how careful I am when I go in there, I always come out covered. I don’t understand how the men stand it. At least Malandro, who you met there, will start to get a break from the shop. I haven’t told him yet, but he will likely be replacing Canopo, splitting his time between the store and the workshop.”
He’s going to have to clean up quite a bit before he’s put out in front of the tourists, Rick thought. At that moment his cell phone rang, and he pulled it out of his coat pocket. Not a number he recognized, but a local one. He looked at Landi.
“Please take your call, Signor Montoya, I really should be getting back to the store anyway.”
They shook hands and Landi stepped quickly down the street.
“Montoya.”
“Signor Montoya, this is Commissario Conti. I need to see you right away. Are you close to my office?”
Chapter Six
Rick’s first entry into the back of the building went without a hitch. He didn’t even have to show an identification before being waved past the policeman. Conti was so anxious to get Rick to his office quickly that he must have alerted security. As Rick stopped to get his bearings, a man who had entered the building just behind him brushed past and hurried down a corridor. Unlike the others milling around inside the entrance, the man did not have a uniform. Rick found the stairway that took him up to Conti’s floor.
“Signor Montoya, thank you for getting here so quickly.” Conti had come to his feet when Rick entered, and now shook his hand before motioning him to the chair in front of the desk and sitting back down. The smile today seemed more genuine. Was the policeman more accepting of Rick’s assignment? Would that be the reason for the call? He settled into the same chair as the previous evening, noticing that the seat was just as hard, and looked at Conti.
“Of course, Commissario. Has something come up regarding my activities here in Volterra?”
“No, not directly. I am in need of your help on another matter, one that you are aware of because of your…” He searched for the right words. “Your connection with the subject of my investigation. I am referring to the Canopo case.”
“But Commissario, I already told you everything yesterday. Certainly there could not—”
Conti held up his hands. “No, no, I fear I have not made myself clear. Your involvement in the…the accident, is not in question. What I need is your professional assistance.”
Rick shifted in the chair, wishing it had some kind of cushion. “I don’t understand.”
“Signor Montoya, there were two American tourists who witnessed Canopo’s plunge from the wall. When they returned to their hotel they told their hotel manager about it, and he, fortunately, called us. When I did a check on you yesterday, purely routine, of course, I found that you are a professional translator. Alas, my English is almost non-existent, so I thought that—”
“Of course, I would be pleased to be of assistance.” Rick smiled.
Conti returned the smile, which this time did not seem forced. “There is something else that I found out about you, Signor Montoya.”
Now what?
“You did not mention to me that your uncle is quite a high-level policeman in Rome. Most Italians would have immediately brought up such a family connection when finding themselves in a difficult situation with law enforcement authorities, as you had yesterday. It is obvious to me now that you are American, or mostly American.”
Perhaps Conti had a point; it had never entered Rick’s mind to mention Uncle Piero. He made a mental note: Montoya, next time you’re a suspect in an Italian murder investigation, act more Italian. “It didn’t seem relevant, Commissario.”
“Of course it didn’t.” Conti actually chuckled as he rose from his desk, a first in Rick’s presence. “I believe they are in the waiting room, but please stay seated. I think I have enough English at least to greet them and bring them here.” He motioned to the other end of the office. “We will sit at the table.”
When he found himself alone, Rick got up, walked to the window of the office and looked down on the piazza. A group of tourists were staring back at him, probably thinking he was a cop if they somehow knew this was the city’s police station. Would Conti have left him here by himself, with the papers on the desk, if he didn’t know about Uncle Piero? He knew Conti hadn’t actually talked to his uncle, or Rick would have had a call from Rome immediately after the two had spoken. But it was clear that whatever Conti’s source about Rick’s family, the man was now more comfortable around him. As he pondered this development, he heard Conti’s voice in the hallway.
“Is this door,” he said in English, and pair of seniors entered the office ahead of him. They were dressed for comfort, including running shoes, white for him, black for her. Both wore zippered wind-breakers, good for warmth as well as protection against anything but a heavy rain. Very practical. They had probably researched weather history for Tuscany before leaving on the trip, and packed accordingly.
“I present Mister Montoya, my colleague.” Rick was considering the use of the term “colleague” when Conti turned to him and switched to Italian. “Signor Montoya, this is Signor and Signora Rudabeck, they are from Iowa.” He pronounced it ee-OH-wah.
As he shook hands with Rick, Mr. Rudabeck spoke.
“WE DON’T SPEAK ANY ITALIAN.”
Rick had witnessed this before, especially with Americans: if you just talk louder, the person will understand your English. Translation through volume.
“You don’t need to shout, Mr. Rudabeck, I’m an American. The Commissario has asked me to help with his interview since his English is, well, somewhat rusty.”
“See, Herb, I knew they would have someone who speaks English. Where you from, Mr. Montoya?”
The classic question from an American tourist. “I live in Rome now, but went to school in New Mexico.”
“We’ve been to Phoenix,” Herb said in a normal voice, relaxed after hearing Rick’s English. “We’re from just outside Davenport. On the river.”
Rick was deciding how to reply to the Phoenix reference when a look from Conti indicated it was time to get to the business at hand. The couple was invited to sit at the conference table at the other side of the room. Rick and Conti took the chairs opposite them. Coffee was offered to the Rudabecks and they politely declined. Conti said to Rick that what he needed was simply a description of what they saw, and the couple was ready when Rick relayed the question in English. As they spoke, Rick kept his eyes on their faces and gave a running translation into Conti’s ear. Thanks to his work, the routine was second nature to him.
“I’m the one who saw the accident, Herb, so let me tell him. We were coming back to our car in the parking lot. We have a rental car, we picked it up in Florence.”
“They don’t need to know about the rental car, Shirley.”
She ignored the comment. “It was just getting dark, and my husband was putting the key into the lock to open the door. I was looking up at that moment, back toward the town, and that was when I saw the man falling off the wall. I didn’t hear anything, but it may have been too far away. Do people usually scream when they fall, like in the movies?” From the look on her face, she was beginning to understand it had not been a movie.
“I don’t know, Mrs. Rudabeck,” answered Rick. “Did you see anyone up on the wall after he fell?”
“I’m not sure. It was dark, like I said, and I think my eyes naturally followed the man as he fell. If there was anyone up there, he might have left before I looked back up. I did look up at the top of the wall, I know that, because I remember thinking how long a drop it was. But I can’t recall seeing anyone.”
“We had just walked along that very street when the sun was starting to go down, about an hour before that,” added her husband, who seemed oblivious to his wife’s growing e
motion. “Looked down at the Roman ruins. It’s a long way to fall.”
So the length of the fall was well established.
Conti relayed a few more questions, trying to find out what else, if anything, the tourists had seen. When it became clear to him that they had nothing more to add which could be of any help, he stood up and gave the couple an appreciative bow.
“I thank you very much.” Conti hesitated, trying to think of something else to say in his limited English, and repeated, “I thank you very much.”
“You’re very welcome, officer.” Mr. Rudabeck turned to Rick. “And thank you for your help, Mr. Montoya. We’ll be telling this story to our friends when we get back to Davenport, that’s for sure. It’s even better than what happened to Shirley on the bus in Florence.”
The bus incident did not appear to be something Shirley wanted recounted. She quickly stuck out her hand to Rick. “Be sure to look us up if you come through Davenport. We’re in the phone book.” She turned to Conti and took his hand in both of hers. “That poor man,” she said to the silent policeman.
Rick volunteered to see the couple to the building’s front entrance, much to Conti’s relief. When he returned, the commissario was sitting at his desk looking at papers in a file, and Rick took the seat facing him.
“Was that helpful, Commissario?” He knew the answer, and Conti confirmed it.
“Not helpful, but necessary. It confirms what we knew already, which is always a good thing, but didn’t give us anything new. Now if she had seen someone above…”
Conti’s voice trailed off. Rick watched the man’s eyes, which were pointed at the papers in front of him.
“You think it was murder, Commissario.” It was not a question. Conti looked at Rick, hesitating a moment before speaking.
“You are the nephew of a colleague, so perhaps you have discussed some of his cases with him. I suppose it would not be a problem if I shared my thoughts with you, since you are involved, so to speak, with the case. I trust your discretion.” The introduction sounded to Rick that Conti was talking to himself and not the person he faced. “Yes, Signor Montoya, I believe it was murder.” He pressed a finger to the papers. “The initial autopsy report points in that direction, though I suspected foul play almost immediately. It did not make sense that the man would have taken his own life, and my conversation with the widow convinced me even more that he didn’t commit suicide.”
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