by Thomas Swan
Deats read the translations a few times hoping for some kind of insightful revelation to pop up. None did. He turned on his tape recorder:
“Sarah Evans wrote two notes in shorthand on the day she was killed... she had strong suspicions Hewlitt was using an alias . . . and possibly knew he was Anthony Waters.... The most significant information is that Waters went into the Documents Room with his briefcase and took something... took what? She will interrogate him . . . at the Old House... we know they were seen there. As to the Documents Room and the 19M files . . . a visit to the library should clear that up.”
Early Monday morning Deats was in the Royal Library. It was still closed to the public but he was passed through to the royal librarian’s office and a fastidious young assistant with a much-too-perfect BBC accent. He seemed cooperative and Deats declined the suggestion that he wait for Sir Robin Mackworth-Young to return from his weekend in Bath.
“I’m sure you can answer my questions,” Deats said. “Where in the library are what might be called the Documents Rooms?”
“We have more than a few of those, Superintendent. Some contain personal effects of the royal family, others hold works of art, by category to be sure, and they are all now part of the collection.”
“How are they cataloged? By number . . . name?”
“Numeric, as a rule. It depends what we’re dealing with. Then there are the exceptions that make us all go quite insane.” He smiled.
“Does the designation 19M mean anything?”
“I don’t see any particular significance to the number nineteen or the letter ‘M.’ Nineteen is two digits and we have no such classification. Books and manuscripts are classified in a manner similar to the Dewey Decimal system. Statues and pottery and other three-dimensional objects are cataloged by period and type. Art and manuscripts are filed in series, generally numeric, with three, but usually four or five digits.”
“You used the word ‘series,’” Deats said. “I neglected to include that word. My information comes from very cryptic shorthand notes, possibly very much abbreviated. The specific notation reads: ‘one-nine-M series.’”
The librarian wrote the number, the letter “M,” and the word “series.” “It’s so different when one writes it out. The letter M indicates one thousand, perhaps. The reference then might be to the nineteen thousand series. If so, the works would be included among the old masters as we so reverently . . .” he smiled, “refer to them.”
“And they would be in one of your Documents Rooms?”
“We use that term, though it’s not an official designation.”
“The notes were written by Sarah Evans, the young policewoman who—”
“Who died so tragically. She was such a willing worker. I couldn’t believe she had been placed here by Scotland Yard.” He said the words with deep reverence. “Only Sir Robin knew. But she had learned our particular jargon and probably knew what was kept where.”
“Can you show me the nineteen thousand series?”
“Certainly. It’s this way.”
Deats was led to a room immediately off the reception hall. The room was lined with fireproof cabinets, and two rows of the cabinets were placed back-to-back in the middle of the room.
“You picked a good one. The nineteen thousand series includes the anatomical drawings of Leonardo da Vinci.”
Deats scanned the rows of cabinets and looked over the top of the files to the reception area and the door leading out of the library. He recalled Sarah’s note. She had seen Waters take something from the files.
“May I see one of the drawings?”
“We can manage that.” A drawer was opened and a folder taken out at random. “What have we here? It’s numbered 19127 and titled simply The Brain.”
Deats was handed a folder and found it held a drawing of a dissected brain. To his unpracticed eye, the paper was good as new, the inks only slightly faded. The drawing was sheathed in clear acrylic.
“Are there any other ‘old masters’ in the nineteen thousand series?”
“Most doubtful. There may be works by Leonardo’s students. This series belongs to Leonardo.”
“And this”—Deats returned the drawing—“is it valuable?”
“Of course it would never be sold from the Queen’s Collection,” the librarian said imperiously, “but it would fetch four, possibly five million pounds.”
“That much?”
“It’s a Leonardo. And there’s only one like it.”
The librarian told Deats he had watched Gregory Hewlitt go about his job in a quiet, efficient manner. “Damned surprising he’s disappeared.”
Deats was unable to learn more from further questioning, so he thanked his host, spoke briefly into his recorder, then returned to his office. He put in a call to Elliot Heston. The familiar voice came on the line.
“Where in hell have you been?” Heston chided. “I’ve been trying to get you all morning.”
“What’s so important?”
“Your hand is important. How is it?”
“You’ve been calling all morning for that? It’s coming along, but if I don’t get the damned cast off soon, I may lop it off at the wrist. Elliot, I’m coming on to something and I want you to arrange for a special assignment to Branch C13.”
“Wally, I can’t do that, and you know it.”
“I know nothing of the kind. You helped with the New York expedition but that was money from petty cash. Put in a request to assign me to your squad for two weeks. You’re a deputy assistant commissioner, you can do it.”
There was a long silence. Deats pressed the phone to his ear for sounds to assure him the connection had not been broken.
“Let’s talk it over.”
“Stay put,” Deats responded instantly. “I’m on my way.”
Ellie pushed the Lancia to its limits, rushing toward Il Diodario. She bypassed Milan and swung onto the A9. The road began to rise, the mountains surrounding Lake Como appearing dimly through the haze.
At Cernobbio she found her way to the grounds of the Grand Hotel Villa d’Este. Carlo Mietto greeted her with his austere, courtly manner. He wore the crossed keys proudly, the tails of his long gray coat signifying his seniority. “Welcome to the Villa d’Este,” he intoned with a delightfully accented voice. “Signore Kalem has asked that I call him as soon as you arrive. You will be comfortable on the patio until the boat arrives.”
Carlo led her through the hotel and out to a sunlit stretch of white-and-green tile that extended from the hotel to a row of docks. He snapped a young waiter to attention and sent him off for a glass of Campari and soda. Ellie was restless, she had driven hard and was content to stand and take in all the loveliness offered by Lario de Como.
She heard the roar of the boat’s engines before she saw it circle around from south of the docks. The man behind the wheel was waving. She recognized Tony Waters and for a brief instant thought of running for her car and speeding away from all the beautiful madness. Instead she returned his greeting, a little giddy and excited that a new episode in her adventure was about to begin. Minutes later the boat skimmed over the deep blue water, a white frothy wake trailing behind. Ellie watched the Villa d’Este recede and the gray spot she marked as Il Diodario looming larger.
Eager hands helped her climb the wet steps leading to the portico. She entered a high-vaulted loggia lined with intricate mosaic patterns, the floor of patterned marble, and at its center a round green slab with inlays of pink, white, and black fleur-de-lis. Life-size statues of children stood in granite basins, water cascading over them and spilling in gentle falls to pools sunk into the floor. Broad-leafed plants set in terracotta tubs lined the walls opposite the fountains. Scattered among them were white gardenia plants exuding their powerful perfume.
She walked through the gates into the atrium. It was a square room with a crystal and porcelain chandelier suspended from a beamed ceiling. Into the wall opposite the iron gates was set a fireplace ten feet wide; al
abaster figures and brass candleholders were set across the mantel.
“Welcome.”
She turned to greet Jonas, who approached her, his arms extended.
“What do you think of my Il Diodario?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know if I’m in Disneyland or the Middle Ages.”
He took her hand and guided her through another hall to an ornately furnished dining room. The table was prepared for a formal dinner; on it were candles set in crystal and silver holders flanking a centerpiece of white roses and giant dahlias. The table was set for five; two on each side, the fifth at the end in front of the fireplace. Beyond the dining room in a small hallway, Jonas stopped. He pushed a button and a door opened to a small elevator.
“This luxury was installed as a courtesy of the Italian army,” he explained.
The elevator rose slowly to the next level. Jonas had not let loose of Ellie’s hand and he guided her once more to a wide door. “This is your room.” He ushered her into an exquisitely furnished bedroom suite that included a balcony overlooking the lake.
“Do you like it?” he asked almost apologetically.
Her words came slowly. “I’m sorry if I sound unappreciative, but I didn’t expect this.”
“We shall have cocktails in the solarium at eight. Dinner at nine. We’ll be waiting for you.”
Stiehl was in the solarium at a quarter to eight. He had exhausted his eyes during a full afternoon devoted to the intricacies of Leonardo’s complex handwriting and further attempts to memorize the peculiar shorthand language the artist had invented. He welcomed the break but was anxious, too, for the chance to meet Giorgio Burri and begin the final process of putting finished drawings on paper. And tonight he would meet Eleanor, the “Maiden from Florence,” as he had dubbed her. The Art Department would be together for the first time and he knew that was significant.
It was not yet eight when Tony appeared and the two acknowledged each other with a nod. Tony was deeply tanned from hours spent speeding over the lake. Then a loud voice boomed out. Giorgio Burri had arrived, his spirits obviously at high pitch.
“Buona sera. It is good to see you again.” He pounded Waters on the shoulder as he greeted him.
“Buona sera, Signore Burri,” Tony replied. “You have heard of Curtis Stiehl, and now you meet him.”
“A pleasure, Curtis,” Giorgio said with a wide grin. “We can now begin a long friendship.”
The two shook hands and Stiehl immediately felt the man’s warmth. “I’ve a hundred questions to ask you.”
“And I have a hundred answers. But none of that now. Tonight is special. I have lived on the lake for many years but never have set foot in the great old Vescovo home. It has a richness that only Jonas Kalem could magnify with his . . . how should I say... voluttà.”
Ellie came to the doorway. She wore a plain white dress with a scooped neckline that just showed the swell of her breasts. Around her neck was a gold necklace from which hung an emerald surrounded by small diamonds. She touched it somewhat self-consciously. It had been placed on her dressing table along with a note from Jonas.
The men ceased their chattering as Ellie proceeded toward them. At that moment Jonas appeared and went to her side. “Gentlemen, may I present Miss Eleanor Shepard.” The huge man loomed over her, then, with unusual grace, took her hand and kissed it.
Giorgio placed himself in front of Ellie and bowed correctly. “Signorina Shepard, it is my great honor.” He gazed at her like a doting father. “You are most beautiful.”
Ellie extended her hand. “I’ve looked forward to meeting you. Mr. Kalem has told me about you.” She turned. “You must be Curtis Stiehl.”
“Until now you have been the mystery woman in Florence who finds old paper and ink.” He accepted her outstretched hand.
“Do I look mysterious?” Ellie smiled.
For that moment Stiehl wanted only to continue holding her hand and not worry about finding the right words for a reply. “Not mysterious,” he answered, then added quietly, “but very pretty.”
“Thank you,” Ellie said. “That was kind of you.”
Their eyes stayed on each other’s until Tony stepped forward and took Ellie’s arm.
“Good evening, Miss Shepard,” he said with deference. “The emerald catches the beauty of your eyes.”
Ellie accepted the compliment and could think only to comment on Tony’s hours in the sun. “You look well with your new tan. I’m afraid I would be burned scarlet.” She was polite but her smile had disappeared.
The minutes that followed went quickly for Stiehl, who stepped to the side and observed Giorgio’s outspoken, frequently outrageous humor and the effortless way Jonas orchestrated the evening’s events. But he could not avoid focusing on Eleanor.
At nine dinner was announced and Jonas tucked Ellie’s arm under his and led the group into the dining room. He had chosen a menu highlighting foods and wines of the region. A hot antipasto followed by a pasta in a creamy sauce. Then fish: filets of lake fish—lavarello and salmonrino, both native to Lake Como. Giorgio seized the commentary from his host rapturing over the salmonrino. “There is no delicacy to compare with its flavor, the heartiness of salmon blended with the sweetness of trout.” He turned to Ellie. “It is ambrosia, an aphrodisiac should you be unwary.”
“That’s not fair. I’m outnumbered four to one.”
“I shall protect you, Eleanor. But you should know that I am one of the most successful salmonrino fishermen on the lake,” he proclaimed.
“A commendable accomplishment,” Jonas said.
“They are very scarce and difficult to trap,” Giorgio continued. “I have developed my own special techniques.”
“Will you teach me your secrets?” Tony asked.
“They have required many years to learn and I would be unwise to give them away.”
“Your secrets would be safe,” Tony replied.
“A secret shared is no longer a secret.”
Stiehl was amused by Tony’s interest in lake fishing and also took note that Giorgio was not easily bullied.
After the last dish was served, Jonas rose to his feet.
“We have made greater progress than I thought possible and each of you has made immensely important contributions.” He lifted his glass and turned to Ellie. “To Eleanor. You have brought the paper and the inks, yes, the chalk and dyes, too. A toast to your hard work and diligence.” Glasses were lifted all around.
“And to Giorgio,” Jonas went on. “We are indebted to your mastery of Leonardo’s life and his works. Your scholarship is the backbone of our collective effort.”
“There is no strongest or weakest link in our chain, but if the skilled hand of Curtis Stiehl were not present, there would be no opportunity to succeed.” Again the glasses were raised.
“Now, finally, I salute Tony, who is my ‘adhering agent.’ He adds sharp eyes and a strong body to deal with the endless details which are part of this complex enterprise.”
It was Giorgio’s turn. “To Jonas. A man who has created a new Il Diodario. Because of you, these old gray stones are alive once more.”
Stiehl had rarely taken his eyes off Eleanor, and as Jonas toasted each of his guests, he wondered how completely she understood all the ramifications of the “complex enterprise” in which she had become such an important yet innocent participant.
Chapter 23
From his studio Stiehl could look south to the city of Como, across to Cernobbio, and north beyond the Villa Carlotta to the pre-Alps. Immediately below his windows was the wide stone dock. Not content with the light that flooded through the high windows, Jonas had added panels of lights in the ceiling. Other lamps hung from stanchions spotted strategically around the work area. Bookshelves lined a long wall, and tucked into one were the components of a sound system. Concealed among all the lights and electronic paraphernalia were microphones and a miniature television camera. Buried amid Jonas’s opulence was the means to satisfy his unqu
enchable curiosity and monitor the loyalty of the artist on whom so much depended.
Earlier, Stiehl had joined Eleanor at breakfast. They shared their memories of the previous evening, laughing at Giorgio’s flamboyant storytelling. When he said good-bye, he added that he hoped she would return soon. He remembered how she smiled.
He looked below to the water and the sleek, white speedboat. Tony was fine-tuning and adjusting, coaxing every bit of speed the powerful engine could generate. Eleanor appeared carrying a small suitcase. Tony would drop her at the Villa d’Este and return with Giorgio as his passenger. Stiehl returned his attention to his drawings and found that Jonas stood inside the doorway.
“Am I interrupting?”
“I’m still adjusting to this studio, and the sights out those windows.”
“Better too many amenities than not enough.” Jonas lowered himself into a chair beside the giant drawing board. “Eleanor is confident she’s hit on the right formula for the red chalk and the ink, but she needs more samples with both ink and chalk worked into the paper.”
“We had a chance to talk about that last night. I told her I would work up a half-dozen short pages.”
“What else did you talk about?” Jonas asked with a touch of anxiety.
“Old paper and ink made with iron and gallstones are not my idea of hot topics for such a pretty head.”
“Perhaps a hot topic would have been better. I was afraid that if she stayed in Florence without meeting you and Giorgio, she might begin asking questions.”
“She asked a few, but harmless, I thought.”
“What kind of questions?”
“How did I meet you, for example.”
“And how did we meet?”
“I answered an ad for a layout artist.”
Jonas smiled. “What else has aroused her curiosity?”
“Giorgio. She wonders why he’s so important to what we’re doing. I told her he was one of your old friends and besides, he’s your neighbor across the lake.”
Jonas asked if Eleanor was curious about the Windsor Library assignment.