by John Harris
Having nothing to lose, all the way south the peasants had been helpful, supplying him with clothing, food and, when he needed it, a bed. He had been in the mountains, living in a cave, supplied with food by carbonari families who lived by making charcoal, but with the approach of spring he had decided the time had come to make an attempt to reach home.
‘What are you doing here, your honour?’ he asked Pugh.
Pugh explained. ‘My job is to get Bocco Detto Banti’s pictures to Naples,’ he said. ‘I have to see them crated and transported.’
Foscari gave him a flashing smile. ‘Perhaps I can help,’ he said. ‘In the army I spent much time making crosses for the graves of dead soldiers. I am good with wood, you see, because undertakers are also carpenters. I will remain behind to help the Signore Sergente.’
As they closed the door on Ciasca and the old priest, Pugh stood for a moment staring out at the grey weather. Enrichetta and Tamara were busy in the kitchen and Tassinari was trying to recover in a chair from the chill of the rain in front of a fire built by Marco from the remains of an old chest he had chopped up. Foscari stood near the stairs, waiting for instructions.
Pugh was just about to turn to him when there was a knock on the door. Opening it, Pugh found himself facing Sansovino, the Mayor, backed by two of his bodyguards. He smiled, his wide rat-trap mouth splitting to show bad teeth. Pugh didn’t smile back. Knowing Sansovino had been appointed to his position through friendship with Naples gangsters and corrupt AMGOT officers was bad enough, but he also couldn’t forget having seen him leaving the Poggio Reale prison after a visit to Tirandolo. It didn’t require much imagination to assume the two were connected and that they were both involved in the rackets. The smile grew wider as Pugh’s face grew more frozen.
‘I am Sansovino, Vicenzo, Mayor of Vicinamontane.’
‘I know.’
Sansovino removed his hat and held it to his chest. ‘You are the English sergente who has come to attend to the affairs of Boccaccio Detto Banti,’ he said.
‘I am.’
‘I am here to express my condolences and to assure you at all times of my earnest desire to be of assistance–’
‘What do you want?’
The smile disappeared as if cut off by a switch. ‘I am approaching you to suggest, with the greatest respect for the Allied armies and their wishes, of course, that the pictures of the late Boccaccio Detto Banti should be placed in the vaults of the Palazzo Municipale. For safe keeping.’
‘No,’ Pugh snapped.
‘I assure you, Signore Sergente–’
‘I said no.’
The obsequiousness vanished for a moment. Then it returned. ‘I assure the Signore Sergente that I have only the welfare of the Italian nation and its allies, the British and American armies, at heart.’
‘The paintings stay where they are.’
Sansovino’s mouth closed and his eyes glittered dangerously. ‘The Signore Sergente chooses to be stubborn.’
‘More than that. Obdurate. They do not go to the Palazzo Municipale.’
‘May I ask why not, Sergente?’
‘You may. My orders are that they do not.’
Sansovino stood staring at Pugh for a while, and he opened his mouth to ask another question, changed his mind, closed it, and gave a little bow.
‘As the Signore Sergente wishes,’ he said. ‘I trust he will not regret his decision.’
‘It isn’t my decision. It’s my orders.’
Sansovino was all smiles again now and he backed away, still clutching his hat to his chest. The two bodyguards gave Pugh a glare and made way for him. A last bow, then Sansovino was heading back to the Palazzo Municipale.
Pugh watched them go. He had a feeling that Sansovino wasn’t finished and that it was going to be necessary to remove the pictures quickly from Vicinamontane before Sansovino took matters into his own hands. Accidents could be arranged easily enough, and the country north of Naples could hardly yet be called ‘controlled by the Allies’. Rather it was a vague no man’s land where the Allies gave the orders, but the people respected them only if it suited them, because there was still the chance the Germans might return.
He turned to find Foscari still standing near the stairs, his eyes on him.
‘Can you work fast?’ Pugh asked.
‘I am a very good carpenter, Signor Sergente, and when necessary I can work like the wind.’
Pugh nodded. ‘Then let’s get on with it,’ he said.
Seven
Foscari tossed Marco’s hammer down and stretched. Seating himself on one of the nailed-up crates, he stared about him. There was no electricity in the cellar where they had been working and they had struggled in the light of a single lamp powered with nothing stronger than kerosene. Because he didn’t trust Marco, Pugh had done the job alone with Foscari, who fancied himself as a singer and had persisted in treating him to his favourite songs as he worked.
‘They look good,’ Pugh said, studying what they’d done.
‘I am moved by a desire for justice, sir, and, like the Signore Sergente, I do not trust men like Vicenze Sansovino.’
Pugh offered a cigarette – an American Camel – and he smiled.
‘The sheep with the hump,’ he said. ‘A cigarette – any cigarette – has become a luxury.’ He glanced at the crates. ‘The Signore Sergente is worried.’
‘I think we should get the pictures away as fast as possible. Too many people seem to be interested in them.’
‘Also the Germans might return.’ Foscari pulled a face. ‘Twelve of them. Madonna. Many lire! Whose are they, Signore?’
‘They belong to Signorina Detto Banti.’
Foscari grinned. ‘I wish I did,’ he said. ‘Is she the Sergente’s girl, sir?’
‘No.’ Pugh thought it might be a good idea to look her up, nevertheless, when he got her safely back to Naples. ‘I only met her yesterday.’
‘She will be worth much money, I think.’
‘She will if the paintings are what we think they are.’
‘Does the Signore Sergente think they might not be?’
‘I see no reason why they shouldn’t be. They’re signed. All she’ll have to do is find a buyer.’
Foscari stuffed the hammer into Marco’s toolbox where it belonged, with the screwdrivers, jemmy and all the other necessities for crating pictures. His carpentry skills had been valuable because even nails and screws were at a premium and they had had to cannibalise several of the crates to produce enough material to pack the twelve pictures. They climbed the stairs to the ground floor, still talking.
‘Does the Signore Sergente expect to get the paintings to Naples?’ Foscari asked.
‘The Signore Sergente must. The army will supply a lorry.’
‘And you will be taking everybody down in it, sir?’
‘I also have a car.’
‘The Sergente should watch it or the wheels will disappear.’
‘I’ve thought of that.’ The car had been locked up behind the house, well out of sight.
‘There are five people, sir.’
‘Four.’
‘No, Signore. Five. The Signorina. The brother. Avvocato Tassinari. The Sergente himself. And now me. I would like a lift. I need to go home.’
‘I can’t accept responsibility for you.’
‘I think the Signore Sergente must,’ Foscari said. ‘Now. It will become uncomfortable for me if the paintings disappear and I remain behind. Sansovino knows I am a carpenter because I have made coffins for Ciasca, the undertaker. He will guess who helped you.’
Pugh said nothing because he suspected Foscari was right.
‘There will be the lorry, sir,’ Foscari went on. ‘Can I not be included as an assistant? I do not take up much room.’ He hunched his shoulders and drew his knees together. ‘You see? Very small.’
Pugh slapped his shoulders and smiled. ‘You make out a good case,’ he said.
They were still talking when a car stopp
ed at the door. It was battered-looking, but it was an Italian army car and most Italian army cars were battered-looking, chiefly because the Italian army had neither the money to replace them nor the means to repair them. The man who climbed out of it didn’t go with it. He was tall, handsome, and wore a spotless uniform with gleaming top boots and the wide-winged breeches that always seemed to be favoured by the dictator countries.
‘Good God,’ Pugh said. ‘It’s Da Sangalla!’ He glanced round at Foscari. ‘Look, Enzio, I want you to keep quiet about those paintings in the cellar.’
Foscari frowned. ‘Is this man a crook, Signore? There are many about.’
‘I don’t know what he is. But there are already far too many people interested in these paintings. If you’re asked, you just don’t know. Got it?’
‘Lo capisco. I have it sir.’
‘In the meantime, slip upstairs and tell the others the same. Tassinari won’t argue. Neither will Marco. He’s too frightened of losing his share. Just explain to Signorina Detto Banti. Okay?’
‘Okay, sir.’
Da Sangalla didn’t seem surprised as Pugh opened the door. Enrichetta, her work finished, her obligations to the Detto Banti family finished, had expressed her wish to return to her own family in the hills, and Tassinari had paid her off.
‘Sergeant Pugh.’ Da Sangalla smiled. ‘I heard you were here.’
How did he hear, Pugh wondered. Was the bastard working with Tasker? The ramifications of corruption in Italy, and particularly in Naples, were so extensive anything was possible. Da Sangalla was a product of the Fine Arts Department of the University of Florence but defeat led people into strange pathways.
‘And I heard you’d be here eventually,’ Pugh said.
‘You know why I’ve come, of course?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m from the Ministero di Monumenti e Belle Arti. I’m here to claim the Detto Banti collection for the Italian nation.’
Pugh smiled. ‘I represent the Commission for the Protection of Arts and Monuments and that’s exactly why I’m here. I’m claiming it for the British nation.’
Da Sangalla frowned. ‘Boccaccio Detto Banti was an Italian.’
‘According to London he was British.’
‘My government claim–’
‘You haven’t got a government, Colonel,’ Pugh pointed out gently. ‘What was your government has gone into exile. And I’m sure they aren’t interested in the works of a painter who was not, anyway, one of the first division.’
‘There are still governmental departments which are functioning,’ Da Sangalla pointed out briskly. ‘Mine – the Ministry of Monuments and Fine Arts – is one of them. And if Boccaccio Detto Banti did not belong in the first division, why is the British Government so concerned with his work?’
It was a good question and something that had puzzled Pugh, but he didn’t show his doubt.
‘My government,’ he lied, ‘has always been a great patron of the arts. You must have heard of the Royal Academy, the Tate. I know you have, in fact, because I know you’ve visited their exhibitions.’
Da Sangalla was silent for a while as he laid down his cap and gloves, then he straightened up. ‘Let us not talk,’ he snapped. ‘I’m a colonel and you’re only a sergeant.’
‘Backed by a colonel,’ Pugh said briskly.
‘Tasker?’
So there was something going on. Da Sangalla had obviously arrived hoping to be in front.
‘And Baracca,’ Pugh said. ‘My two to your one, Colonel. Moreover, my two are conquering colonels, belonging to the Allied Military Government. Your one has no real portfolio to act because he hasn’t got a government to instruct him.’
Da Sangalla obviously decided it was time to stop fencing. ‘Where are the paintings, Sergeant?’
‘I can’t say,’ Pugh said.
Da Sangalla’s eyes flashed. ‘Why not?’
‘Because,’ Pugh lied, ‘I haven’t yet found them.’
‘I shall search with you.’
‘Try it, Colonel, and I’ll have a squad of soldiers in here in two minutes to stop you.’
‘I demand to see them!’
‘In good time, Colonel. And in Naples. At the moment I don’t even know how many there are or even if there are any at all.’
‘Didn’t the brother tell you?’
‘The brother is being very cagey.’ It was becoming very easy to lie. ‘In addition, my instructions are to transport them – when I find them – safely and undisturbed to Naples for examination by experts.’
‘I’m an expert. I have always been an expert.’
Pugh smiled. ‘But not an Allied expert.’
Da Sangalla frowned. ‘According to the terms of the armistice between Marshal Badoglio and General Eisenhower,’ he said, ‘Italy is deemed now to be an ally.’
Pugh smiled. ‘I heard the broadcast, Colonello. It said that the Italian Government, recognising the impossibility of continuing the unequal struggle against overwhelmingly superior forces and in order to avoid further grave calamities to the nation, had requested an armistice and that the request had been granted, and as a result, all hostilities between the Italian and the Anglo-American forces would cease forthwith and the Italian forces would resist attacks from any other quarter. Most people assumed that to mean Germans.’
‘The Italian people have shown their willingness to resist German aggression.’
‘They’ve still to purge themselves, Colonel. In fact, Italy was left in a worse mess by that so-called government of yours before it fled than it had been before. I might also remind you that, after being imprisoned, the Duce was rescued by the Germans from the Gran Sasso and now heads what he and the Germans claim to be the Italian government in the north.’
‘Mussolini is a spent force.’
‘So is Italy.’ Pugh’s voice grew stiff with dislike. ‘You have no rights to the paintings, Colonel,’ he pointed out. ‘And I can, if I wish, bring charges against you of attempting to disrupt my efforts to do my duty.’
‘Colonel Tasker would make a meal of that.’
‘I’m sure he would. And it’s as well to remember it. He could remove you from your position in the Department of Monuments and Fine Arts at any time he wished.’
‘I have friends.’
Pugh smiled. ‘So, I suspect, has Colonel Tasker. And Colonel Tasker’s friends, I imagine, have more power in their elbow than yours.’
Da Sangalla chewed his lip for a while, trying to make up his mind what to argue next. In the end he gave up.
‘How many paintings do you think there are?’ he asked.
‘That will be made known all in good time, Colonel.’
‘Surely you can tell me, Sergeant?’
‘My report will go first to Colonel Tasker and he will no doubt make known as much of it as he decides fit.’
‘Colonel Tasker is a–’ Da Sangalla frowned and became silent.
Pugh knew what he had been about to say and privately he agreed with him. But, he suspected, so was Da Sangalla. So was Baracca. Probably so was De Castro, the art dealer. Probably so was Marco Detto Banti. Of the lot who were involved, the only ones he trusted were Tassinari and Tamara Detto Banti. Tassinari, he felt confident, was so honest it hurt; and he had certainly acquired little comfort for his old age from his work on behalf of his clients. And Tamara Detto Banti surely couldn’t be involved in anything underhand when she had tried so hard to give away what to most Italians was a small fortune.
Seeing he was getting nowhere, Da Sangalla left to seek a room at the hotel further up the hill.
Marco was furious. ‘Why did you send him away?’ he demanded. ‘He would have taken the pictures without a murmur. He’d have paid on the spot.’
‘What with?’ Pugh asked. ‘His department has no money.’
‘Governments always have money.’
‘Not the Italian Government.’
‘Perhaps he would have taken them for himself.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of. And not paid for them.’
During the afternoon the telephone went. Marco answered it.
‘It’s De Castro,’ he said. ‘He’s coming up tomorrow. He wants to see the pictures.’
‘Tell him they’re on their way to Naples,’ Pugh said. ‘He can see them there.’
‘Do you think you’re doing the right thing?’ Tamara asked.
‘For you, yes.’
‘Have no fear, Signorina,’ Tassinari said. ‘This is what I also would do.’
It had been in Pugh’s mind for a long time to make sure that Tasker didn’t get his hands on the paintings before he’d had a word with Captain Jones. Jones was honest and he was also related to the officer in command of the Special Investigation Branch of the Military Police who, Pugh knew, was able to go direct to the commanding general. It ought to be possible to bypass Tasker until a signal could be sent to London requesting proof of London’s interest.
As he was considering the possibilities, Tamara approached him. ‘Are you always as forceful as this, Sergeant?’
‘You should see me in my best uniform.’
A curious rapport was springing up between them. He got on easily with her and, because she worked with the British in the hospital in Naples, she was able to speak a form of fractured English that was enchanting. While her efforts to pronounce his name had only progressed from Poo to Piu, his Christian name presented little difficulty.
‘I must learn to speak English,’ she said. ‘You must teach me.’
‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure.’
‘What is it that you do, Sergeant Tomaso?’ she asked. ‘Is it that you always investigate the pictures?’
‘No.’ He tried to explain. ‘A lot of the time I’m involved investigating Italian girls who wish to marry British soldiers.’
‘There is nothing wrong in that.’
‘Except that some of the girls merely want to marry so they can get security.’
‘There is also nothing wrong with that. It is very common in Italy. And arranged marriages often work. The girl grows to love her husband if he is a good man.’
‘What if he isn’t? And some of the girls are prostituting themselves.’