by John Harris
They were filing all sorts of items: it was a case of laying one’s money and taking one’s choice. None of the stories matched and the facts were largely guesswork or imagination. The hotels were packed and the telephones had a waiting list hours long, while the streets were overflowing with uniforms – not only Italian police uniforms, but also the uniforms of British and American security and supply officers, there to identify the loot that had been found.
Police Chief Renza’s face appeared in the Italian papers, his head well up so that his double chin didn’t show. He manifested no further interest in the painting that had disappeared and in the end they decided it wasn’t worth waiting for, because it was clear it would never turn up.
They set off early, two days after the shooting, as soon as Renza had made out his reports and filed their complaints and their description of the missing canvas. He was full of sad smiles but was far from helpful. They were glad to head for Naples, and Foscari’s soaring spirits caused him to break into song. Before long they were all singing with him.
As they entered the city, Pugh saw a hearse approaching him and realised he was becoming very familiar with hearses. He recognised this one as belonging to Cirri, the man who liked to take a drink at the O Sole Mio bar, and wondered what he was doing so far out of the city. But there was a coffin in the back, so he decided he must be going to collect a corpse. Perhaps he was well known and his custom extensive.
Tamara studied the hearse as it passed and watched sombrely as an old farm truck, driven on black market petrol but without tyres, clattered over the rutted road, the farmer and his family heading for the fields, then she touched Pugh’s arm.
‘I shall be glad to be back, Piu,’ she said. ‘It is time I returned to work. There will be a lot of explaining to do, I think. “Where have you been? What have you been doing?”’ She smiled, ‘I will tell them I have become an heiress and a wealthy woman. Perhaps they will be pleased for me.’
Naples hadn’t changed much and people were still waiting with their usual incredible patience for the crowded trolley buses. But there was also an air of pleasure at the news about Rome and that the Germans, unspeakably tired and dirty, were withdrawing to a new line further north. Rejected and ignored by the wealthy northerners, who had always treated them as inferiors, the Neapolitans found a measure of quiet satisfaction, that it was now the northerners’ turn to suffer.
It had become warm suddenly and the sky was dull and low, a hot dank grey, the lifeless air beneath it stirred only by occasional wafts of sultry wind that lifted the dust and grit from the gutters. The sea was like a leaden lake, and in the narrow streets where the festoons of washing hung listlessly, the clogged and pullulating city endured its flies and dust, the children swirling in games of football, the babies fretful in the heat, the torn posters fluttering and the smell of excrement and blocked urinals filling the air.
With its blotched house fronts of worn and leprous stucco, the city looked a little like a raddled old whore who’d seen better days. The buildings looked more dilapidated, the people more shabby. If anything, there was less food in the shops, less work and less money, but the streets were still filled with Americans and British, well-fed, well-clothed, and self-confident with the arrogance of victors. Naples was the place in Italy where the sights, sounds and smells were strongest and where the people wore their emotions on their sleeves, their lives an expression of laughter, tears, gaiety and sadness, a million of the best actors in the world putting on an eternally unfolding play in which the comedy was broad and the tragedy violent, and on which the curtain never came down because the Neapolitans clung with an undespairing tenacity to life, courageous and always naively impressed by material grandeur, but never impervious to the human spirit.
It had been Pugh’s intention to leave the hearse in Caserta but, by the time they reached it, he had decided to take it all the way. The old horse had done wonders. Having drawn them a distance of nearly a hundred miles from Vicinamontane, somehow the old beast seemed to have the right to take them the full distance. He knew Mori, the old carter, would hide the hearse and give the old horse shelter.
He dropped Tamara at the apartment block where she occupied her three small rooms. Inevitably, the elevator wasn’t working. Inside her apartment he handed her a duffel bag he’d picked up from the Americans in Cavaltino.
‘What is it?’
‘Your clothes.’
She looked quickly at him, tested the weight of the bag and looked at him again. ‘They are very heavy clothes.’
‘Very heavy,’ he agreed quietly. ‘Three framed paintings signed by Bocco Detto Banti. I put them there in Origono, while the military police were questioning everybody about the goumier.’
Her crooked grin came and she held the duffel bag under her coat.
‘Have you somewhere you can put them with safety?’
She paused. ‘There is a place.’
‘Hide them. And don’t mention them to anybody.’
Tassinari lived in one large room of a decaying palace in the Via Sipolari, into which every scrap of furniture he possessed had been crammed. It smelled of damp and dry rot, but Tassinari’s manners didn’t slip and he offered coffee and brandy. It seemed doubtful if he could afford to dispense either, but Pugh knew he would be mortally offended if he refused them.
As he left, Tassinari offered him a card with his name on it and Pugh was startled to see the old lawyer had a title.
Tassinari gestured indifferently. ‘Titles mean nothing,’ he said. ‘After all, when the war is over, we might all be Communists. We will talk about the paintings when you come. By then you will have found out things. I trust you, Sergeant.’
‘And I you, Avvocato.’
‘Will you see the Signorina Tamara again?’
Pugh nodded and the old man laid a hand on his arm. ‘It is good for young men to pick roses in June, because memories are necessary when it comes to December.’
They removed the Still Life with Chessmen from the coffin and, as Pugh rolled it up carefully and wrapped it in a piece of old newspaper Tassinari provided, Foscari screwed the coffin lid down again.
Tassinari had agreed to provide a bed for Marco until he could find something, and Pugh and Foscari drove the whitewashed hearse round to old Mori in the Via Villari. He was outside when they arrived, putting a nosebag on Urbino, the starved old grey he used, as it dozed under an army blanket in the shafts of its cart. All round them bricklayers clad in scraps of uniform and hats made out of newspaper were rebuilding bombed houses from the old bricks of ruined ones, and the air resounded to the clatter of buckets and the clink of trowels, even here and there a snatch of song in a soaring Italian tenor where some man, uplifted by the ascent from disaster, felt obliged to give vent to his feelings.
Mori stared at the hearse, puzzled. ‘But that,’ he pointed out, ‘is a hearse. Despite the whitewash, it is still a hearse. Whose?’
‘Yours,’ Pugh said. ‘The man it belonged to doesn’t want it. All you have to do is keep it stabled for the time being. Together with the box that’s inside it.’
Mori was intrigued. ‘There is something inside the box, of course?’ he queried.
‘Let’s say, it’s nothing that matters.’
‘Secrets, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Perhaps even’ – the old man smiled – ‘tinned beef, tinned milk. Things of this nature.’
‘Perhaps.’
Mori gestured. ‘Have no fear, Signor Sergente. Your secret is safe with me.’
‘Look after it, then the horse, the hearse and the box will eventually become yours. How would you like to become an undertaker?’
The old man seemed doubtful. ‘I have no experience of funerals,’ he said.
‘I have,’ Foscari pointed out.
‘To be an undertaker, one must know the business.’
‘I do.’
‘How to build coffins? Where to obtain flowers? How to make wreaths and spra
ys? How to handle the business?’
‘I know it all.’ Foscari held up the bag containing the coffin handles from the police ambush and the stolen fitments from Ciasca’s hearse that had been returned to them by Chief Renza. ‘And I have here everything we need. I am an expert. It is my trade. Before the war I worked for my uncle in Caserta. All I wanted was to get back to it. But he is dead now and the business is sold. All I need is a place to cut wood.’
When Pugh left them, they were working out the terms of what looked like being a successful partnership.
Captain Jones wasn’t in his office when Pugh appeared but he arrived soon afterwards. He looked more cheerful than normal.
‘We’ve started winning the war,’ he said. ‘They’ve landed in Normandy. News came through this morning and it’s just been confirmed.’
He wasn’t as excited as he might have been over D-Day, because they’d been having D-Days in Italy ever since they’d landed in Sicily. They’d been calling themselves the D-Day Dodgers, in fact, to counteract the feeling that the campaign in Italy had been obscured by the assault on France with its greater propaganda value.
‘Now that we’ve got Rome,’ Jones said, ‘they’ll forget us. Did you get the paintings?’
‘Seven of them,’ Pugh said.
‘Why not twelve?’
‘We had a few brushes with people here and there. Germans, for a start. Then Corneliano and the partisans. Finally the police and a mad goumier. We lost five.’
He explained what had happened but Jones didn’t seem over-worried. ‘Not a bad batting average,’ he said. ‘Under the conditions. But I don’t think Tasker’s going to be pleased.’
‘I don’t want Tasker to know,’ Pugh said. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
‘Why not?’
As Pugh outlined his suspicions, Jones listened with sympathy. He sat quietly at his desk, his fingers together to make a steeple, smoking his pipe and saying nothing. When Pugh had finished, he knocked out his pipe and looked up.
‘I think we’d better get that signal off to London,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, I’ll see the general and warn him what we’re up to, so that if anything happens we can bring him in as a witness. No names, though, so no pack drills. I don’t give a damn whom you suspect, but we’re naming no one yet. I’ve grown to like Naples and I want to stay here a little longer.’
Leaving Jones, Pugh called in at a bar and had a beer. It was poor stuff but he needed it. Then he began to think of Tamara again and wondered if she was taking proper precautions. He had a feeling that the three paintings she possessed were going to be the most valuable of the whole Detto Banti collection, and he decided to see what she had done with them.
Her apartment was still chilly despite the end of the cold weather and she hadn’t bothered to remove her coat. Looking at her in the old army blanket garment, Pugh thought how splendid she would look in a good one. She met him with a smile that showed she was pleased to see him. On the table she had arranged the few knicknacks belonging to Bocco Detto Banti which they had recovered from Enrichetta’s bag.
‘I was just admiring them,’ she said. ‘I think they might be of value. I have a little coffee. I think it came from the Americans. But, of course, I was not aware when I bought it.’ She smiled to indicate that she knew perfectly well, and that she knew he knew, that it was black market coffee and that, like everyone else in Italy, she had had no qualms about buying it because she needed to stay alive. ‘I have also a bottle of strega. Perhaps you’ll have a drink with me?’
‘I’ll have a drink with you,’ Pugh agreed.
They began to talk about the remaining paintings.
‘Do you think what are left are safe?’ she asked.
‘As safe as I can make them.’
‘Must you report them to your officer?’
‘I have done. But there are a lot of people after them. The Ministero di Belli Arti e Monumenti for a start, British Arts and Monuments, the American Fine Arts and Archives. I don’t trust any of them. There are also Da Sangalla, De Castro and one or two AMGOT officers I wouldn’t trust. Tassinari says they’re yours and that’s good enough for me. It’s up to you to do what you wish with them.’
‘You will advise me, perhaps?’
‘I’ll advise you. In the meantime, we’ll leave them where they are until I can find out just who’s prepared to pay for them and how much.’
She handed him his glass of strega and, as she did so, she reached up and kissed his cheek. ‘You have been kind to me, Piu.’
He grinned at her. ‘After all, we’ve been sharing a bed for a long time.’
‘What happens now?’
He gestured at the rolled and parcelled still life. ‘I find a reputable expert – one I can trust – and get him to give me an opinion. Then we decide what to do with the other pictures, where to sell them – and to whom. Have you the three small ones safe?’
‘They’ll not be found.’ Her eyes lifted to the top of the tall cupboard in the kitchen.
‘On top of there?’
‘No.’
Then he noticed the small trapdoor in the ceiling just above it.
‘Up there?’
‘Yes. It was hard work getting them up. It involved using the steps, then sitting on top and pushing open the trapdoor.’
‘What’s it like up there?’
‘Dusty. There are probably also bats. I was terrified.’
‘I meant temperature. Is it dry? Reasonably warm?’
‘As warm as anywhere in Naples at the moment. I wrapped them up in an old coat. They’re safe for a while. I hope it won’t be longer than that.’
Outside the Casa Calafati, where Pugh’s room was situated, a big car was waiting. A man was sitting in it, his coat collar up, his hat down, a handkerchief to his face. Pugh had a vague feeling that there was something odd about the car, but it wasn’t strong enough for him to think about it for more than a second.
The Contessa appeared as he reached the stairs. Her eyes were circled with shadows and she held a cigarette between her fingers, coughing as if about to give up the ghost.
‘You are back,’ she said. ‘You have been a long time. I nearly let your room. But you have a guest. He awaits.’
He produced a sausage for her that he had managed to buy in Sili and she went into noisy raptures of delight. Kissing her on the cheek, he left her almost swooning and headed up the stairs.
On the landing, he was surprised to find Marco waiting by his door. Pugh regarded him with suspicion.
‘What are you after?’
‘A talk.’
‘What about?’
‘The painting.’ Marco gestured at the rolled package Pugh carried, and it was in Pugh’s mind that he was wanting to make some deal that would deprive Tamara of it.
‘I’ve already made arrangements for it,’ he said.
‘I suppose you have. But I’d still like to talk. And I wouldn’t mind a drink, if you’ve got one. Even just a coffee.’
Pugh’s flat was in darkness and, as he switched the light on, the usual small bulb high in the ceiling lit up. The Italians were always over-cautious with their light bulbs – as though they were afraid that anything bigger than two candlepower would explode and destroy them – and they normally used a forty-watt bulb to light places as big as ballrooms.
He unrolled the painting and, placing it on one of the chairs, stared at it for a while, then he turned to the gas ring to make a hot drink.
Marco studied the painting sombrely. ‘That’s a good picture,’ he said slowly.
‘The best of the lot,’ Pugh agreed.
‘That’s what I came to see you about. I’d like it. If I’m to get any, that’s the one I’d like.’
Pugh didn’t answer, and had just finished boiling water when there was a knock on the door. He turned off the gas – it was so weak it could barely crawl out of the burner – and went to answer it. As he reached the door, the knock came again. As he opened it, he saw Da Sangal
la outside.
‘Sergeant Pugh,’ he said.
‘I’m busy,’ Pugh said.
He was about to close the door when Da Sangalla pushed his foot forward to jam it and used his shoulder to force it wide. Immediately the flat seemed to be filled with soldiers. They were in Italian uniform and they all carried weapons. Da Sangalla followed them in. His uniform, as usual, was immaculate. Marco looked scared.
Pugh indicated the soldiers. There were six of them and a sergeant.
‘Friends of yours?’ he asked.
‘I represent the Ministero di Monumenti e Belli Arti,’ Da Sangalla said. ‘And in my brief is a clause that if necessary I can call on the army for support.’
‘We all have that,’ Pugh said. ‘Amazing how everybody thinks alike.’
‘They are here to sort things out if there should be any resistance to my demands.’
‘Which are?’
‘You know what they are.’
‘I can guess. I’m wondering why, that’s all.’
Pugh glanced through the window. The car was still there, the man in it still holding his handkerchief to his face.
‘Your friend has a cold?’ he asked.
‘He isn’t well.’
‘Is he there to give advice? It’s De Castro, isn’t it?’
Da Sangalla feigned surprise. ‘Is it? I think he’s merely out to take the air. My car is further down the road.’ He smiled. ‘You know why I’m here, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘I have come for the Detto Bantis.’
‘Tough tit. They’ve gone.’
De Sangalla gestured at the Still Life with Chessmen. ‘That’s one, Sergeant.’
Pugh stared at the picture. It was obviously pointless disputing the fact and it seemed more sensible to admit it and guard the remainder.
‘That’s the only one.’
‘What happened to the rest?’