Etruscan Chimera

by Lyn Hamilton

  "The call you've been waiting for, sir," she said. "Signore Palladini."

  Palladini, I thought. Familiar name. Where? Then I had it. Vittorio Palladini was the fellow who'd got Boucher to put me in touch with Robert Godard in Vichy. It was a common enough Italian name, of course, but still.

  "Grazie," he said, picking it up. "Yes," he said, and after a few moments, "I'm afraid so." Another pause. "It's being checked out right now."

  He grimaced slightly. "You know that is not possible. There is nothing we can do now that it is here. Regrettable, I know. Perhaps next year. We'll speak again soon." He hung up and looked at me. I opened my mouth to speak, but the door opened again, and a rather pleasant-looking man poked his head around the door. He was dressed in jeans and a turtleneck and expensive-looking jacket and was carrying a small duffel bag of the sports variety, as if he was off to his gym any moment. He certainly looked as if he worked out regularly.

  "All done," he said. "Oops, sorry to interrupt."

  "No problem," Lucca said. "Everyone else is. Is it what we think it is?"

  "Most certainly," the man said.

  "Well, there you are," Lucca sighed.

  "Indeed," the man said. "I'll be off now."

  "Tell the others, will you?" Lucca said.

  "I will," the man said.

  "Could we talk a little more about my friend Lola?" I said.

  The young policewoman interrupted us again. "Sorry, sir," she said. "Can I speak with you for a minute?"

  "Not right now," he said.

  "But sir, we have a problem."

  "We always have problems," he said, irritably. "In a minute."

  "A body, sir. Near the Tanella in Cortona," she said. I gasped quite audibly at her words.

  "Don't say that kind of thing in front of visitors," Lucca said. "You've upset Signora McClintoch." The young woman rolled her eyes. In truth, I didn't know whether to be upset or just relieved I hadn't been losing my mind in the fog.

  "As you can see," he said, turning to me, "I have more urgent matters to attend to. This may be a blessing for you, because I think you've said enough, don't you? I can sympathize with your wanting to help your friend, but that is enough. Signora Leonard has already told us you had nothing to do with this. If you persist in this fabrication, I'm afraid I will have to charge you with mischief, and you will get to spend more time with your friend, in circumstances you might not like. Now, I'm going to do you a favor, and terminate this interview. Thank you for coming in to assist us with our investigation, signora." He rose from his chair and extended his hand, then walked to the door of his office and opened it, ushering me through. "See that Signora McClintoch finds her way out," he said to the young policewoman. There seemed nothing else to be done, at least nothing in Arezzo.

  But I wasn't giving up. First I went to get myself some traveling money. I was going to find Crawford Lake and make him come forward to clear Lola's name, and I was going to use his money to do it. I went back to my hotel, got out my laptop, and logged on to the Internet. I went to Marzocco Financial Online and entered my account number, 14M24S, and then my password, Chimera.

  "Access denied," the screen said. "Either the user ID or the password is incorrect. Please try again." I tried again. Same response. I tried a third time, and got booted right out of the web site. It seemed pretty clear that Lake was distancing himself as far as he could from this fiasco.

  Furious, I stomped out of the hotel. I'd think about this later. In the meantime, I had things to do. First, I drove back to Cortona and paid a visit to S ignore Salvatore Vitali, Lola's lawyer. I wanted to meet him in person, rather than simply phoning, to decide what to do.

  A very pleasant-looking man opened the door. He was in his midsixties maybe, about Lola's age or a little older, dressed in nicely tailored pants and a lovely sweater. He had a shock of white hair, which he kept brushing back off his face when he spoke. When I told him I was a friend of Lola's, he welcomed me in and insisted on making me an espresso on a rather formidable machine he kept in a little kitchenette off the main room.

  "Such a genteel lady," he said, when I told him Lola had laryngitis and was unable to call him. "I am so sorry to hear of her illness. Will you please assure her for me that she can start here whenever she feels well enough. She is not to worry."

  "Thank you. I'll tell her." We sat sizing each other up for a few minutes, commenting on the weather, and sipping our espressos.

  "She has seen a doctor, I hope," he said.

  "Yes," I lied.

  "You will forgive me for asking. . . . Would you like a biscuit? No? Another espresso? I am not, as you can see, a very accomplished host. I have been living alone for too long."

  "Another espresso would be great," I said.

  He got up, and soon the machine in his kitchen was wheezing away. He returned soon enough, and we went back to contemplating each other.

  "There, you see, I am putting off asking you a question," he said at last. "An important one, which I found myself unable to ask Signora Leonard. There was no reason at all to ask her under the circumstances, which is to say we were discussing a position in my office. As you can see, I am somewhat reluctant, actually quite nervous, to ask you. Something, though, is compelling me to do so."

  "Yes?" I said.

  "Is she married?"

  "No," I said.

  "I thought not. There was no ring. But she is attached?"

  "No, I don't think so. As far as I know, she's free as a bird."

  He positively beamed. "I confess that is the answer I was hoping for."

  "She likes you, too," I said. "Please don't tell her I told you."

  "Of course not," he said gravely. "Nor, please, will you tell her I asked you that question. She is very interested in Lars Porsena."

  "She certainly is," I said.

  "I am as well. It seemed to me to be fate that brought us together."

  "Actually, Signore Vitali," I said, "fate is keeping the two of you apart right this minute. I've been sitting here debating whether to tell you this, and I'm taking a big chance doing so, but Lola needs help, and even if she never forgives me for telling you, I'm determined to get it for her. Lola, Signora Leonard, I mean, is in jail. She has been quite wrongly accused of possessing a stolen Etruscan hydria. In fact, I was the one who had the hydria. She was keeping it for me and was bringing it so that I could give it to someone who was going to give it back to the museum, when she was caught with it, apparently because of an anonymous tip from a member of the public. The police do not believe her, nor do they believe me. She needs a lawyer, and she can't afford one. I am prepared to pay you to represent her." I had to stop to catch my breath.

  "And this person who was going to return the hydria?" he said, waving away my attempt to get money out of my wallet.

  "I can't tell you who he is," I said. "But I'm going to find him and make him come forward in person."

  He raised bushy white eyebrows. "I see. You think he will corroborate this story?"

  "I hope so," I said. "He likes his privacy, and not only that, but he seems to have closed a bank account that was supposed to cover my expenses. Needless to say, I'm going to try to get him to change his mind."

  "Where is she?" he said, getting out of his chair and taking a jacket off a hook by the door.

  "The carabinieri station in Arezzo," I said.

  "I will go there now," he said. "Will you come with me?"

  "No," I said. "I can't right now. But I'll be working to get Lola out of this mess, too." I meant it, too. Lola was big on getting what one deserved. Right now, she was getting what I deserved. I wasn't going to spend a lot of time beating myself up about why I was in the situation in the first place. But I was going to fix it somehow.

  I hit the Autostrada del Sole once again and headed south to Rome. The next morning found me sitting under a market umbrella in a cafe in the Piazza della Rotunda, a lively spot, drinking coffee and reading the paper. Antonio had gotten his wish to be f
amous, unfortunately. There was a lurid account, as only the Italian papers can provide, of the man found hanging from the roof of a farmhouse in Tuscany. The man had been identified as an out-of-work actor by the name of Antonio Balducci. There was speculation it might be a mob hit of some kind, although the police were quoted as saying he'd hung himself. I kept thinking about the body, wondering how he would have done that. The owner of the farmhouse, Gino Mauro, who had, it was said, an ironclad alibi, given that he and his family were in New York at the time, was also said to be horrified at what had happened at his place. Mauro, reached by the intrepid reporter by telephone, said he did not know the dead man nor what he would be doing there.

  I, too, was famous. A shopkeeper in Scrofiano had told police that a woman, English or American—there are some advantages to being an anonymous Canadian—had asked directions to the house the day before Antonio's body had been found. Police said yet another anonymous call had led them to the body, and police were looking not only for me but for whoever it was had telephoned. The call had been traced to a pay phone.

  Lola, too, made the news. There was a page-three article that said that the carabinieri had been successful in tracking down a stolen Etruscan antiquity. They had someone in custody, the article said, and were now proceeding with an investigation into its disappearance. Further charges were expected to be laid. I hoped that didn't mean me.

  I sat for awhile, thinking about all this: about Lola in jail, but particularly Antonio, swinging from a rope. At the same time, I was contemplating the edifice that dominated the piazza where I was sitting. Variously known as the Pantheon, the Church of Santa Maria dei Martiri, and the Rotunda, it is one hundred forty-two feet wide, and the same high, with twenty-five-foot walls, and an oculus, or opening, in the top of eighteen feet, and it is truly an impressive sight. Built originally in 27 b.c.e. by Marcus Agrippa, then rebuilt in the early second century by Hadrian, it is considered one of the architectural marvels of the world, and as I sat there, drinking my cappuccino, tourists by the hundreds were pouring through its doors. The only feature that interested me at that moment, however, was the inscription etched over the entranceway. M. AGRIPPA L.F.COS.TERTIUM. FECIT, it said, and FECIT was what I'd been able to see from Crawford Lake's bathroom window.

  From my vantage place in the square, there seemed to be only one street that could be the location of Lake's apartment. Given the narrowness of the street, a lane really, I couldn't get back far enough to see clearly. But there was one building that looked to have a roof garden—there were vines hanging over a railing at the top—and I headed for that. There was an Apartment for Sale sign on the front of the building, and the door was locked. I went and got myself a bag of groceries, making sure a nice Italian loaf and some carrot tops were plainly evident, and then waited until someone came along and unlocked the door.

  I made it before the door closed. The person, an elderly woman, looked at me suspiciously, but I smiled pleasantly and wished her a good day. She glanced at my bag of groceries and decided I was all right. I took the elevator to the top floor. I was wondering how I'd know which apartment on that floor I'd been to, but I figured it would have to be the front, for me to have seen the inscription. It didn't matter. On the top floor there was only one apartment, something I should have suspected, given Lake's means.

  I knocked at the door, but there was no answer. At that point, the elevator sprang to life, and before I could get away, a man stepped out. He looked surprised and not altogether pleased to see me. "There's no one there," he said. "You have to make an appointment."

  "How would I do that?" I said.

  "The number on the sign," he said. I must have looked baffled, because he added, "The For Sale sign n the building. You have to make an appointment with the real estate agency." He waited until I left the building.

  I called the agency and was put through to a woman by the name of Laura Ferrari. I told her I was only in Rome for a few days, was interested in purchasing an apartment, and was specifically interested in the one on the Via della Rosa.

  "Who told you about the unit?" she said.

  "Signore Palladini," I said. It was the first thing that came into my head, the name I'd heard at the carabinieri station, but it had the most wondrous effect on Ms. Ferrari.

  "Ah," she said. "The owner. Then you have some idea of the price." She told me what it was. Needless to say, I couldn't afford it. Not even close, in fact. Knowing what I did about doing business in Italy, I had to assume it was probably even higher than the price she'd quoted me, given the Italians' propensity to avoid paying taxes at all costs. What was most interesting, however, was the fact that Signore Palladini— quite possibly the same Palladini who'd called Massimo Lucca while I was sitting there, and who could have been the same Palladini that had arranged for me to meet Godard—was the owner of the apartment. A coincidence? It was difficult to think that was all it was. It also begged the question as to whether or not Lake had a place in Rome or simply borrowed Palladini's place when he was in town. Surely Lake could afford a pied-a-terre of his own. Or—and this had a nice conspiracy ring to it—were Palladini and Lake the same person, a pseudonym Lake used for convenience?

  Laura Ferrari and I arranged to meet at the building an hour later. A dusty smell washed over me as we went in, and I had to stifle a sneeze. It was the same apartment, all right. The layout was the one I remembered, the painting over the mantel that Lake had claimed to be an original was there, as was the wall fresco. But everything else, all the furniture and the ceramics and books, all the collectibles, was covered in sheets. I got to see into the rooms where the doors had been closed shut on my first visit, but there, too, all was covered. No Anna. No lovely lemon cake. No sign of Lake.

  "It would be better," Laura fussed, "to see the place without everything covered up, but I hope you can imagine what a wonderful apartment this is. I have a little surprise for you, signora," she added, beckoning to a door upstairs. "Ecco!" she said, with a flourish. "Magnificent, isn't it?"

  I found myself in the roof garden, complete with a statue of David. "See," she said, pointing. "You can just see the Pantheon. The location here is marvelous. You could not ask for a better place for your stays in Rome. How is it you know Signore Palladini?"

  "It's my husband who knows him, actually," I said.

  "Then your husband is in insurance, too? Or is it law?"

  "My husband's a lawyer. He argues cases before the World Court, so we're in Europe a great deal. They were at law school together." My, how the lies just rolled off my tongue. "I don't suppose Signore Palladini ever rents it out, does he, for short stays? I was thinking perhaps we could just try it out for a few days. I suppose we might ask him."

  "I don't think so," she said. "I think he very much wants to sell it. Are you interested?"

  "My husband will have to see it before we make a final decision," I said, edging toward the door. "I will speak with him this evening—he's in Brussels right now—and will get back to you as soon as I can. But I do think it's just perfect, exactly what I imagined our apartment in Rome should be.

  "It is a gem," she said. "I look forward to showing it to your husband. You would have to be approved by the other residents," she added, "but I'm sure, for any friend of Vittorio Palladini, that would not be a problem."

  I'd almost made it out of the place—we were standing in the entranceway—when a key turned in the lock, and the door began to open. Laura looked surprised. My heart was in my throat. A rather tall, slim, casually dressed man in jeans and a turtleneck came through the door. He started when he saw us.

  "Signora Ferrari!" he exclaimed. "I'm sorry. You startled me. I didn't know you were showing the place right now. I was just checking it."

  "Signore Palladini!" Laura said. "I did leave you a message I'd be showing it, but we just made the appointment an hour or so ago. You know Signora McClintoch, I think," she said.

  "Do I?" the man said, shaking my hand.

  "We haven't me
t," I said.

  "That's right," Laura said. "It's her husband that you know. You were at law school together."

  "McClintoch..." he said, stroking his mustache with a perplexed expression.

  "That's my name, not his," I said. "His is Rosati."

  It was the only name I could come up with, that of the nice man I'd stood up in Volterra. I hoped he wouldn't mind.