Errant Angels

by Stuart Fifield

  ‘I did,’ she replied, looking back at the pad, ‘and there are. The second one was from Signor di Leone; he requests that you meet him this morning at eleven to discuss the matter he briefly mentioned to you last week over the telephone – last Thursday at…’ she flipped back another page, ‘…at four thirty-seven.’

  ‘Ah, yes … I remember,’ said Fossi. That had been before the rehearsal and the resulting night of passion with Renata di Senno at the Villa Legge. Ah, he thought, inhaling the warm cigarette smoke, but that memory has nothing to do with you, Signora Litelli.

  She continued to look at him, as if awaiting her instructions.

  ‘You say he will be here at eleven?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Signor Fossi. You are to meet him at eleven. He will wait for you at del Mostro’s – the café on the Piazza Napoleone.’ She ticked the message, made the usual notation next to it, turned to a blank page and put the pad back on the desk.

  ‘Del Mostro’s?’ he asked in irritation. ‘Their espresso is awful. Why does he want to meet there, for God’s sake?’

  Signora Litelli did not approve of blasphemy. She looked up at him over the top of her glasses, reprovingly. ‘I would suspect that Signor di Leone has little interest in their espresso and is possibly more concerned with a discreet meeting venue, disguised by the presence of several tourists staring at the statue of the Francese and at all the trees. The trees are not as green as they should be. The summer has not been kind.’

  The Piazza Napoleone contained a statue of Napoleon’s sister, Elisa Baciocchi, the Francese, who had ruled Lucca under the protection of her brother for a few years in the tumult of the early nineteenth century.

  ‘You could possibly be quite correct, Signora,’ responded Fossi as he walked on into his spacious office, with its view out across Via del Giardino Botanico to the gardens beyond.

  His father had bought the villa for next to nothing shortly after the Nazis had left, at a time when the country was convulsed by civil war and everything was in a state of almost total chaos. He had turned the ground floor into his offices and had moved his wife and son into the other accommodation offered on the remaining floors. Tucked away in the south-eastern corner of the city, almost on top of the massive defensive walls, Riccardo had enjoyed a blissfully happy childhood, being doted upon and basically spoilt rotten. He had shown an early aptitude for singing and music in general and had sung in the cathedral choir. He had even asked if it would be possible, when he was old enough, to attend the istituto in Lucca. That question had not been favourable received, as it had always been understood that he would follow his father into the accountancy business and perpetuate the good name of Fossi, which his father had worked so hard to establish.

  ‘Music does not make you rich,’ his father had told him, ‘not unless you are a Puccini, a Verdi, a di Stefano or a Gobbi. You have a God-given voice, and God has smiled on you, Riccardo, but not to the same extent as He did with these others. You are none of these people, I am sad to say, so you had best take what fortune has placed on your plate and learn to be an accountant, just like your papà, and follow in his footsteps. That has always been our Italian way.’

  And so it had come about, but with one single exception. Riccardo was far more of a lad-about-town than his father could ever have hoped to be. His more outgoing nature, the absolute opposite to the widely held perception that accountants were boring men in grey suits, had allowed Riccardo to make certain contacts over the years – contacts that were very lucrative and also potentially rather dangerous.

  ‘It is nearly ten thirty-five,’ called a voice from the outer office. ‘Signor di Leone probably would not like to be kept waiting, especially if the espresso is not very good.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Signora Litelli,’ he replied. ‘I am on my way.’

  Riccardo strolled the short distance to the awful del Mostro’s in the balmy warmth of mid-morning, humming his way through ‘E lucevan le stelle’ – the famous tenor aria from Puccini’s Tosca. As he did so he smiled to himself at the thought that his stars were, indeed, brightly shining. This aria was his party piece and was guaranteed to bring the house down at the concert on Friday.

  ‘…so, that is why I have asked to meet you,’ said Daniele di Leone as he picked up his cup of espresso and raised it to his lips.

  Riccardo looked on in near disbelief; he couldn’t believe that this man was actually going to drink such foul liquid. He had opted for a sparkling water – at least that came in a sealed bottle, which meant that there was nothing del Mostro’s could do to adulterate it, which, in his opinion, was exactly what they did to their coffee.

  ‘Although I am, of course, flattered, I do not quite see why you have come to me specifically. There must be any number of highly respectable accountants to whom you could turn for their services.’

  ‘As I briefly explained to you, Signor Fossi, my family have always had extensive involvement in olives and their oil. We have recently purchased extensive groves in Umbria, around Lake Trasimeno. We also have a sweeter interest and produce candied fruits in our factory in Genoa. These are just a few of our business involvements, you understand.’

  Riccardo was intrigued by the mention of these being just the tip of this man’s empire.

  ‘Obviously, the greater our business activities become, the more will be lost to … shall we say, lost to the tithes modern business is expected to pay over as a measure – a punishment almost – for their hard work and success,’ di Leone continued. ‘I have contacted you because of Don Amico Forno’s personal recommendation.’

  Riccardo Fossi took a long drink of his mineral water and then he reached for a cigarette.

  ‘You will excuse me asking, but di Leone is a southern name, is it not … from Sicily?’

  ‘Yes, from the Trapani region at the western end of the island. That is where the best olives are grown. My family have farmed there since before the time of the Kingdom of Naples. We are well placed and have many contacts … many important contacts.’

  In the silence that followed, the two men sat at the little round table casually glancing out in to the Piazza Napoleone and at the throng of tourists who meandered through it like a steadily flowing stream.

  ‘I am told that you are acquainted with certain ways that payments to the State could be, shall we say, reduced,’ said di Leone softly, so that his voice barely carried to the other side of the table. ‘It is appreciated that these ways can be expensive due to the certain level of risk involved, although they would not be as expensive as the taxes themselves.’

  Riccardo Fossi said nothing in reply, but the smile that now covered his face confirmed that what the other man had just said was, indeed, a distinct possibility.

  Di Leone relaxed and seemed to settle more comfortably into his chair. ‘Don Amico Forno’s confidence has obviously not been misplaced,’ di Leone whispered as he emptied his espresso. ‘I am very pleased to have made your acquaintance, Signor Fossi. Are you certain I cannot tempt you to have an espresso?’

  15

  What Fossi had no way of knowing was that significant events were unfolding not far from Café del Mostro. Although they would not involve him directly, these events were connected to the Contessa’s forthcoming concert – albeit in a somewhat tenuous way. In the best operatic tradition, jealousy and intense rivalry had reared their heads in the form of a certain Alonzo Adriani, renowned dealer in antiques and mortal rival of Gregorio Marinetti. He had stood at the window of Casa dei Gioielli the previous Thursday and peered open-mouthed through his reflection at what looked very much like a Venetian screen. Not just any Venetian screen, but the Venetian screen – the one belonging to the von Hohenwald family and the one which had not been seen since the collapse of the Third Reich at the end of 1945.

  Questore Bramanti, the senior officer in charge of the Questura – the outpost of the Polizia, or civil police, not far from the statue in the Piazza Napoleone – had enjoyed yet another bad weekend of over-i
ndulgence and was now paying the price. His stomach felt like a tumble dryer with its control set to maximum, as his ever-growing ulcer fought valiantly to stave off the effects of the excess of garlic, oil and assorted fats his weekend of culinary abandonment had thrown at it.

  ‘What do you make of this?’ he barked at his chief inspector, flinging a small sheet of paper across the desk at him, the discomfort of his gut clearly etched on his face.

  Michele Conti caught it and looked at it.

  ‘Obviously written with the wrong hand to try and disguise the handwriting… Good quality paper, which could be significant… Written with a fountain pen, which might also be significant… Unsigned, which could indicate a vendetta or someone trying to just waste police time … and what is the von Hohenwald screen, anyway?’ Conti looked up from the paper in his hand. ‘Is that a new cinema complex?’

  Questore Bramanti groaned, but not in reaction to anything his junior had just said. His ulcer was now in open revolt.

  ‘The questore made a comment?’ asked Conti, trying not to smirk.

  They had all become used to their commander’s regular culinary excesses, the results of which were always best observed on a Monday morning. Signora Bramanti, not to mention the questore’s mother, saw it as her duty to feed him with the best traditional Tuscan cooking possible; neither of them had made the slightest attempt to understand what effect their well-meant culinary efforts were having on his stomach and its unhappy ulcer. Bramanti winced and then glared at Conti.

  ‘Go and see what it’s about,’ Bramanti sighed. ‘Pascoli has already looked it up on the computer. He’ll fill you in.’

  The questore was near retirement and wasn’t quite a full member of the new technological age; computers were something of a closed book to him.

  ‘Pascoli! Get in here!’ he shouted.

  The door opened and Sergeant Pascoli entered.

  ‘Tell him what you found out about this screen,’ he barked, before relaxing back into his well-padded chair. He had effectively washed his hands of the matter for the next few minutes. Instead of having to tell his junior what to do next, he could now concentrate on the misery he felt in his stomach.

  ‘This von Hohenwald screen was stolen from the family of the same name, who were bankers and representatives of the Austrians in Venice since way back before the time of Napoleon.’ It was in a very matter-of-fact way that Sergeant Pascoli made his feelings known about the wrongs done to Italy during its historic past. ‘They had no right to be there and who knows, they had probably stolen the thing from its rightful owners in the first place.’

  ‘And how do we know all of this, on the strength of this largely uninformative little note?’ asked Conti, holding it up.

  ‘From that we do not know anything,’ replied the sergeant, making it obvious from his expression that he was about to launch into a detailed explanation of how he knew what he was about to reveal. ‘I have a friend in Geneva.’

  Conti raised his eyebrows. It was a widely held belief that the sergeant was so wrapped up in his work that he didn’t have time for any friends – or partners, for that matter.

  ‘In Geneva,’ he repeated determinedly, ‘who works through the Council for Looted Art in Europe. The council is referred to as CLAE and they are affiliated with similar bodies throughout the world. So you have HARP, which is the Holocaust Art Restitution Project in the United States and also the IFAR, which is the International Foundation for Art Research in New York. Then there is –’

  ‘Just get on with it, Pascoli!’ snapped Bramanti. ‘We all know that you are very thorough and have all the time in the world to play at finding things on your computer at the department’s expense!’

  For a moment, Sergeant Pascoli stood stock-still glaring at his superior, his mouth still opened at the point in his unfinished sentence where he had been abruptly cut off. It occurred to Inspector Conti that, in the unfortunate event of the questore’s ulcer finally getting the better of him, there was a certain sergeant who would definitely not be giving a donation to the resulting collection.

  ‘The von Hohenwald family is Jewish. They lost their entire art collection when the Nazis took over in Vienna. This screen is listed in the databases of all the organisations I have already mentioned and it has not been seen since the middle of 1940,’ Pascoli concluded with a look of superior triumph on his face.

  ‘And now we have an anonymous, even childish, note telling us that it is here in Lucca?’ continued Conti, his disbelief sounding in his voice. ‘And why would a stolen, highly valuable art treasure of international significance end up in a little shop in Lucca?’

  Sergeant Pascoli was about to say that he had absolutely no idea when he was cut off for the second time in as many minutes.

  ‘How should I know?’ barked a very irritated Bramanti from behind his desk. ‘I suppose that just to be certain, you had better go and see if there is any truth in this allegation. And don’t take all day. We have other pressing matters to continue with.’

  ‘Have any of these agencies of Pascoli’s been informed that we might have one of their stolen artworks here in Lucca?’ asked Conti.

  The questore, who was now in considerable discomfort and couldn’t have cared less either way, looked enquiringly at Pascoli.

  ‘My friend in Geneva,’ Pascoli turned to look at both of his colleagues in turn, ‘advised me to inform you that we should make sure of the facts of the allegation before we say anything to anyone. Stolen artworks are a highly sensitive issue and are very emotionally charged. If we say anything first and then, on investigation, the allegation turns out to be a blind lead or hoax, we will not only upset a great many people, but we will also look incredibly stupid.’

  The sergeant glowed with a sense of a job well done and a message successfully delivered. The questore looked very uncomfortable, a victim of his internal struggle. Inspector Conti felt as if he was about to embark on a wild goose chase.

  Some twenty minutes later, Michele Conti stood in Casa dei Gioielli. Gregorio Marinetti was being his usual charming self, shrouded in the omnipresent cloud of expensive cologne, as he concluded a transaction with a Swiss couple – regular customers of his – for a miniature chest delicately inlaid with mother of pearl.

  ‘Neapolitan, late seventeenth century and in excellent condition,’ he gushed, ‘and, if I might be permitted to say, a very wise investment. My able assistant, Nicola, will have the item securely packaged and I will have it delivered directly to you in Lausanne, as per usual.’ He nodded to his assistant, who set about preparing the materials necessary to package the chest securely. ‘How nice to have seen you again,’ he beamed as he held open the door and the couple left the shop. He waved them away down Via Fillungo and smiled broadly to himself at the thought that he really did have an international clientele for his business. It was just a pity that there weren’t a few more of them, particularly during these hard economic times. ‘Buongiorno,’ he half sang as he turned back into the shop and approached what he thought was his next customer. ‘Can I help the Signore in any way?’

  ‘Buongiorno, perhaps you can. Michele Conti … Polizia,’ replied the policeman.

  Although the smile on Gregorio Marinetti’s face never faltered for an instant, it suddenly developed the ice-cold attributes of the marble bust of the Emperor Septimus Severus, which stood on a column in the centre of the window.

  ‘Polizia?’ he repeated, trying to keep his voice natural and only just managing to avoid an embarrassing swoop up into the falsetto register. ‘How can I assist the Polizia?’ he continued, but the underlying tone was one of immediately suppressed panic.

  ‘Signor Marinetti, we were wondering if you could tell us anything about an item – a very valuable item – known as the von Hohenwald screen, from Venice originally.’

  Conti was watching Marinetti intently as he spoke, ready to register any flick or twitch of reaction. Gregorio was giving the performance of his life – quite literally. He gave no
thing away.

  ‘The von Hohenwald screen… The Signore knows about the von Hohenwald screen? Ah yes…’ he said, turning away from the policeman to break any remaining eye contact. This action also masked the beads of perspiration which had suddenly appeared on the antique dealer’s brow. ‘Let us go into the office,’ he continued, walking ahead of Conti and past where Nicola was busy with the bubble wrap and cardboard. Such matters were best discussed discreetly. His brain was almost as active as Questore Bramanti’s stomach as he fought hard to control the sudden panic that this policeman had so unexpectedly caused him. ‘How can anyone know?’ He blurted out suddenly, giving voice to his thoughts.

  ‘Know what?’ asked Conti, alert.

  Gregorio Marinetti had realized his unintentional slip even before he had finished making it. He desperately tried to recover. ‘Er, know about the screen, Signore. It is of great value and importance to the artistic heritage of our country and to Venice in particular,’ he continued rambling, ‘but it has not been seen since the Nazi collapse. The family lost many of their other art treasures to the Nazis as well, all of which have long since disappeared. They were Jewish…’ Marinetti shrugged in that uniquely Italian way.

  ‘And do you think that such an important treasure might, shall we say, “turn-up” here in Lucca?’ asked Conti, waving his arm around the expanse of the shop.

  ‘Good Lord, no!’ replied Marinetti, attempting a laugh. The first word started in the falsetto register and he had to consciously bring his voice back to its normal level by the end of the third one. He coughed, discreetly. The panic continued to rise within him. Were his answers convincing this policeman? It was hard to tell. In any case, who could possibly have seen the screen in his shop? It had been there for less than an hour, in the dead quiet of the mid-afternoon, before he had fetched the van and spirited it away to its hiding place. ‘Such an event would be the talk of the antiques world. Lucca would be the unfortunate centre of attention, I can assure you of that,’ he continued.