by Aaron Elkins
"No one accuses you, signor Salvatorelli. We have no reason to suspect you of anything." After a moment he added, "I tell you the truth."
Some of the color came back into Salvatorelli's cheeks. He took a breath. "What paintings?" he asked.
"Perhaps you would show us the way to your Lot 70?" Barbaccia suggested.
"What paintings?" Salvatorelli demanded. He might be excitable, but he wasn't a pushover. "I insist that you tell me."
The captain paused, then complied with a small bow of his head. "A landscape by Carrà and a small still life by Morandi; stolen from the municipal gallery in Cosenza five years ago."
Carrà and Morandi, along with the better known De Chirico, were painters of the quasi-surrealist Pittura Metafisica movement of the 1920s; distinctly minor figures in a short-lived school. Hardly worth stealing, you might think, but given today's bizarre market, I had no idea what they might be worth—or rather what they might sell for. Two or three hundred thousand dollars each, I supposed.
"Cosenza? " Salvatorelli echoed, sounding genuinely amazed. "What have I to do with Cosenza? I demand, I insist—"
But Barbaccia's patience had worn through. "Please get up, signore. We wish to see the lot in question." He stepped briskly out of the office and waited, stiff and commanding, for Salvatorelli to follow.
The businessman jumped up and scurried out. "I go," he muttered, "but under protest, under protest."
Without looking at me, Barbaccia leveled a finger in my direction. "This one remains. The others, too," he said to the policeman with the machine gun, who nodded and took up a position in the hallway, presumably to guard me, the receptionist, and a couple of big-eyed workers who had drifted in to see what the commotion was about. Barbaccia and the others followed a grumbling Salvatorelli into the back of the building.
In accord with what appears to be prevailing Mediterranean police custom, the vicious-looking, black semiautomatic had been entrusted into the hands of the youngest, most jittery-looking carabiniere, a downy-faced, nervous kid who seemed to be all of seventeen. As always, this had a markedly quieting effect on those in his charge. No one talked to anyone else. No one made anything remotely like a sudden move.
But after a while, when he'd relaxed a little, I smiled at the youngster. "How's it going?" I said, dropping my classical Italian for a cozier, slangier version. "What's up, anyway? Do you think—"
Either he recognized my accent, or he had heard me tell Barbaccia that I was an American. Whichever, he seized the opportunity to practice his English.
"Shuddup, you," he said, with a concise but expressive jerk of the black machine gun.
I decided my questions could wait after all.
In twenty minutes they were back, with a noisily expostulating Salvatorelli leading the way. It was a mark of just how unsettled he was that he had allowed one of the hair strands to work loose and slip down, so that it now clung curving to one temple, like a Caesarean laurel wreath. Italian was flying thick and fast, with not much attention to syntax, so I couldn't understand all of it, but I got the gist: He, Salvatorelli, had no way of knowing that the two paintings were there. How could he? Lot 70 had been deposited the previous month for eventual shipment to Naples, by a man who said his name was signor Pellico. No, Salvatorelli had never seen him; the business had been conducted entirely by mail. A three-month storage fee had been paid, and the crate had remained on the premises until such time as signor Pellico directed that it be shipped. How could Salvatorelli know what was inside? What did the captain expect of him? That he would search through the effects of his clients?
The captain assured him that he didn't expect it at all, that no suspicion attached to signor Salvatorelli or his firm, that the carabinieri were in fact grateful for his excellent cooperation in the recovery of these valuable works of art. It was clear to anyone with eyes that Trasporti Salvatorelli had been the innocent pawn of a slippery criminal who would, with luck, soon be brought to justice.
Slowly, Salvatorelli became more composed. The handkerchief was applied to his forehead and neck. The nonconforming hair was detected and smoothed back into place. He was, he said, happy to have had the opportunity to be of service. The captain could count on his continuing cooperation in this matter.
The captain was pleased. Perhaps the signore would be kind enough to show him the correspondence with signor Pellico?
At this point Salvatorelli noticed with apparent surprise that I was still there.
"Ah, signor Norgren," he said, "I hope you will forgive this intrusion. But our business is concluded, no? You will understand if. . . ?" His gesture took in Barbaccia and the others. He became solemn. "It is my civic duty. . ."
"Of course," I said. But before standing up, I looked at Barbaccia to make sure it was all right to leave. I still wasn't about to make any unexpected moves around the adolescent with the weapon.
Barbaccia gave me a cordial nod of dismissal. "Perhaps we'll meet again," he said pleasantly.
Chapter 11
Outside in the parking area there were three cars that hadn't been there when I'd arrived. Two were white and blue, with POLIZIA MUNICIPALE on the sides; the other, huge and black but unornamented, had its rear door open. One of the two carabinieri—the grown-up, the one without the machine gun—was leaning into it, evidently reporting to someone in the back seat on what had happened. The carabiniere's clipped speech and rigid posture made it obvious that he was reporting to a superior officer.
As I passed by, hoping to find a taxi stand on Viale Lenin, I could just see the crossed legs of the listener, clad in khaki trousers and softly gleaming boots. "Capisco," he was saying. "Sì, capisco. . . . Benissimo. . . . "
Something about those hollow, dessicated capiscos made me cock my head. As I did the voice floated forth again.
"Do my eyes deceive me," it wondered dustily in English, "or can this be Dr. Norgren?"
The Eagle of Lombardy, on the spot. So he did come out of his warren sometimes.
I stopped and came back to the car. "Buongiorno, Colonello. "
"Buongiorno, dottore." He subjected me to an unamiable examination. "You're feeling better?" he asked indifferently.
"I'm feeling fine, thanks." These cool, empty conventions were just that. We seemed to be starting off on the same foot on which we'd concluded our previous meeting.
"Good." The dispassionate scrutiny continued. "I must say, I'm surprised to find you here. Would you be kind enough to tell me what brings you?"
"Salvatorelli is shipping the paintings in our show," I said. "I had to go over the arrangements with him."
"Ah. Wholly understandable. Thank you. My mind is now at ease."
Why wasn't his mind at ease before? What the hell was he implying? "Colonel, is something bothering you? Why shouldn't I be here?"
"No, no, I was thinking only that you have a wonderful talent to be present at critical moments. When your friend was attacked—you were there. Now, at the very moment two paintings are seized at an out-of-the way shipping company— you are here. I was merely contemplating these facts."
"Sheer coincidence," I said.
"No doubt, yet such coincidences unnerve me. Understand me, signore, I suspect you of no complicity—"
Hey, thanks a lot, I thought but didn't say.
"—but I don't like coincidences. They can upset finely laid plans, as can the meddling of the most well-intentioned of people. I hope they will not continue."
"Well, I'll certainly avoid all coincidences in the future." Not much of a retort, but I never seemed to be at my best with Antuono, who continued to demonstrate his remarkable knack for nettling me. My chief consolation was that it seemed to work both ways.
"I'm relieved to hear it. You're returning to the city center?"
I nodded. "To my hotel. I have a meeting later this afternoon with Amedeo Di Vecchio at the Pinacoteca." I thought I'd better let him know ahead of time, in case another "critical moment" occurred.
"Would you
like a ride?" he asked unexpectedly, and, without waiting for my reply, slid aside to make room.
I almost turned him down, but I had no idea where the nearest taxi stand was, and I wasn't quite up to walking the couple of miles into town yet. Besides, I was naturally curious to see where further conversation with him might lead. Resolving not to let him irritate me, I got in. The interior smelled faintly of cloves, as had Antuono himself the other day, now that I thought about it.
Although he might smell the same, however, he didn't look the same, or even seem like the same person. It was amazing what a well-tailored uniform could do. Now his 135 pounds or so looked spare, not scrawny. His arid, whispery voice no longer seemed beaten-down and querulous, but self- assured and reserved, even commanding.
"Alberto? " he murmured to the carabiniere who had been standing at attention and now managed to stiffen even more alertly in preparation for the colonel's next words.
There were no words. Antuono merely nodded his head faintly toward the open door. The carabiniere closed it. Antuono tipped his head minutely toward the driver's seat. The carabiniere quickly trotted around the back of the car, got behind the wheel, and started the engine.
This was fascinating. Obviously, Antuono had considerable cachet, at least with the rank and file. During the recovery of the two pictures, he had remained outside, like a soldier-king, while his minions carried out the operation. And just now the carabiniere had waited, practically quivering, for his command, then jerked like a mechanical soldier at his delicate gestures. What was more, Antuono was very clearly used to this treatment. Yet the higher-ups had assigned him to a disgraceful mole-burrow of an office—an old storage area, as he himself had said—and left him to spend his time riffling through the papers in his precious cardboard boxes like Silas Marner with his hoard. And Antuono seemed quite used to that, too. Content with it, in fact. Suited to it.
So who was he, really? How much weight did he carry? Or was I making too much of what were simply the concomitants of rank? When colonels spoke, corporals jumped. And when generals decided, colonels concurred. The carabinieri were, after all, not a civilian police force but a military body. Most of the corps still lived in barracks.
Antuono had wedged himself up against the far side of the car and sat holding on to the strap above the door, his doleful, droop-nosed profile backlit by the window, his tunic buttoned across his narrow chest. He looked out the window and sighed, his mind somewhere else. For someone who had just executed the recovery of two stolen, reasonably valuable paintings, his spirits hadn't been perceptibly raised.
"Congratulations, Colonel," I said as the car slipped out into the traffic. I was determined to get us on a better footing.
"On?" he said absently, still looking out the window.
"Retrieving the Carrá and the Morandi."
He gave a deprecatory shrug. "Pittura Metafisica."
I understood his feelings. It was hardly the same thing as finding, say, a couple of missing Raphaels. Another bit of data about Antuono registered. He knew something about art, which isn't necessarily true of art cops: enough to know the term Pittura Metafisica in the first place, and enough to have an opinion on its merit. I also realized he hadn't even bothered going into the building to see the pictures they'd retrieved. That seemed odd, Pittura Metafisica or not.
"In any case," he said, "locating them was little more than luck."
"But your men walked in knowing what they were looking for. How did they know where to find them?"
"In the usual way," he said, covering a yawn as he watched the traffic. "An informant. A dealer from Ferrara, new in the area. "
"Filippo Croce?"
He kept looking out the window, but I saw his eyelids whirr briefly. "You know Filippo Croce?"
"I just met him yesterday. At Clara Gozzi's house. "
"I see. Yesterday."
One more mark in Antuono's mental black book. Christopher Norgren, perpetrator of unlikely coincidences. Still, I had to admit to myself that I did seem to be in the thick of things. If I were Antuono, maybe I'd have been wondering about me, too.
"And just why did you assume it was to this gentleman I referred?" he asked.
"Well, he's a dealer from Ferrara, and he mentioned being new, so I just, uh, took a stab."
"Sheer coincidence."
"That and the fact that I didn't trust the guy."
He turned to regard me keenly. "And why not?"
"For one thing, he was pushing Clara to buy some paintings against her better judgment."
"And trustworthy dealers do not do this?"
"No, they don't. And for another—" But how could I tell the Eagle of Lombardy that my suspicions had been aroused by his pointy-toed shoes and polka-dot bow tie? "It's hard to say, Colonel. There was just something that didn't seem right."
"You think not? And yet his information was reliable, as you saw for yourself."
"How did he know about the paintings?"
"On that, he provided great detail. He was seated near two men talking in a bar on the Piazza Garibaldi in Parma. He heard them mention the name of Morandi. As an art dealer who had heard about the theft from Cosenza, he was naturally curious and listened more closely. They began whispering. He tipped his head closer still. And eventually he heard them say `Trasporti Salvatorelli' and 'Lot 70.' Thinking it might be important, he wrote it down. He also tried to see the speakers, but they were seated behind him and he was unable to do this. Afterward, he came immediately to us with the information. Do you see anything untrustworthy in that?"
I was flabbergasted. I hadn't expected any substantive answer at all to my question, let alone this torrent of particulars. Why all the information? Was he testing me to see how much I knew about this kind of thing? As it happened, this was a quiz I thought I could pass; I knew, or thought I knew, most of the usual ways art thieves conducted their business.
"He'll get a reward, won't he?" I asked.
"Certainly. Twenty million lire has been offered, and signor Croce has expressed interest."
Twenty million lire. Roughly thirteen thousand dollars. Not quite the same league as the reward for missing Rubenseses. That was a relief anyway, an indication that some things were still right in the world.
"And you find something improper in this?" he prompted.
"Colonel, I'm sure it's occurred to you that his story is a little pat. I mean, he just happens to be in a bar where he just happens to overhear the name of an artist that not one person in ten thousand would recognize, coupled with a few words that pinpoint an exact location. . . . Doesn't it strike you as too much of a—"
"Coincidence?" Antuono said with the most meager of smiles. Not playful, exactly. Not even chaffing. But all the same a smile.
What do you know, I thought. Does a sense of humor lurk in there somewhere?
"And your conclusion?" he asked, turning again to the window. We were now on the trafficky Via Mazzina, swinging around one of the half-a-dozen grandiose gates on the perimeter of the Old City; all that was left of the thirteenth- century city walls.
"My conclusion is that there never were any talkative, careless thieves—they were careful enough to be unseen, you notice—in any bar, and that Croce either stole the paintings himself or he's in league with the people who did. He comes to you with this story, which was probably part of the plan from the beginning, and he and his friends collect the reward. Croce gets commended as a public-spirited citizen, winds up a lot richer, and nobody at all gets arrested or even accused. My conclusion is it's a scam, a hoax."
This succinct description of a hoary and often-used scheme was received-in moody silence, with Antuono hanging on to the strap and staring out the window, nodding rhythmically as I spoke. When we stopped at a traffic light, he swung around to look at me again with an expression that told me I 'd passed the test; I wasn't quite the naive academician he'd supposed me to be on first acquaintance. I got the impression it didn't make him like me any more.
&n
bsp; "Of course it's a hoax," he said abruptly. "It's more of a hoax than you realize. Would you like to know what I think our friend signor Croce is up to?"
I said I would.
"I think these two paintings, the Carrà and the Morandi, are not in themselves significant; I think they function as an advertisement."
Antuono's accent, although slight, clouded his pronunciation enough to make me think I'd misheard him. "Did you say an advertisement?"
He nodded. "I think in this way he sends a message to the underworld here."
"I'm afraid I don't get it. What message?"
"The same message that you seemed to find in his actions."
"That he's a crook?"
"Exactly. It's a subtle way of telling those who know about such things that he is approachable in matters of this kind; that he can deal skillfully with the authorities without implicating others; that for a reasonable consideration he might help in disposing of other missing artworks; that he is—"
"Bent."
"Eccoti, bent," Antuono agreed with another pale smile— two inside of five minutes! "My belief is that he hopes that those behind the robberies of two years ago will approach him to make contact with us or perhaps with the insurance company regarding the return—the profitable return, to be sure—of the paintings. I tell you frankly, dottore," he said resolutely, "I hope in my heart it works. I would like to have those paintings back."
"But how could he do that? If he comes to you again, you'll know he's a crook."
"Of course we'll know. We already know." He snorted. "Two men in a bar! So? Next time he'll come up with another story. He'll tell us someone called him anonymously on the telephone, or someone—also anonymous—tried to sell him one of the paintings and the selfless, virtuous signor Croce wormed the location out of him and ran straight to us with it. He will not be too selfless to accept the reward, however."
He hunched his bony shoulders. "So what? How could we prove anything? But we would have the paintings; that's the important thing. The paintings would be preserved."