(36/40) The Fine Art of Murder

by Donald Bain

  “This is terrible,” I said.

  “It couldn’t be helped,” said Lippi. “These reporters, they have contacts in every government department, including the police.”

  “But how did that photographer know that I’d be arriving on that flight?”

  “They have their associates in the airlines, too, I am afraid. They are like mice, able to squeeze through even the smallest of openings, always finding a way to get what they want.”

  I wasn’t sure that I would have used that analogy to describe the paparazzi, but it was as good as any at the moment. What was of considerably greater concern to me was what it would mean having my photograph in the newspaper. If the young man under arrest read the papers, he would know who I was, and, more important, he would know that his fate might rest in my hands. Of course, he wasn’t in any position to harm me—but what of his accomplices? What of others of his ilk?

  “Have you arrested the second man involved in the murder?” I asked.

  “No, we have not. I hope that with your positive identification, the man we have in custody will provide us with information about others in the ring.”

  I hadn’t examined the newspaper article beyond my photograph, so I picked up the paper again and scanned the page. Mine wasn’t the only photo accompanying the piece. Staring out at me was the young man who’d shot Mr. Fanello, the one I was there to pick out of a police lineup.

  “That’s him!” I blurted.

  “Si,” said Lippi.

  “What does the caption say?” I asked, referring to the words in Italian beneath the photo.

  “That he has been accused of murder and art theft. The entire story is about how the theft of art in Italy has become big business, a lucrative source of income for the Mafia. That other photo is of Enzo Felice.”

  I focused on the photo Lippi pointed to. Enzo Felice, a corpulent man wearing a three-piece suit and sporting a wide smile, was being taken into custody by uniformed police.

  “He’s in jail?” I asked.

  “No, he is very much a free man. We arrest him, his lawyers get him off. Men like Felice create many layers between themselves and their crimes. Felice is a very big man here in the Mafia,” Lippi further explained. “He controls numerous gangs, including those whose job it is to steal valuable paintings. The young man in custody worked for him.”

  I felt a knot develop in my stomach. It hadn’t occurred to me that the Mafia would be involved, although its connection to art theft had been mentioned in earlier conversations.

  “What does the article say about me?” I asked.

  “Only that you are a famous writer of murder mysteries and are an eyewitness to the crime for which l’idiota Lombardi has been accused.”

  “That’s his name?” I asked. “Lombardi?”

  “Si. Danilo Lombardi.”

  Curso, who’d remained silent during the conversation, finally spoke. “Nothing to worry about, Jessica,” he said, his words accompanied by a laugh. “The only person you have to worry about is this young punk Lombardi, and he’s already behind bars and will remain there for the rest of his wretched life once you have identified him. Besides, the police will be with you every step of the way, and so will I.”

  I smiled at my new friend but didn’t say what I was thinking. As charming as he was, Anthony Curso didn’t represent a source of physical security for me.

  “So,” Lippi said in an attempt to lighten the mood, “I propose a toast to our lovely guest, Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Thank you,” I said, raising my glass to touch his espresso cup.

  Our toast was interrupted by a light going off in my face. I looked up to see the same young man from the airport standing a few feet from us, his lens raised, the camera’s motor whirring as it captured shot after shot. Lippi jumped to his feet as members of the restaurant staff ran across the room in our direction. Lippi grabbed the photographer by the front of his jumpsuit and propelled him across the handsome room and out the door.

  “Mi dispiace, so sorry, so sorry,” the bar’s maître d’ said to Curso, wringing his hands and rolling his eyes. “How dare he intrude on you like this?”

  “It is nothing, signore,” Curso said. “Forget about it.”

  Lippi returned. “Scum!” he muttered angrily. “I am sorry, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “It isn’t your fault,” I said. “I do wish there wasn’t all this notoriety associated with my arrival. I assumed I’d show up quietly, take part in your lineup, feel good about having done it, and return home.”

  “Ah,” Curso said as he motioned for another drink, “life is never as simple as we would like it to be.”

  Lippi checked his watch and said, “I’m afraid I must go now. We are grateful to you, Mrs. Fletcher, for being here, and I apologize for any hardships it might entail.”

  “I must admit that I’ll be glad when it’s over, Detective. When will the lineup take place?”

  “We have scheduled it for late tomorrow afternoon. I have a suggestion.”

  “Yes?”

  “It will not help our cause if the lawyers for Lombardi know that you have seen this newspaper article with their client’s picture in it. They will claim that your having seen it has tainted your objectivity.”

  “I understand,” I said, “but I won’t lie if I’m asked.”

  “No, of course not. I only suggest that you not offer the information without being prompted.”

  I agreed.

  “One final bit of advice,” said Lippi. “If you decide to venture from the hotel alone, please take care with your personal possessions. Street crime is on the rise here in Rome, with young thieves snatching purses from the unsuspecting. Be aware of your surroundings at all times.”

  “Thank you for the warning,” I said. “I’ll certainly heed it.”

  When Curso and I were alone in the booth, he said, “Now, my friend, maybe we can find time to discuss the book I have proposed.”

  I heard what he said, but the words seemed far away. As I stared down at the newspaper that Lippi had left on the table, the knot in my stomach grew and I felt a wave of fatigue wash over me.

  “Are you all right, Jessica?” Curso asked.

  “What? Oh, yes, I’m fine. It must be jet lag, my circadian rhythms out of kilter.”

  “I was asking about the collaboration between us, but it seems that now is not the time. This lovely lady needs a rest.”

  I smiled. “Yes, that’s exactly what I need. Would you excuse me?”

  “But of course. I want to see you rested and relaxed when we go to dinner.”

  “Dinner?” Food was the last thing on my mind at that moment.

  “I have a surprise for you this evening,” he said.

  “I’m not sure that I’m up for any surprises, Tony.”

  “Nonsense. Come, you must go to your room and nap. I promised the bartender, a very good friend, to show him a variation on the Hurricane, a popular cocktail in New Orleans. The last time I was there I stopped in to see the bartender at Pat O’Brien’s, who showed me this new approach to making the drink. It’s all in the mix and—”

  I placed my hand on his and said, “If I don’t get to that nap, you’ll be carrying me.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  He escorted me to the elevators. “Sleep tight,” he said, squeezing my hand. “I’ll call you at, say, five. We’ll have an early dinner, yes?”

  “Yes, fine, Tony. That will be fine.”

  I didn’t realize how upsetting seeing my photograph in the newspaper had been until I’d gotten out of my clothes, stretched out on the bed, and pulled the comforter over me. I hadn’t bargained on this sort of intrigue. It was to have been a simple matter of showing up, peering through a piece of one-way glass, identifying the culprit (assuming that he was in the lineup), and going home (or, more accurately, back to Chicago). Instead, I’d ended up the subject of media scrutiny—the sort no one seeks or is comfortable with.

  I dozed off in the mi
dst of these thoughts and awoke two hours later, groggy but rested. It was only noon, which gave me some time before Curso called for me at five. I decided to shower, slip on comfortable clothing and walking shoes, have lunch sent up, and take a leisurely stroll.

  An hour later I stepped out onto Via Bocca di Leone, ready to do a little exploring. I knew that the hotel was only a short walk from Rome’s fabled Piazza di Spagna, the Spanish Steps, 137 of them built by the French to create easier access to their church of Trinità dei Monti from the plaza below. I rounded a corner and headed for the plaza along Via Condotti, Rome’s fashionable shopping street, stopping at window after window to admire the endless array of high-priced clothing and fashion accessories offered by shops with famous names. The pleasant, sunny weather had brought Romans and tourists to the streets, and walking was sometimes slow going because of the crowds clogging the sidewalks. I reached the Spanish Steps ten minutes later and stopped at the base to get my bearings. Should I make the trek up? I put off that decision, opting instead to follow the charming Via Margutta off to the left, lined with art galleries and stalls erected on the sidewalk by artists. As I perused the works for sale, I thought about how tragic it was that such beautiful works of art had become fodder for organized crime like drugs and extortion and prostitution. I spent a few minutes admiring a landscape by a young female artist, envisioning it on that blank wall space in my home, but decided this was not the time to be making a major purchase.

  Instead I retraced my path back to the plaza at the base of the steps and stopped in at the Keats-Shelley Memorial, the final home of the poet John Keats. I bought two small volumes of the poets’ works before going to the rococo fountain, Fontana della Barcaccia, from which tourists and locals alike who were about to climb the steps satisfied their thirst before making the ascent. I, too, drank from the fountain, which is in the shape of the boats that plied the waters of the nearby Tiber River, then drew a few preliminary breaths and started up. I made sure to check that the money belt I always traveled with was secure around my waist, Detective Lippi’s admonition firmly in mind.

  The steps were as crowded as the sidewalks had been. Along with tourists and locals out for a day in the sun were what seemed to be hundreds of men and women of all ages heavily made up and wearing a variety of costumes. I stopped to observe a group of them who were posing for tourist cameras, and asked a man taking pictures who they were.

  “Models,” he said in a British accent. “They pose here hoping to catch the eye of an artist from the fine arts academies that seem to be everywhere. Appears they’d be better off getting a real job.”

  I smiled, thanked him for the information, and continued my climb.

  I reached the first of three landings on which dozens of artisans hawked their products and enjoyed a few minutes’ rest before continuing. I’d gotten halfway to the second landing when I found my path blocked by two young men playfully jostling each other. I stopped, then tried to skirt them. As I passed behind one of the men, the other pushed him against me, sending me toppling backward into a family of tourists. The husband tried to break my fall but was unsuccessful. I knocked down the family’s teenage daughter and, as I did, I continued falling over her, headfirst, until my forehead came to rest against the edge of one of the steps. I felt a searing pain where contact had been made and my hand automatically went to my head. Blood—my blood—ran through my fingers. Everything went black, replaced by shooting stars and jagged lightning. I heard voices—“Are you all right, lady?”—and someone knelt next to me and placed fingertips on my cheek.

  I looked up into blurred faces. My vision cleared somewhat and I used my left arm to attempt to right myself. The moment I put pressure on it, pain radiated from the shoulder down to my hand.

  “Take it easy,” someone said.

  “Get an ambulance.”

  “No,” I said, now able to at least sit up.

  Someone handed me a rag, which I pressed to the bleeding wound on my forehead.

  “I don’t need an ambulance,” I protested as I struggled to regain my equilibrium. It was at that moment, while sitting on the Spanish Steps surrounded by strangers, my head pounding and my shoulder and arm aching, that I peered up into the eyes of the young man who’d crashed into me and sent me sprawling. He and his friend smiled, actually smiled, before they stepped out of my sight and were gone.

  “No,” I muttered.

  A woman leaned close. “No what, signora?”

  I didn’t answer her because she wouldn’t have understood. I wasn’t certain myself. All I knew from my fleeting glance at my assailant—it was an assault, wasn’t it?—was that he looked like the second young man who’d barged into the church, stolen the Bellini, and escaped with his accomplice, who’d slain Mr. Fanello.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Despite my protests, two members of the local Po-lizia, the civilian arm of Italian law enforcement, aided by two medical emergency technicians, carried this embarrassed woman down the Spanish Steps to a waiting ambulance that whisked me to a nearby hospital, the Ospedale San Giacomo, where I was taken to the emergency room and examined by the doctor on duty. He insisted upon a CAT scan of my head, which was negative, and an X-ray of my shoulder, which also didn’t show any serious damage—“a strained muscle” was the diagnosis. As I waited in one of the examining rooms after I’d been told I’d been discharged, I glanced at a clock on the wall. It was almost four; Curso would be calling my hotel room soon.

  “Could I make a phone call?” I asked one of the nurses who spoke fluent English.

  “Of course,” she said.

  I didn’t know the number for the hotel, but she got it from Information and placed the call, asking to be connected to Mr. Curso’s room. When he came on the line, she handed me the phone.

  “Tony, it’s Jessica. There’s been a slight change in plans. I’m in the hospital.”

  He gasped.

  “I’m all right, Tony. I had an accident, that’s all. I’m fine.”

  He asked which hospital I was calling from and I gave him the name.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen, twenty minutes, Jessica, depending on the traffic. Stay right where you are.”

  The doctor, a sweet-natured middle-aged man, told me, “I suggest that you rest for a day and do not hesitate to take the pain medicine you have been given whenever you need it. You will require transportation to your hotel?”

  “No, thank you. Someone is picking me up.”

  “Good. You are fortunate that your injuries aren’t more serious.”

  “I’m grateful for that, and for your care. Grazie!”

  Despite my protests that I felt perfectly capable of walking under my own steam, they insisted that I be wheeled from the ER to the lobby. As we moved through the hallway I thought of the elder Mrs. Simsbury and wondered what it was like to be permanently consigned to a wheelchair. Not a pleasant thought. Was her nasty disposition the result of her condition? Probably not. I suspected that she was one of those people born with a difficult personality, something in the genes, possibly enhanced by her upbringing.

  The orderly who took me to the lobby wished me a “better” day and left me to await Curso’s arrival. Fifteen minutes later, he came to a screeching halt directly in front of the hospital—the car he drove was sporty and fire-engine red—and burst through the doors, threw up his hands at seeing me, and exclaimed, “What have they done to you?”

  “They’ve been very nice to me and—”

  “You look as though you have been beaten up,” he said as he came to where I sat, went down on one knee, and took my free hand. My other arm was in a sling.

  “I guess I have been,” I said. “I’m ready to leave.”

  “Of course.” He stood and pulled me up out of the chair.

  While my injuries were restricted to my forehead and shoulder, I expected my entire body to ache as I walked with careful steps toward the door. It was when I was almost there that I caught a glimpse of my reflection
in the glass. A large compression bandage dominated my forehead, and the white sling covered one side of me. “I do look a mess,” I said, more to myself than to him.

  His red sports car was difficult to enter, but I managed. He closed my door, ran around to the driver’s side, got in, and started the engine, which came to life with a roar.

  “Where did you get this car?” I asked as he navigated traffic.

  “A rental. I always use a rental agency that specializes in sports cars when I’m in Rome. It’s a Ferrari Scuderia 430, top of the line.” He was looking at me as he spoke and had to jam on the brakes to avoid piling into a double-parked delivery truck. The pain in my shoulder elicited a moan.

  “Mi dispiace,” he said. “Sorry. I’ll drive more slowly.”

  The doorman at the hotel took one look at me and winced. “What happened, signora?” he asked as Curso helped me out of his car.

  “An accident,” I said. “I fell.”

  “Or was pushed,” Curso said angrily as he guided me into the lobby and to the elevators.

  I’d told him during the trip that two young Italian men had been horsing around and had bumped into me, causing me to tumble backward. I also mentioned that one of them resembled the second armed thief in the church in L’Aquila, and added that they’d looked down at me and smiled as though pleased that I’d fallen. My tale elicited a string of Italian curses, or at least what sounded like profanity. I didn’t ask for a translation.

  A mirror in the entranceway to my room drew my attention and I moved closer to examine the damage. “I look like who-did-it-and-ran,” I said.

  “A dreadful experience,” Curso said. “Did the police make a report?”

  “I suppose so, although it appeared to them to be nothing more than an unfortunate accident.”