The Fine Art of Murder
Page 30
Mira took a breath, “Wow—he was actually here, in this very room, over five hundred years ago, splashing paint on the walls, that boggles the mind. Too bad that Vasari couldn’t help us find Hermann Göring’s picture.”
Franklin smiled then, “In a way Vasari has been most helpful my dear, perhaps not as helpful as our dear friend the Prodigy, or even father Manetti—but helpful none the less.”
“I don’t see how, we drew a blank—a dead trail that lead to months of nothing. That cute little painting could be anywhere in the world right now, you ask me, we will never find it, which is too bad—we could have really used it for the show tonight.”
“Cerca trova—my dear Mira—Cerca trova.”
“Yeah, right, an arrow pointing to the hills, which is exactly where who ever stole that painting has headed. Maybe if we follow Vasari’s arrow we will turn up the missing Leonardo in another five hundred years or so?”
“An interesting, if somewhat inaccurate assessment of our progress to date my dear, perhaps we should go through to the gallery—I would imagine that preparations will soon be drawing to a close, which is fortuitous, as we will be meeting with two of our greatest sponsors in just a few short minutes, perhaps you will join me?”
“You talking corporate suits Uncle C? Because that’s really not my bag.”
“Bag or not dear girl, I think you will enjoy the little meeting I have planned.
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 45
In the long gallery, preparations for the great exhibition were nearing completion. Many of the paintings had already been stripped of their protective coverings and mounted on the walls. Mira had seen many of da Vinci’s great works before, but seeing them collected together, in one place filled her with a profound feeling of awe. As she walked through the gallery, it was clear that the exhibition would be all encompassing, featuring as it did so many of the great masters sketches and preparatory drawings, in addition to a selection of paintings by artists who had inspired the great man.
As her uncle led her into the gallery, a familiar figure rose up to greet them.
Cardinal Saligia regarded them with an unsettling gaze, then said, “Professor Franklin, what a genuine delight it is to see you again—and your delightful niece too.” The cardinal pressed his bony fingers together in an approximation of prayer. “I must confess however that I am somewhat disappointed in your progress in the matter we discussed on my last visit to Los Angeles.”
Franklin nodded thoughtfully, “Understandable, that you would be disappointed Cardinal, but there is really no need, you see I have found your painting.”
The cardinal’s lips tightened into a cold dead line, his reptile eyes glistening with latent menace. “I assumed you had invited me here as a courtesy due to the Vatican’s support for this rather vulgar display that you are overseeing. Need I remind you professor that the Holy See takes a dim view of such secular frivolity, religious art is created in the spirit of reverence and deserves to be viewed with that in mind. Now, perhaps you could desist with the histrionics and present me with the painting—I am assuming you brought it with you?”
Franklin gave a knowing smile and snapped his fingers. On his command a white-gloved assistant stepped forward to the wall and removed the cover from the painting that hung before them.
Mira stifled a gasp.
The cardinal took a step backwards, then turned quickly to Franklin, his reptile eyes boiling with rage—“What is this! I paid you to find the da Vinci and you bring me—”
“The Annunciation by Andrea del Verrocchio. I understand it was painted in 1470,” said Mira, only too happy to clarify the words that the cardinal was so desperately searching for.”
“I know what it is,” hissed the cardinal, his voice heavy with menace, “What I want to know is where the missing da Vinci is—I warn you Franklin, if you are attempting to trifle with me, the Holy Father will hear of this and the repercussions will be far reaching.”
“I thought you would be pleased, Cardinal, after all the painting has been missing for such a long time—A most mysterious theft—An inside job some said, although nothing was ever proven, was it?”
“The da Vinci painting will be returned Franklin, the Holy Father and the Apostolic See demand it.”
“I am glad that we agree on that subject Cardinal. Step this way if you would, I have a most interesting surprise for you.”
“The cardinal gave Franklin a narrow look. “I sense you are mocking me Franklin— very foolish of you, because I could ensure that every Vatican owned painting in this exhibition of yours is returned to Rome before the grand opening this evening—how smug would you be then Professor?”
“Tish, tish, Cardinal, such idle threats will never come to pass, as both we know it. Now, follow me, there is someone I wish you to meet.”
As they moved through the gallery into the next room and the one beyond it, Mira felt her heart race faster—her uncle, always a man of deep thoughts and quietly held convictions, had never once mentioned his plans for the evening—and now with her pulse rate building by the second, she could almost see why.
As they arrived in a final ante-room on the very edge of the gallery, the room was lit by a single spotlight shining down on a single painting.
The portrait of Lucretzia Sfarzoso, by Leonardo da Vinci.
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 46
Even in the twilight glow of the room Mira could tell the cardinal was beaming widely, and when he spoke, she could hear the undiluted triumph in his voice.
You have done well Franklin, for all your arrogance and your posturing you have done exceedingly well—why did you not tell me of your discovery sooner, we could have avoided a great deal of unpleasantness.
“I am not sure that is true Cardinal,” The voice rose out of the darkness like a dark portent from a malevolent past.”
The voice made everyone look. Except perhaps Franklin, he was much less startled, almost as if he had been expecting such an intrusion.
As Mira peered into the darkness, a figure rose up from a seat at the back of the room, and came towards them slowly—a dapper grey haired man in sunglasses. As he walked into the light Mira realized he had a dark tan, if indeed it was a tan he might be—
“Javier Elzorra.” announced the man.
“You are dead!” blurted the cardinal, his voice hesitant, not so self-assured now.
Elzorra laughed. “Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated Cardinal.”
“Cerca trova” muttered Franklin pleasantly.
“I see, ” snapped the cardinal, “A conspiracy. I cannot say that I am surprised. But whatever your game may be, you have been defeated by the nature of your own treachery the pair of you, when the world’s press hear of this their judgment will be harsh gentlemen, I can assure you of that. Perhaps you thought you could defraud the Vatican with your unholy conspiracy? Well you were wrong, damn you.”
“Cut the bull Saligia,” snapped Elzorra. “You speak as though you are the only player in town.”
“I have no idea where this vulgar little game is going Signor Elzorra, but I will be party to it no longer, instead I will allow you to explain your little subterfuge to the Police.”
Elzorra stepped forwards quickly and struck the cardinal in the face with a fluid back handed slap, then almost without pause he reversed the movement, striking the hapless cardinal again, with a more solid open handed blow. “Shut your nasty little mouth and listen up,” said Elzorra, his voice hard and dangerous. “You think I don’t know about the hit Saligia—you think I haven’t got friends—Who do you think you are dealing with?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about, I swear it.”
“You think a denial is going to help you, you reptile?”
“Take the painting—it’s yours, I beg you show mercy, I am a man of God.”
“I don’t need to take the painting, it is already mine, at least it was until I donated it to the city of Florence.”
; “You can’t do that—it isn’t yours, it belongs to the Holy See of Rome—to the Pope himself, we have documents going back five hundred years that prove as much.”
“You got nothing Saligia. I had my people look into this. Da Vinci was contracted to the city of Florence at the time he did this painting—he was moonlighting on their dime, so if this painting belongs to anyone, it belongs to the city and if that Pope of yours wants to say different, he can get in line.”
Salagia wiped away a rivulet of blood that dribbled slowly out of the corner of his mouth. “We will see you in court,” he hissed.
Elzorra nodded, “That might be real dangerous for you Saligia.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I don’t need to, I am guessing your Nazi friends will take a real dim view of your antics though, especially when those salacious magazines in Europe get to hear about your dealings with that rat Bruno Lohse.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about—”
“Sure you don’t Saligia. But, I am guessing your boss the Pope could really do without a juicy little Vatican loves the Nazis scandal right now, am I right?”
Saligia backed away, heading closer to the exit with every step. “You haven’t heard the last of this gentlemen, I can assure you of that,” his voice was thin and tremulous yet oozing with venomous hatred. When he finally disappeared the room descended into silence. The girl in the painting watched over them, a secret smile, twitching at the corners of her mouth. Mira stared into her eyes, to see the painting—the real genuine painting, You could swear the girl was alive, smiling at you with silent amusement.
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 47
Casa Franklin, Malibu, California,
“So, Florence was like a country back in the day right?” asked Mira
“Correct, and the city of Florence was the capital city. You must remember that the country we think of as modern Italy was composed of disparate kingdoms until as recently as the 19th century.”
“That’s kind of weird,” said Mira “I mean can you imagine that happening in America—every state a separate country?”
Cornelius Franklin gave her a cryptic smile.
“Did you square the Elzorra case with the cops?”
“I think you will remember that Detective Ramirez told us to stay out of his business Mira—one must always work in strict accordance with the law, as well you know.”
“But the guy in the pool, what about him?”
“I have no doubt, given time, that Detective Ramirez and his charming partner will discover that this affair was not as straight forward as it would first appear. They might even discover the true identity of their corpse, but I doubt it. The man who made the hit was undoubtedly a professional—although unfortunately for him, not professional enough.”
“You knew that from the get go didn’t you Uncle C?”
Franklin made a double pass with his saber, and looked out over the Malibu coastline to the wide ocean beyond. “Of course I knew Mira my dear, it is my job to know such things.”
“You had no way of knowing where Elzorra was though did you?’
“Cerca trova, my dear.
“You figured he headed for the hills, like Vasari told us.”
“If one is going to head for the hills, where better than the rolling hills of Tuscany Especially when one has been a life long aficionado of such a delightful locale.”
“That’s why he had the Prodigy copy the paintings right?”
“I am surprised that you would even ask me that Mira, if you are going to be working as my assistant for any length of time, you really must take a far more proactive approach to detection.”
“Glad you mentioned that Uncle C, because there is one question you cannot answer,
Michelangelo—when the cardinal first visited us you said that both he and da Vinci painted pictures of Lucretzia Sfarzoso—whatever happened to the picture that Michelangelo painted?”
“A commendable question Mira, perhaps you have a future as a detective after all.” Franklin wiped down the blade of his saber and sheathed it with a flourish. Next, he beckoned his niece to follow him. He took her downstairs into the back of the house through a door that led to the wine cellar and beyond. Then they walked down another corridor that led deep into the hillside. The door they finally came to was marked with a warning sign, as though they might be entering a closet that contained an emergency back up generator. But, as the thick, armored door opened wider Mira realized that this was no utility room it was an entrance, to an underground art gallery, and the walls of the gallery were lined with paintings that looked strangely familiar—names sprung to mind immediately—Picasso Matisse, Van Gogh—they walked through the gallery until at last there it was, another picture of Lucretzia Sfarzoso, less sumptuously detailed than in the painting by Leonardo da Vinci, but no less beautiful.
“Sfumato, said Franklin happily—painted in the manner of smoke—Leonardo used the technique too, most notably on the Mona Lisa—it makes the expression of the portrait change as the viewer looks at it, very beautiful, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Where the hell did you get this?”
“A question you never ask a true collector Mira, but I can assure you the provenance is assured.
“This has to be priceless—”
“Indeed, and one day many years from now, it will pass to one of the great public collections in the world. But until then, we will be graced with the divine presence of Michelangelo Buonarroti.