8 The Black Market
* * *
Joe quickly threw the uniform back over the rifle and closed the lid on the box. “Let’s go. Bruno, andiamo—quickly.”
Bruno nodded and they all hurried out. Bruno waved them on while he secured the secret door.
“Wait a minute,” Joe whispered, stopping after taking a few steps up the stairway. “I think someone’s coming.”
They listened as someone began descending the stairs into the cellar.
“We’ve got to hide,” Joe said desperately. “If the count finds us down here, we’re sunk.”
“There is no place to hide,” Frank said. “We’ll just have to pretend we don’t know anything about the secret chapel.”
Joe steeled himself for the confrontation and began walking back up the stairs. He tried to trump up some excuse for being there as the footsteps approached.
“Joe, Frank, Cosimo—you down there? Time to stop playing around and get back to work.”
“Julia!” the three boys cried in relief.
“What on earth are you screaming about?” said Julia as she ran down the stairs to where they could all see her. “You look as though you’ve all seen a ghost.”
After reaching the safety of the dig site, Joe began explaining to Julia what they had found. Before this, he and Frank hadn’t wanted to involve Julia in their hit-or-miss investigation. Nobody had asked them to track down the jewels, and what they had done so far felt more like bumping around in a haunted house than doing active detective work. Now Joe felt they were in deep enough to start in earnest. Frank felt the same way.
“I admit you’ve been getting yourself into some tight spots,” Julia said after Joe had brought her up-to-date. “But I don’t know if it adds up to anything but bad luck and lack of prudence on your part. You’re fortunate that Antonio Cafaggio didn’t have you arrested. And eight-millimeter rifles are as common as potatoes—my father even has one back in England.”
“But why is someone—presumably the count—keeping a rifle hidden away like that?” Joe asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “Perhaps nostalgia keeps him from turning it in to the authorities, as I assume he ought to do. We certainly don’t have any proof that he—or anyone, for that matter—tried to spook your horses on purpose.”
Listening to Julia, Frank realized that archaeology and crime investigation had a lot in common, and that Julia would make a good detective. “So what would you do in our shoes?” he asked.
“I think I’d probably try to help my field supervisor finish her dig.”
“No, really,” Frank insisted.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose I’d try to trace the path of the jewelry, maybe try to find out if there’s a dealer in Florence known for working with tomb robbers and for smuggling ancient artifacts to Switzerland. But it would be dangerous and involve a lot of footwork. Definitely not something people in the middle of an important dig are going to have time to do.”
“But, Julia,” Joe said, “wouldn’t you like to have the jewelry back?”
“Yes, and then there’s reality,” she replied, handing Joe his trowel.
Joe took the trowel and pointed it at the skeleton’s hand, which seemed to be reaching for the missing jewelry box. “What about her? You yourself said we owe her something.”
Julia stared a Joe for a few seconds. “I’ll give you and Frank one day. No more.”
“We’re going to need Cosimo,” Joe said.
“Okay, off with you then,” she said as they climbed up the ladder. “And if anybody asks—I have no idea where you are.”
“Okay, so we’re in this thing for real,” Joe said as they walked through the garden toward their room to change clothes. “What do we do now?”
“I’ve been thinking about Bruno,” Frank said. “I know Inspector Barducci thought he might be leading us on. You guys don’t think he could have planted that rifle in the secret chapel in order to frame the count, do you?”
“You mean, he could have fired the shot with Captain Ruffino’s gun and then made it look like he didn’t realize it was there?” Cosimo asked.
“If he did that, he’s awfully clever,” Joe said. “He sure has me wondering about the count.”
“I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere without pushing some buttons,” Frank said as they entered their room. Through the window, they could see an orange sun setting to the west. It looked like another clear night ahead. “How about we talk to Bruno? Find out what he knows about the black market in stolen artifacts. We can judge from his answers whether he’s trying to hide something.”
“Yeah,” Joe said. “I bet he picked up a lot about that sort of thing in prison.”
“Va bene,” Cosimo said, agreeing.
• • •
They found Bruno in the chicken coop, a ramshackle collection of crates surrounded by bits of mismatched wire fencing cobbled together. He stayed inside, feeding a hen, while Cosimo asked him questions.
It turned out that Bruno wanted to play dumb. He kept saying he was just a simple contadino, a peasant, and knew nothing about anything. He had no idea the chest was in the chapel. He didn’t know who could have shot the rifle. He learned nothing about black market dealers in prison. He just wanted to be left out of the whole affair.
Cosimo was about to give up when Joe got an idea. “Tell him that we’re going to have to report the gun to the police and that the count will probably be arrested for using an illegal firearm. Bruno will of course have to testify about his role in the discovery of the gun.”
“Aspetta, aspetta,” Bruno cried. Wait, wait.
“He says he’ll lose his job if that happens,” Cosimo explained. “Maybe he can remember something about the black market in Florence, after all.”
“Good,” Frank said. “Tell him we need a name.”
“He says there’s an Englishman named Philip Speck, who is known to buy stolen Etruscan artifacts from tomb robbers. He says sometimes even contadini will find artifacts in the fields and sell them to him instead of turning them over to the authorities.”
“Grazie, Bruno,” Frank said. “And good thinking, Joe.”
“So let’s go check this guy out,” Joe said.
“There’s one more thing,” Cosimo said as they walked away from Bruno and his hen. “Bruno says this guy is dangerous. He’s pretty sure he’s connected to organized crime.”
“Then he must be the man we’re looking for,” Joe said matter-of-factly.
“Um, look,” Cosimo said, stopping on the gravel path. He looked down at his feet. “I . . . I’m not so sure I should take part in this. Maybe it’s better to let the authorities pursue this.”
“You’re probably right, Cosimo,” Frank said. “But we’ll be careful. Anyway, since he’s English, you’re off the hook.”
• • •
Speck’s shop was listed in the phone book, so Frank and Joe got the idea to call for an appointment. Joe made the call, posing as a rich American looking for a gift for his mother. After taking their scooters down the winding road into the center of Sesto Fiorentino, they decided to take the bus into Florence, where Speck had a shop on a fashionable street near the Pitti Palace.
Speck was dressed in a blue sports coat and had a florid silk scarf stuffed into his shirt at the neck. Joe thought he looked as if he was in his forties, though Frank judged from the wrinkles around his eyes that he was probably a fit fifty. His shop was stuffed full of antique furniture, and paintings covered the walls.
‘So you want to make Mummy happy,” Speck said with a smooth, polished English accent. “You’ve come to the right place.”
Frank and Joe made small talk, moving from piece to piece until Frank caught sight of an ornate wooden jewelry box that had a woman’s face in-laid onto the top. “How much is that?”
“Oh, a very nice choice, indeed. You see that lovely face looks rather like a Botticelli, and in fact the box dates from the late fifteenth centur
y, around when Botticelli was painting.” He paused and rested his chin on the knuckles of his right hand. “I could let you have it for ten thousand dollars. And if you pay cash, well, we might work something else out.”
Joe was wondering who would carry that much cash around when Frank made his move. “It’s really tempting. I’m sure Mom would love it,” Frank said, winding up before delivering his pitch. “Hey, speaking of jewelry boxes, did you happen to read about that Etruscan jewelry box that was stolen yesterday? I’ll bet Mom would really like one of those.”
“Come on, Frank,” Joe said, immediately grasping what Frank was doing. “You’d have to know the right people to get hold of something like that.”
Frank could feel Speck’s stare intensifying. He felt as if he were dangling a worm in front of a hungry fish.
If Speck saw the hook through the bait, he didn’t let on. “Yes, wouldn’t it be nice to know those people. But I hardly think Mummy would approve of such a gift now, would she?”
‘You obviously don’t know our mom,” Joe said, shaking his head. “She loves that kind of stuff. She says museums take all the fun out of ancient art.”
“Yeah,” Frank continued in a complaining tone. “So she’s decided to turn our house into a museum. We have to practically tiptoe around.”
“Your mother sounds like an interesting lady,” Speck said. “You know, I feel much the same way. I’m sure those stolen jewels are just screaming with delight, knowing that they’ll soon end up on the pretty little neck of someone like your mother.”
“She’d sure be proud if we brought those home,” Joe said, hoping he wasn’t laying it on too thick.
“Come to think of it, I just may have something of interest for you in the back room,” Speck said as someone came in the front door, setting off a buzzer. “But first let me go tend to my visitor.”
Frank turned around and saw Speck walk over and take a box from the man who had just come in. Frank had a sinking feeling when he recognized the man, who was wearing a blue lab coat. Signore Cafaggio’s heavy-handed assistant looked up and made eye contact with Frank before Frank could turn around. “Now we’re in trouble,” he said to Joe under his breath as Speck and the man came walking slowly over.
“So,” Speck began, “it appears you two have already met Signore Pino. What he has just told me leads me to believe that you gentlemen have not been entirely truthful with me.”
Uh-oh! Frank thought. Another few minutes and we might have had Speck in the bag. Now he’s got us. “That’s right, Speck. But don’t worry, I think we’ve got your number, anyway.”
“I guess we’d better take a rain check on the visit to your back room,” Joe said as he tried to walk past Speck.
“Ah, but aren’t you curious about what Pino has brought over?” Speck asked, as Pino stepped forward to block the way. “Aprirla, Pino—open it, so that our young detective friends can see that you and I and Signore Cafaggio are innocent of the heinous crime they suspect us of.”
Pino set the crate down on a table and ripped off the top. Frank and Joe obligingly peered in and saw a ceramic vase.
Joe stood there bent over the box, studying it carefully.
“Oh my, what a good little detective we are,” Speck taunted. “You’re wondering about a false bottom, aren’t you?” Speck laughed. “But now you really have tried my patience.” He turned to Pino and spoke in Italian. “Pino has kindly agreed to escort you boys away—rather far away, if you know what I mean.”
9 The Dark Side of Florence
* * *
Pino, with his broad shoulders and long ape-like arms, grabbed Joe roughly by the elbow and shoved him toward the shop door. Joe jerked his arm away and then rammed it back into Pino’s chest, sending him crashing into a high bookshelf, knocking it down and spilling all of its valuable contents.
Joe and Frank were racing for the door when they heard Speck’s calm voice from behind. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said. Joe glanced back and saw that Speck was holding a gun. “You didn’t think I’d be unprepared for the likes of you now, did you, boys?
“That’s better,” Speck said as Joe and Frank stood quietly. “Now I suppose we’ll have to get ‘Mummy’ to pay for the damage you’ve caused. Fortunately, I know just the gentlemen to arrange such a transaction. All you have to do is walk quietly over to Pino’s van and get in the back.”
Speck spoke to Pino quickly in Italian, then slipped his gun into his right jacket pocket. He left his hand there as they all walked out the door.
When they reached the van, Pino swung open the rear doors and Speck motioned for Frank and Joe to get in. Frank bent over and put his hands on the deck as though he was about to climb in. But instead he shifted his weight to his hands and shot his legs out in a powerful horse-kick straight at Speck’s gun hand. The gun went off and Speck went reeling into the busy street. A car screeched as Frank took off.
Joe swung around and gave Pino a punch in the stomach and then followed Frank onto the crowded sidewalk. They ran a block toward the Pitti Palace; when they reached the wide stone-clad piazza that slanted down from the prisonlike palace they looked back to see Pino running after them, his blue lab-coat flapping behind him like ineffective wings.
The lights were on in the big arched doorway leading into the inner courtyard of the Pitti, and people were lined up to get in. “There must be something going on in the Boboli Gardens tonight,” Frank said. “Let’s go in. I’m sure we can lose him in the crowd.”
But Pino was running like a soccer player, unfazed by the heat that still radiated off the pavement stones. Frank and Joe ran past the line of people, jumped over a rope, and kept running into the courtyard. They had been there before, when Cosimo had shown them the sights of Florence just after they had arrived, so they knew that the garden entrance was across the courtyard. You had to give your ticket to a guard stationed in an arched tunnel that took you under the massive palace and out into the huge garden on the hill behind. The garden, with its paths winding through mazes of tall bushes, would be a perfect place to elude Pino—if they could make it past the guard.
Already, the guards behind them were blowing their whistles, alerting the security staff to a disturbance. But with Pino bearing down on them like a predator—and maybe an armed one—there was no stopping. He was in the courtyard now, too, closing in.
As they approached the tunnel, two guards jumped up and started shouting, “Fermate, fermate”—stop, stop. But they were unarmed, frail-looking older men, so Frank and Joe kept barreling on.
It wasn’t until they got well up onto the hill that they were able to gain some ground on Pino. The moon shone brightly enough for them to be able to see when they were on a wide path, but in the lesser byways and in the tangle of the brush itself, they had to fumble along in semidarkness.
“I think we lost him,” Joe whispered, panting. They quietly crept out of a stand of trees and looked down the hill. The Pitti was lit up, and behind it the whole city of Florence sparkled like a rich red ruby.
“Uh-oh,” Frank said. “Now we’re really in trouble.” About two dozen flashlights were spread across the hill and slowly moving toward them.
“We’ve got to keep going,” Joe said.
“But where?” Frank asked. “This place is surrounded by a high wall. Maybe we should turn ourselves in. We haven’t done anything except run for our lives.”
“Yeah, but it’ll probably take a night in jail to explain that. It can’t get any worse if we look for a way out.”
So they climbed up to the top of the hill, where the old Forte di Belvedere stood watch, its twenty-foot-high walls providing an unlikely route of escape.
“I think I remember a place where a building butts up against the wall,” Joe said. “Maybe we can climb up there.”
They ran to the place Joe remembered and quickly got to the roof of the small add-on structure nestled in a corner of the wall. From there they found a patch of wall where the mortar
had eroded enough for them to easily grip the large protruding stones and scramble up to the top.
“That was a close one,” Frank said as they walked along the wall, picking their way through several couples who obviously thought this was a romantic spot. Exhausted, the Hardys stopped and leaned over the parapet to watch below as the search party arrived at the fort. One bright beam swept along the top of the wall, surprising the lovers. Frank and Joe easily ducked out of the way.
Frank scanned the horizon, wondering if Pino had gotten away, too. He spotted the huge replica of Michelangelo’s statue of David, dramatically lit on the opposite hill, David’s empty slingshot draped casually over his shoulder as though it had been no big deal to kill the giant. Callie ought to see this, he said to himself.
“Hey, Frank, you hungry?” Joe said.
“Starved.”
They walked down the via del Forte di San Giorgio, descending quickly from the quiet hill with its beautiful stucco homes into the crowded, tourist-ridden streets of the historic center. They crossed the bridge known as the Ponte Vecchio and turned down the Lungarno, the street that went along the muddy Arno River, looking for a place to eat.
“Let’s try this,” Frank said, when they finally found a place that didn’t look too expensive. It had the neat, crisp look of a well-trimmed yacht, with varnished wood trim around a large plate glass window.
“You sure we can afford this place?” Joe asked as they opened the heavy wood and glass door. “Look at the white tablecloths and fancy waiters.”
“Probably not, but we can get away with it once, I think.”
The maitre d’ came up and looked them over from head to foot. Joe looked down at his pants. He had started out the evening looking all right, but after their run-in with Pino, it was a different story.
“Follow me,” the maitre d’ said with a stiff smile, evidently spotting right away that they were Americans. He led them to a little table off by itself near the kitchen door and across from the bar.
The Lure of the Italian Treasure Page 6
