by Roy Lewis
‘Well, perhaps we should move on to the matter which has been preoccupying us since the death of Peter Steiner,’ Carmela said. ‘Joachim…?’
The German art expert raised his head, picked up the papers he had been studying before the meeting began. He looked through them again now, while the others waited. He was not a man to be hurried. Finally, he nodded. ‘The meeting you had, Carmela, with the director of the Abrogazzi Museum, would seem to have produced some positive results. I have now had opportunity to study the learned articles that Gabriel Nunza directed us towards. He is quite a good writer … and his research methods are normally meticulous. But, as one might suspect, he must have been somewhat flattered by the attention being paid to him, and on some occasions I am of the opinion that he was displaying a degree of laxity in reaching some of his conclusions. But that is not the important point….’
He broke off as the door swung open and the American member of the group entered the room. McMurtaghy nodded apologetically to Carmela before taking the vacant seat at the table. ‘Sorry for being late,’ he growled.
Carmela raised a hand in greeting. ‘You arrive at an opportune moment. We have just started a discussion on matters that I mentioned to you, as a result of our interview with Nunza. We can then hear about what has been preoccupying you in the States.’
McMurtaghy hunched his shoulders and leaned forward. ‘Go ahead.’
Joachim Schmidt appeared slightly nettled at the commanding, somewhat patronizing tone in the American’s voice. He cleared his throat. ‘I was saying that Gabriel Nunza had been a little careless in some of his conclusions regarding items discussed in the articles he had written. But putting that on one side, from what Carmela has already told us from her discussion with the director of the Abrogazzi Museum, I am able to conclude that her suspicions may be confirmed. Nunza was certainly being used.’
‘In what way?’ asked Alienor Donati.
‘I think it was quite methodical. Deliberate. An opinion would be asked for regarding an artefact, which would be permitted to be presented for display at the Abrogazzi, on a limited time frame. Nunza would be encouraged to study the artefact at his leisure during the agreed period. He was then given commissions by learned journals in which he would have encouragement to discuss the artefact in question. His conclusions were then printed, and made available to the academic world. Alongside, but ostensibly not linked to this process a sizeable donation would be made to the Abrogazzi: not to Nunza personally, there is no evidence that he gained financially from such transactions. The funds were made available to the owners: one presumes they were used for the support of the museum itself but we have no information with regard to this. But I have no doubt in my suspicious mind that these benefactions were made by way of what you Anglo Saxons would describe as ‘sweeteners’ … is that the right word?’
McMurtaghy grunted. ‘Encouragement for Nunza to include references to the artefacts in his learned articles.’
‘That is correct.’
‘But you feel that Nunza himself was acting honestly?’ Carmela enquired.
‘If carelessly. Blindly, even, on some occasions.’ Schmidt took off his glasses and began to polish them with his handkerchief. He sighed. ‘There is a certain academic innocence in Nunza’s actions. Only late in the day did he begin to have doubts….’
‘Possibly only after he received a call from Peter Steiner,’ Arnold intervened. ‘At that point he began to get nervous and he went back over his work, began to check references, and realized that his work was being referred to in brochures where artefacts he had authenticated appeared.’
‘There was nothing wrong with his authentications?’ McMurtaghy queried.
‘No. They were sound enough,’ Carmela confirmed.
‘So the problem is…?’
Arnold leaned forward. ‘Authenticating the artefacts was one thing. But the brochures were saying other things, such as providing provenance.’ He shook his head. ‘There are several examples we’ve been able to identify. When put up for sale, these artefacts were stated to have been obtained from the collection of the Abrogazzi Museum. For most purchasers, that implied provenance would have been sufficient. And the fact that the Abrogazzi is well known to have financial problems, as a privately owned operation, would be enough to silence doubts as to why the museum had at some point sold the artefact in question. Which, of course, it had not done. It had merely held the artefacts for a period of time before returning them to the current owner.’
‘But now with a rubber stamp from Gabriel Nunza. Which would enable the person holding the artefact to sell the item more easily.’
The group was silent for a little while, as each member sat thinking about the implications. At last, Carmela turned to McMurtaghy. ‘That is as far as we reached. Other than the fact that Nunza reported that among the items Steiner had discussed with him, was a statuette of Artemis, which would seem to have been recently put on the market. As for the statuette, which Arnold and I have concluded was probably part of a haul looted by Major Kopas on his flight from Berlin to Moscow, we have no further information. But I understand your visit home was not without some degree of success.’
McMurtaghy straightened in his chair, folded his arms across his broad chest and nodded. ‘Yep. I paid a visit to an old acquaintance … a former adversary, you might say. And he finally opened up, even though he’s stayed silent all these years. I think we can now work out what happened.’ Briefly, he brought the committee members up to date with what he had learned from the dying man in the Greenlawns Rest Home. ‘So we’re now able to determine, by putting the various information together, just what’s been going on. As the war came to a close, Major Kopas was betrayed, his family killed – except for one son – and some of the loot he had grabbed, it was in turn acquired by this mysterious Englishman, Stoneleigh, who had brought about the deaths of the major and his family. The son had managed to flee to America, got involved, under his new identity as George Cooper, in criminal activity, but had remained hell bent on revenge. It took him years but he finally managed to trace the betrayer’s movements, discovered he had fled to Spain and assumed a new identity: Zamora.’
‘The same name given to us by Gabriel Nunza,’ Arnold murmured. ‘The man who’s been obtaining false provenance by this scam with the Abrogazzi Museum.’
McMurtaghy nodded. ‘That’s the way the cards seem to be falling.’
‘Zamora,’ Carmela murmured, almost to herself. ‘But in your interview in America you were not discussing the man who has been dealing with Nunza.’
‘No. The Zamora who has been dealing with Nunza is the son of the Englishman, of course: Stoneleigh, the man who fled from Moscow to Spain and took a new name under Franco’s regime will be long dead by now.’
Arnold nodded. ‘So now we have a name to look up; a lead to follow if we are to find the Artemis statuette. And in addition, perhaps find out who ordered the killing of Peter Steiner.’
McMurtaghy cleared his throat. He stared at Carmela. ‘I need to say … something else has come up.’
‘What is that?’
‘I had a call this morning. Regarding the hitman who shot Peter Steiner. His identity has now been positively confirmed by Interpol. And he’s left a trail, back from the location of the hit, into France and Italy. The Surété is involved, as well as the Italian Carabinieri so it looks as though with this united effort the net is closing in. The man we’re looking for, he’s been out of the game for a few years; he’s got careless. I’ve been using my own contacts with Interpol and it seems they’ve also had some useful information from the Guardia di Finanza in Italy.’
Carmela raised her head and stared at him in some surprise. ‘Where do they come into this?’
McMurtaghy shrugged. ‘They’ve been quite helpful. It seems they’ve been able to draw attention to certain financial transactions … deposit of large sums of money into an account which Interpol believes may be held by Steiner’s killer. Sam Byrn
e.’ He held Carmela’s glance. ‘I’d like to follow that up. I’d like to be there when …’
His words tailed off in a growing silence. Arnold guessed there was something personal in this, arising out of McMurtaghy’s background as an FBI agent. He would perhaps have crossed swords with this man Byrne, years ago, and resented his earlier failure to deal with the killer successfully. Now he was sensing an opportunity to soothe old sores. Or maybe it was merely a blood lust, a hunger for the hunt that had been reawakened in him.
‘You would like to concentrate on finding the killer of Peter Steiner,’ Carmela said thoughtfully. ‘It’s a little out of line, as far as the work of ISAC is concerned.’
‘There are people I can work with.’ McMurtaghy hesitated. ‘And if we find who employed Byrne to kill Steiner, maybe we’ll get right into the heart of the cordata, or whatever other organization is dealing in these looted artefacts.’
‘You think Byrne will talk?’ Arnold asked.
‘If we get our hands on him, we might give him incentives to sing,’ McMurtaghy growled.
Arnold had the feeling that whether McMurtaghy gained the support of the committee in this activity he would be going for it anyway. He guessed Carmela was of the same view.
She glanced at Arnold, her brows knitted. ‘Yes. Well, in the circumstances … I think that perhaps we should consider afresh our efforts, perhaps work in different directions. Alienor, you already have enough on your plate. Joachim, I think you should continue checking these references in learned articles: there may be other items you can link in. Our American friend can try to work with his contacts and follow the trail leading to this hired killer, Byrne. Arnold … if you agree, I think it would be appropriate if you were to concentrate on finding out what you can about this man Zamora, who has been fooling Nunza. And, it would seem, is trying to sell the Artemis statuette.’
A short silence fell. Carmela seemed preoccupied, thinking about something, her mind wandering. ‘What about you?’ Arnold asked at last.
She blinked, frowned. ‘If McMurtaghy pursues the hired assassin, while you visit this man Antonio Zamora, I … I have some other lines I would like to follow. Things that slightly puzzle me….’
McMurtaghy’s chair scraped loudly as he got to his feet. For a big man, he moved smoothly, lightly. ‘So, that’s settled then. You’ll forgive me, Carmela, but now we are in agreement I need to make immediate contact with some old friends who are still in the game.’ He turned to leave, then swung back. ‘Just one thing, Landon: I think you’re going to have a problem.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You’re going to track down Tony Zamora.’
‘What about him?’
‘He won’t be available for interview. It seems he was pronounced dead at midday yesterday. The story is, it was a hit and run accident.’
There was a short silence as everyone stared at McMurtaghy. ‘Do you know any more than that?’ Arnold asked incredulously.
‘No real details.’ McMurtaghy paused. ‘The Spanish police have been involved. But the body will be buried at a cemetery outside Valencia. Tomorrow. You could make it for the ceremony, if you fly out tonight.’
Arnold was momentarily at a loss for words. He continued to remain silent as McMurtaghy added, ‘The interesting thing is that George Cooper, at the Greenlawns Rest Home, he seemed to know about the accident when I was with him.’ His smile was little more than a grimace. ‘In other words, before the actual event took place.’
On the flight to Valencia Arnold was still churning over the thought in his mind. Georj Kopas had fled from his father’s killers and made a new life for himself in the States. He had become a member of criminal gangs, had carved out a career for himself and left his old life behind, becoming George Cooper, mobster. But he had continued to nurse a hatred for the man who had betrayed his family; that hate had smoked like a long fuse in his mind as over the decades he had sought information, dug out the man’s history, until he had finally learned the identity of the man who had killed his family, and almost killed him.
Then his desire for revenge had been blocked … by his incarceration for crimes he himself had committed in the States, and the advancing years, and death of the man he hated. But George Cooper had never been of the cast of mind that agreed the sins of the fathers should not be visited upon their children. His father, mother and brother had been murdered by a man called Stoneleigh. If that man had died, the hatred, the thirst for revenge in George Cooper’s heart had not evaporated. It had continued to fester, and the revenge would be visited upon Stoneleigh’s family: his son, Antonio Zamora.
Dying slowly of cancer, but out of prison, it seemed Cooper had finally been able to bring about that revenge. He had the criminal contacts; he had the money; he had the desire. The closing of a chapter, before his own life came to an end.
A hit and run accident in Spain.
In view of Zamora’s death there seemed little point in Arnold flying to Valencia. But he had made the decision to take the trip. It was always best to tie up loose ends….
The man who met Arnold in the hotel lobby late the next morning was tall, thin and carefully dressed in a dark suit and white shirt. He was in his thirties, Arnold guessed: his skin was olive-coloured, his hair black and carefully parted, he affected a small, pencil-thin moustache which suggested he was somewhat over-careful about his appearance, but his eyes were bright and intelligent. ‘Mr Landon?’ He extended his hand. ‘I am Diego Morales. I am a police inspector, assigned to this case.’
There was a trace of pride in his tone. Arnold shook hands: the man’s grip was firm. ‘I’m grateful for any assistance you can give me.’
Morales lifted one shoulder in a deprecating shrug. ‘I have worked with Miss Cacciatore in the past. She is … a lot of woman, isn’t that right?’
Arnold smiled. ‘She is.’
‘Absolutamente!’ Morales turned, leading Arnold towards the main doors to the street. ‘She is a real woman, if you know what I mean. It was a pleasure working with her in Italy. So when she telephoned, asking if I could offer you assistance, I was only too pleased to comply.’
‘Your English is excellent,’ Arnold observed, as Morales waved him into the passenger seat of the black Mercedes parked immediately outside the hotel.
‘I hold a degree in Economics from Manchester University. And I worked two years in a restaurant in Newcastle upon Tyne. The local accent there did not improve my English phrasing, I fear.’
Arnold laughed. ‘I know what you mean.’
Morales checked the driving mirror, and swung out into a break in the traffic. ‘So you are interested in this man Zamora.’
‘It’s part of an investigation into the sale of looted antiques,’ Arnold replied carefully.
‘Ha! Then your trip to Valencia will probably be rewarding.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Señior Zamora was known to us. He has been fined several times for minor offences … he was rather a wild young man, and has remained so; more recently he has been under surveillance for illegal trading and money-laundering activities. Unfortunately, although we had strong suspicions, we were to date unable to build up sufficient evidence to make an arrest. And then, a few days ago, there was this … accident.’ Morales glanced in the driving mirror, then smiled thinly. ‘At least it removed a villain from our streets.’
‘And do you think it was really an accident?’
Morales shrugged, his hands loosely gripping the steering wheel. ‘Carmela mentioned on the telephone that there is a suspicion that the death of Zamora may perhaps have been an act of revenge of some kind. But I fear we have little to go on. The death occurred late at night. We do not know what Zamora was doing out in the darkened street … no doubt it was something nefarious. Perhaps he had gone out to meet the man who struck him down. But that is not my province. I am taking you to a certain address that might be of interest to you. It would seem Señor Zamora used the house in question as a
kind of storehouse. As you will see …’
The street was narrow, shaded, and the houses were three and four storeys high. Victorian constructions thrown up hastily, Arnold guessed, and now no doubt scheduled for demolition in the near future to make way for the development of the ubiquitous apartment blocks that seemed to be springing up everywhere in Valencia. There were two police cars parked outside the house, and a black van on the opposite side of the street was being loaded up with black plastic bags. ‘We have already started removing some of the smaller objects,’ Morales remarked.
They left the Mercedes a little way down the street. A middle-aged woman was half hanging out of an open window, regarding the scene with interest. Morales grinned at her, and waved a hand. She scowled and withdrew her head. Morales led the way into the house that had belonged to Tony Zamora.
There were two uniformed policemen sifting through a pile of objects in the downstairs sitting-room. They seemed bored and indifferent, and nodded briefly to Morales as he led the way to the staircase. ‘Most of the larger stuff was held upstairs,’ he murmured over his shoulder.
When they entered the large bedroom at the top of the stairs Arnold discovered there were three shirt-sleeved men there, middle-aged, inspecting various artefacts. One, large, bald, heavy-paunched, turned his head and greeted Morales with a grunt. He spoke in rapid Spanish to the policeman.
‘These gentlemen are art experts we have drafted in,’ Morales explained. ‘We thought it was possible there might be quite a number of pieces that may be valuable. But they don’t think so. They have doubts about much of the stuff.’ Arnold nodded as he observed the careless manner in which the experts cast aside some of the pieces: bronzes, stone heads, a damaged bust, an armless statute of Eros. They were working more quickly than he would have deemed wise, but they probably knew what they were doing. And they clearly had a view about the dead owner of the hoard.
‘They think he was strictly a small-time crook,’ Morales confirmed a few minutes later. ‘Much of the items here are worthless. Fodder for fools in the market place.’
