by Lyn Hamilton
"He has a gallery, I think," I said. "His wife's family's collection, or something."
"Yes, indeed. Together they own a lot of Etruscan objects. He seems to have gotten around all the restrictions on ownership of such things by opening his wife's family home to the public, as a museum and gallery, getting special dispensation, as it were. It's called the Rosati Gallery, as you probably already know. The gallery admission is rather steep, so maybe that's what keeps him in style. Maybe he just married well, although I have always thought his wife's family was more style than substance, if you see what I'm saying.
"He's made a real name for himself in a very short period of time. One of the reasons he is so well-known is that he has an exceptional track record in finding and repatriating Italian antiquities. He recently, perhaps a year ago, found a beautiful Etruscan stone sphinx, carved of nenfro, which had purportedly been stolen from a tomb in Tarquinia. It is now on display at his gallery. A couple of years ago, he announced with something of a flourish that he'd found an Etruscan kylix, a water cup, decorated by the Bearded Sphinx painter, who, as I am sure you know is, like Micali, an identifiable and rather spectacular Etruscan painter. It, too, had been stolen many years ago, this time from a museum.
"Now you should know there are those among us who are skeptical, who think that Rosati was already in possession of these antiquities; which is to say, that he dealt in stolen goods and was now trying to legitimize the objects by pretending to have found them elsewhere. But Rosati says he and a group of donors bought the sphinx from a collector in Switzerland, the kylix in England, and brought both back to Italy, to cheers all round. One of the donors, by the way, was Gianpiero Ponte, Eugenia's late husband. I found a photograph in the newspaper archives here showing Ponte, Rosati, and Vittorio Palladini at the unveiling of the kylix."
"Eugenia Ponte is having an affair with Palladini," I said.
"Is that so?" Salvatore said. "This is most interesting. I checked out Ponte and could find no relationship to Lake. Ponte did, of course, commit suicide. Some said his business was falling apart, so thinking of Lake's rather predatory practices, I looked into that. I could find nothing in it. The rumors, according to some colleagues of mine, are that the problem was a marital one, and that the marriage has been something of a matter of convenience for some time now. You know Italy and divorces. Just not done. It would appear the stories are true. She's wrapping up her husband's company, and it looks to me as if she'll do reasonably well out of it. And she's always been quite successful. She was a model first, then a television star, although I never saw her show, and her agency always seems to have done well enough. I can't find any indication of legal or financial problems of any sort. The only negative is what you and I know, but no one else really does, and that is that both Antonio and Mario were on that agency's roster.
"Now, before I get on to Palladini and the others, let me finish with Rosati."
"That kylix you mentioned," I said. "I think he told me it was stolen."
"Correct. About two years ago, there was a break-in at Rosati's museum. The alarm system went off, but the police were not as fast as they might have been getting there, and when they did, they found the security guard bound and gagged in a closet, and the Etruscan kylix missing. At the time this happened, the museum from which the kylix had been stolen many years ago was demanding its return. I mention the break-in for a number of reasons: one, the obvious resemblance between the story of the kylix and your hydria, both stolen and found outside Italy in the hands of collectors, but also because the insurance company that had to pay up when the kylix was stolen was the one at which Vittorio Palladini is employed as head of their legal and claims department. The kylix was insured for a great deal of money, even more perhaps than one would think it was worth, if one can put a price on such objects. He must have been more than a little disappointed when it went missing."
"Could you find a link between Palladini and Lake?"
"None."
"But the Pontes and Palladini and Rosati are all linked, and Rosati knew Lake, or at least knew what doing business in competition with Lake was like."
"Yes," he said.
"And Palladini told Yves Boucher to put me in touch with Godard."
"Apparently," Salvatore replied.
"Is there more?"
"Gino Mauro. He's an American, actually, although when he's over here, he's more Italian than the Italians. He maintains he's descended from royalty or some such thing, but in fact, his parents emigrated to America from a dirt-poor village in Sicily."
"And made their fortune?"
"They didn't, but he did. He is, or was, a pugilist."
"A what?"
"A pugilist. Actually, a wrestler, or a former one. WWF, I think you call it. He fought under the name of Gino the Supremo." Salvatore paused. "Does that name work in English?"
"Sort of," I said. "And I'd be willing to bet I've seen him, in the Piazza Navona with Dottie Beach. The person I'm thinking of threw her young friend out of the place faster than you can almost imagine."
"I see," he said. "That sounds about right. As a pugilist, Mauro was moderately successful, knew when to retire, and got into fiber optics."
"Here comes Lake," I said.
"You are quite right. Lake tried to buy the business. Mauro refused to sell. Lake stole most of Mauro's customers."
"And now the farmhouse is for sale. Does he have links to anyone else in this group?"
"None that I was able find."
"Anything more on Palladini?"
"Just what I've told you. He is a corporate lawyer and works for the insurance company."
"He owns a rather lavish apartment in Rome. Do you make enough money as head of the legal and claims department of an insurance company to own that kind of place?"
"I don't know. I can tell you he bought it a couple of years ago and is already selling it. Maybe he got in over his head."
"I don't think so. He's looking for a bigger place. I suppose he could be lying about that. Anything else?"
"Not so far. I can find nothing on Yves Boucher nor Pierre Leclerc. Anna, I have nothing to go on. Maire, either. And you, what have you found? Other than that Eugenia and Palladini are close?"
"I discovered that Dottie Beach is broke but is still shopping the Via Condotti," I said. "I've also discovered that she has not been exactly forthcoming about her store. I'm wondering if she was lying about having a store in New Orleans? Or has she found another partner to replace her husband as the money supply?"
"Did you say New Orleans?" Salvatore said.
"Yes."
"Just a minute, please." I heard paper rustling, and then he came back on the line. "Gino Mauro has a winter home in New Orleans," he said. "His headquarters is New York, but yes, he has a place in New Orleans. Perhaps you are quite right about the fellow with Dottie Beach in the Piazza. And he is usually in Italy this time of year."
"Yes, Silvia said he was coming here. But he wasn't in Italy when Antonio died. At least that's what the papers say. Maybe I'll see if I can track down the reporter who wrote the piece on Antonio's death. I can't recall who it was, but it can't be too difficult to find out."
"I have the clipping here," Salvatore said. "After our discussion last night, I went through all the last few days' papers. Please stay on the line, and I'll get you the name of at least one of the reporters. Gianni Veri," he said after a minute.
"The same fellow who wrote the article on the hydria and Lola's arrest," I said.
"I believe you are correct," Salvatore said. "Already I do not like him."
It took me awhile to track Veri down. I went to the offices of the newspaper I thought he worked for and was told he was a freelancer. I told them I was very interested in finding him in order to commission an article, and after a few minutes of my being absolutely charming, at least trying to be, someone took pity on me, or possibly on Gianni, given what I was to discover, and gave me his phone number. From that I found his address.<
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Veri had an office about the size of a broom closet on the third floor of a walk-up in a rather insalubrious part of town. His name was in peeling gold letters on the door, and when I went in, he had to close the door in order for me to get around the desk and sit down. I told him I was an antique dealer, and that I had a newsletter, which regularly contained articles written by experts on subjects of interest to collectors, and having seen his article on the businessman who was smuggling antiquities right from under the noses of the police, I'd wanted to find him to commission an article. He looked rather pleased.
"I'm sorry to drop in unannounced like this," I said to him. "But I was very interested in your article. I thought it showed you really knew what you were talking about. I tried to E-mail you," I added. "Veri at something or other."
"That explains it," he said. "It's Veii, nor Veri. Silly of me to choose something so close to my own name.
It confuses everybody. Veii is the name of one of the Etruscan city states."
"Like Cisra," I said, recalling Godard, "or Velathri."
He looked startled. "Exactly," he said. "I see you are a student of the Etruscans. What did you say your name is?"
I told him, putting my card in front of him.
"Signora," he said, his mood changing abruptly. "I'm afraid this visit of yours is in vain. I am a serious journalist, not a hack. I do not write articles for commercial newsletters. Thanks for dropping by."
He rose from his desk and opened the door, which he could do without moving his feet. I tramped back down the stairs, got out my cell phone, and called Salvatore.
"Add Gianni Veri to the list," I said.
"I already did," Salvatore said. "As soon as you noticed he'd written both articles, I phoned a journalist friend right away. Veri was a real up and comer only two years ago. He was well on his way to becoming editor, according to a friend of mine. Then he wrote a piece attacking Lake. He brought up the rumor about Brandy and her fiance. Lake's response was apparently immediate. Veri lost his job. Everyone thinks Lake had Veri silenced. Nobody else will touch Veri after that, they wouldn't dare, so now he's a freelancer. I'm not sure how well he's doing."
"Not well at all," I said. "Your mention of Brandy and Taso makes me think I should revisit all the files I looked at when I was looking at Lake to see if there's something I missed. I'll call you tomorrow morning as planned."
I had missed something. It was easy enough to do.
I'd been mesmerized by the pictures of Brandy and the dozens and dozens of white roses on Taso's coffin. There were three women around the coffin: Brandy, a woman wearing a veil who was described as Taso's mother, and a third, Taso's aunt. The aunt's name was Anna Karagiannis, and the last time I'd seen her in person, she was serving lemon cake in Crawford Lake's apartment.
I called England. "Is Alfred Mondragon there?" I asked.
"No, I'm sorry. Alfred is on vacation for a week. I'm his associate, Ryan Mcgillvray. Is there any chance I might help you?"
"I hope so, Ryan. I was talking to Alfred just the other day and was hoping to catch him again. Actually, I believe we met at an auction at Burlington House. I'm Lara McClintoch."
"Yes, I believe I remember you," he said.
"Ryan, I've been approached by an agent by the name of Pierre Le Conte or Leclerc. I may not have the name right. He has a painting I'm interested in. He gave Mr. Mondragon's name as a reference."
"Of all the cheek!" Ryan said. "Alfred will be furious. Don't deal with Leclerc or Le Conte or whatever he calls himself, please. It wouldn't surprise me if he had several names. He's a crook."
"I won't tell anyone, I promise," I said. "What do you mean by a crook?"
"I mean, he's absolutely horrible. He worked here, you know, for a few months. Alfred made a little mistake, and Le Conte ... I get so annoyed just thinking about this."
"What do you mean by a little mistake?" I said.
"Alfred purchased a lovely Greek wine jug, thinking the paperwork was in order. But it wasn't. It had been smuggled out of Italy by the owner for sale in Britain. Poor Alfred was exhausted after doing three antique shows in a row and didn't check the paperwork the way he should have. It's as simple as that. It could happen to anyone. Le Conte comes and tells him it was smuggled and tries to extort money from Alfred. Alfred is not one to be blackmailed. He called the authorities, told them he had bought this in error, and returned it to Italy. Then he told Le Conte to get lost, fired him on the spot.
"In revenge, Le Conte then tried to set himself up with Crawford Lake. You know who I'm talking about, right? The billionaire nobody has seen for years? He's a client of ours from time to time, and Le Conte tried to steal him away from us. Lake figured the fellow out right away, of course. You don't get to be a billionaire by being gullible. Blew Le Conte off pretty fast. But still, it was a terrible situation."
"Terrible," I agreed. "I expect Lake is not the kind of client you'd want to annoy," I added. "I've been reading about his financial exploits. People have rather unpleasant things to say about him."
"We've always found Lake to be an honorable person," Ryan said. "He's fair about commissions and certainly not difficult to deal with from a personality perspective. I haven't met him, of course, but Alfred has, once anyway, and says he rather likes the man. I mean, what can you expect from Lake's enemies? They're bound to say bad things about him. All I can say is that we are glad to have him as a client."
"Thanks for letting me know, Ryan. I'm sure you've saved me from making a dreadful mistake with Le Conte."
"I hope so," Ryan said. "The man is a pig."
I figured I had time for one more visit that day, to the Rosati Gallery, located in a huge old villa just off the Borghese Gardens. I paid a rather steep admission, as Salvatore had said I would, and went in. The museum was housed on the main floor of the house. It was small, as museums go, but the pieces in it were exceptional, particularly the Etruscan room. I found the nenfro sphinx that Salvatore had mentioned, and peered carefully at several displays of Etruscan ceramics. It was very quiet: I saw only a woman with a young child and a student sketching the sphinx. At the far end was a door marked Office of the Director. I went in. I was in a small reception area, with no receptionist, that led to only two offices. One said Director; the other had a temporary sign stuck on with tape.
That one said N. Marzolini.
Great, I said to myself. Add another name to the list.
I carefully tried Nicola's door. It was locked. I could hear voices in the director's office, however, and decided to wait to size up the situation before I barged right in. The conversation, in English and quiet at first, became progressively louder. I thought of leaving and coming back in a few minutes, until the words I heard began to make sense.
"Look, I'd like to help," the one voice said. I was pretty sure it was Rosati. "But the point is, you paid far too much for it, way over market. I hope you'll forgive me for saying so, but you let your wish to beat out Lake cloud your judgment. I told you what it was worth."
"So what would you pay for it?" the second voice, an American, said.
"I can't pay anything. I have no acquisitions budget to speak of, and frankly, this is not really a commercial venture. I get certain tax benefits out of it, which I could offer to help you with, if you have income in Italy and are prepared to donate it," the voice I took to be Rosati, said.
"Maybe the group would consider it."
"Perhaps. That's not up to me. You know, though, they couldn't come up with anything like what you paid for it."
"Okay," the second man said. "I'll think about the tax angle, and we'll talk some more."
Before I could duck out into the museum, the tiniest cowboy I have ever seen came out of the office. He was dressed in a gray suit that was perfectly tailored for him, with everything, even the buttons, scaled down in proportion to his height, a white shirt, and string tie. To complete the look, he wore rather elaborate black cowboy boots and a Stetson. Including the hat and b
oots, he wasn't as tall as I am. "Ma'am," he said, tipping his hat to me as he went out.
Rosati was a few steps behind him.
"Hi," I said.
"Well, hello again," he said, looking surprised. "Did you come to claim that dinner I promised you in Volterra? You stood me up."
"I'm sorry. I got called away on business. Did you not get my message?"
"No, I did not."
"I would have thought such a nice hotel would have better service. This is a wonderful place you have."
"Then you've come to take me up on my offer of a tour. I'm delighted."
