by Aaron Elkins
"Good afternoon, Christopher."
"Amedeo, do you happen to like Cimabue?"
He blinked. "Of course. I find him deeply moving. Cimabue is superb, without peer; the greatest of all the Duecento masters. Why do you smile?"
"Was I smiling?"
"You are smiling." But he didn't pursue it. Di Vecchio, I knew, considered me insufficiently serious-minded; not as bad as Max, but not adequately professional, either. He raised a finger to touch his cheek in the same spot where my most visible bruise was. "You're all right now?"
"I'm fine. I can't say the same for Max."
"I know," he said grimly. "I went to see him yesterday. Why wouldn't he listen to me? Why wouldn't he listen to Dr. Luca?"
"He's listening now. He won't talk to Antuono."
He glanced sharply at me. "I didn't tell him not to talk to Antuono. I told him not to shout to everyone in Bologna that he was going to do it. I want him to talk to Antuono if he knows something. You think I don't want those pictures back?"
I said something soothing. Di Vecchio scratched irritably at the grizzled edge of his red beard and grumbled. "Well," I said, "let's get down to business."
My business with Di Vecchio was the same as it had been with Clara Gozzi: going over the particulars arising from the loan of paintings to Northerners in Italy. This took a lot longer to get through with Di Vecchio than it had with Clara. Partly this was because the Pinacoteca was lending us twenty- four pictures, compared to Clara's four, but mostly it was because Clara was an easygoing sort who was happy to trust the details to others, while Di Vecchio was a fussy stickler who—well, Di Vecchio was Di Vecchio. It took us two hours, most of which was spent trying to answer his finicky questions on insurance; specifically, on the federal special indemnification grant we'd gotten over and above the usual National Endowment of the Arts funding. Like Clara, I'm not too detail-oriented, and it was rough going.
"Very good," Di Vecchio said, terminating the exacting discussion at last. Folders and finders were shoved into a desk drawer, and he leaned back—that is to say, he sat up straighter—in his unyielding chair. "I understand you were at Salvatorelli this morning when the Eagle of Lombardy swooped down on his prey. Is it true you rode back to Bologna with the great man?"
I wasn't surprised to learn he already knew about it. The art world grapevine is amazing, practically instantaneous. "It's true," I said. "We had a chat."
"And is he getting anywhere, our Eagle?"
"Well, as I understand it, the Morandi and the Carrà —"
He jerked impatiently. "I'm not talking about the Morandi and the Carrà. He hasn't been sent to Bologna to recover Morandis and Carràs."
"He thinks there may be a connection, though, or at least that one could develop. He thinks Filippo Croce set this up as a sort of advertisement to the people who have the paintings."
"It could be. What is he doing about this?"
"I don't know. I suppose he's keeping an eye on Croce to see what develops."
He made a hissing sound. "To see what develops," he repeated disdainfully. "Forgive me, but I don't feel cheered. Christopher, they've already had those paintings for almost two years. Who knows what's happened to them by now? For all we know, by now they've been—"
Don't say it, I thought.
"—carved up and recombined. Would we even know them?"
Carved up and recombined. Words to strike dismay into the heart of the most steel-nerved of curators. Di Vecchio was referring to the barbaric, increasingly common practice of mutilating art to make it more saleable and less recognizable at the same time. A skillful and corrupt restorer, for example, might take a five-by-seven-foot late-Renaissance mythological painting, too big for today's rooms, and chop it into fragments, creating three or four smaller pictures, and usually throwing away—throwing away!—twenty to forty percent of the original canvas as unusable.
Or a beautiful old French cabinet might have the maindron—the proud stamp of its maker—removed, and the rich old finish stripped and redone. Or the signature of a famous sixteenth-century painter might be changed to that of a lesser- known one. Or the painting itself might be altered in any of a thousand ways.
At first glance, these alterations don't seem to make much sense. Don't they drastically reduce the value of the art pieces? Yes, but art thieves—or rather the receivers or dealers who hire them, which is usually the way it's done nowadays—can cheerfully absorb the losses. The economics are simple: Say you hire a gang to steal five paintings worth $800,000, for which they're paid $10,000. You then pay your crooked restorer $5,000 apiece to change them, or $25,000 in all. Now they are much less traceable, but of course they're only worth, say, $300,000.
So what? When they are sold you will have invested $35,000 and gotten a return of $300,000. Even an unenlightened business mind like mine knows a good deal when it sees one like that.
"You don't really think that's what happened to them?" I asked, looking for reassurance. The idea that someone might have butchered those Tintorettos, the Giorgione, the Veronese ... my God, it didn't bear thinking about.
"We must face the possibility," Di Vecchio replied.
"But the Rubens," I said, forced to reassure myself. "Clara's Rubens. It turned up whole."
"True, but of all them it's the picture least able to be altered. How can you cut up into several paintings a portrait of a single subject? And the subject, Hélène Fourment, is well-known, and associated with Rubens and only Rubens. She would be very difficult to disguise."
I resigned myself to the fact that I wasn't going to get any reassurance.
"Perhaps that's why it was returned," he continued. "It was the only way to collect any money."
"But nobody collected any money. Blusher donated it to the museum."
"Oh? Well, that's very puzzling. "
"Amedeo, how did they ever get in here? Weren't the alarms working?"
He bristled. "Of course they were working. We have four separate systems on individual circuits."
"Then how did they manage it?"
He glowered angrily at me for a moment, then sighed, took off his glasses, and wearily rubbed the lumpy bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "They used a ladder to enter through the window of a bathroom here on the upper floor."
"Not through a skylight?"
"A bathroom. Sometime earlier, from inside, they had used tape to deactivate the alarm-latch of this window, "
"From inside? But if they'd already gotten in, why didn't they just take the paintings then and there? Why risk coming back and fooling around with ladders?"
"I must assume that the window was modified during the day, while the museum was open and people were about. The theft itself took place between twelve-thirty and one- thirty at night."
"I don't get it, Amedeo. Even if they took care of the window alarm, what about the inside systems? I mean, you must have sensors that pick up people walking around. Infrared beams . . ."
"Photo-electric barriers, movement sensors, pressure alarms, everything you could wish. But," he said, looking pained, "every night at twelve-thirty come the people who clean, or so they did at the time. We could not have them setting off bells at every step, so when they would arrive, security became somewhat…well…"
Sloppy, I said to myself.
"Flexible," Di Vecchio said.
I leaned forward. "Amedeo, if they knew about that, then there must have been some inside involvement, someone on the museum staff."
"That is extremely unlikely," he said stiffly.
I didn't think so. The art world had a long, unhappy history of betrayal by its own.
"But didn't the police question them?" I asked.
"Of course. Aren't the workers always the first to be hounded? The police, the carabinieri, the prosecutor, every conceivable arm of the politico-commercial apparatus. Naturally, nothing of value was learned."
When Di Vecchio started going on about workers and the politico-commercial apparat
us, there wasn't much to be gained from continuing the discussion, and I stood up, thanked him, and began to say good-bye.
"Can you stay a moment?" he asked. "Dr. Luca asked to see you. I think he would simply like to hear that everything is going well. You know where his office is?"
"Somewhere in this building. I forget just where."
"It's downstairs. You have to go around the temporary exhibit area ... Come, it's simpler to take you."
Benedetto Luca's office was behind a door the frosted glass segment of which was almost completely taken up with his title: "Soprintendente per i beni artistici historici per la provincia di Bologna-Ferrara-Forlì-Ravenna, Repubblica Italiana." Inside the decor befitted this august appellation: green-shaded brass lamps, roomy chairs of deeply polished wood and copper-studded burgundy leather, a massive nineteenth-century desk. Luca got up from behind the desk to murmur a mellow, dignified welcome, and lead us to an informal grouping of soft chairs—with arms, I was glad to see—against one of the handsome paneled walls, under a softly backlit Etruscan funerary head mounted in a shadow box.
"Well, Christopher," he said, "you're all right? Your injuries aren't serious?"
"No, sir, I'm fine."
"Good. Poor Massimiliano. Terrible thing, terrible. And the arrangements for the exhibition?"
"No problems there. I saw signora Gozzi about her loan yesterday, and Amedeo and I just finished discussing the state collection. And your deputy, signora Nervi, took care of all the details with the shipper."
"Fine, fine," Luca said, his deep, marvelous voice resonant and, as always, a little vacant. "And the four paintings to be borrowed from Ugo Scoccimarro? What of them? You need to take special care there. Signor Scoccimarro is .. . well, shall we say, not experienced in these matters."
"I'll be seeing him tomorrow. I'm catching a noon flight to Sicily."
" Ah, good. I see there's no reason for me to be concerned. You have everything under control." He stood up and shook hands with me. "Perhaps we can have lunch when you return? Monday?"
"I'm sorry, I can't. I'm coming back to Bologna just to pick up my things late Sunday night. Then I fly back to Seattle early Monday. But I'll take you up when I come back."
"Fine." His creased, aristocratic features arranged themselves into an expression of concerned gravity. "Tell me, Christopher: You saw our friend Colonel Antuono in action today. Were you impressed? Do you have hopes he'll recover our paintings?"
It took me a second to answer. "I have hopes, yes."
A derisive bark of laughter came from Di Vecchio. "Hopes," he said.
Chapter 13
From the Pinacoteca I took a taxi to the Ospedale Maggiore to visit Max and work another installment of my cheer-up magic on him. I had meant to see him the day before, but somehow with the trip to Ferrara to talk with Clara, and with Calvin's arrival, I'd never gotten around to it. To be honest, I'd shrunk from it. I just hadn't wanted to face looking at him in that hospital gown, with that pale, bare upper lip, and his swollen tongue poking at the hole where his front teeth had been, and his naked legs skewered on the ferocious machine.
But by now, deservedly, I was feeling guilty. Tomorrow I was leaving Bologna for Sicily, then I was going home, and it would be months before I'd be able to see him again. I'd be going merrily about my business in Seattle and Max would slowly, grimly, be learning to "adjust." I was worried about how well he'd succeed at it. He was energetic, impatient. I didn't think he'd bear up well under a physical handicap. And being crippled over here wasn't the same thing as it was in the States. You don't see many people using aluminum walkers in the streets of Europe's old cities, or blind people, or extremely elderly people. It's just too hard to get around. Traffic is too fast and too frightening, and there are all kinds of obstacles on the sidewalks: old stone posts from the days of horses and coaches, bicycle racks in oddball places, wildly uneven paving, unexpected stone steps to connect modern and ancient street levels.
Assuming he stayed in Italy, it was going to be tough on Max. Not so easy if he came back to America, either.
They say that when patients start complaining it means they're getting better. If so, Max was well along. He started the minute I walked in. Not about the pain, or the difficulties to come, but about the little things hospital inmates like to gripe about: the rotten food, the forcible awakenings at 10:00 P.M. to proffer sleeping pills, the nurses who twittered instead of speaking, the many offenses against one's modesty.
"You ought to see the production when I need to take a crap," he said. "First, two guys have to come in with—You probably don't want to hear this, do you?"
"Not really," I said. Then, nobly; "But I'll listen if you want to talk about it.
Max laughed. "Not really."
He lay back against his cranked-up bed with a sigh. He really did seem better. His face was no longer corpse-gray, and the bruised flesh of his legs wasn't quite so lurid; a dull yellowish-brown now, instead of raw purples and reds. Black scabs had begun to form along the edges of the punctures and incisions. And I had the impression the grumpiness was pro forma; a way of showing me he was on the mend.
"Are you still on pain pills?" I asked.
"Yeah, but they've cut way down. It really isn't that bad, Chris." He glanced down at his bear-trapped legs. "Disgusting, yes; agonizing, no. Now they're telling me I'll be up and out of this by the end of this month."
"That's terrific, Max." It sounded a lot more realistic than the end of the week. "Hey, did you hear that Blusher's donating his reward to the Seattle Art Museum?"
You don't often see somebody's jaw literally drop, but Max's did. "Blusher is? How much?"
"A hundred and fifty thousand."
"A hundred .....He tipped back his head and laughed. "Well, what's his angle?"
"What makes you think he's got an angle?" I said, as if I hadn't been wondering the same thing since the minute I'd walked into Blusher's office.
"Come on, I've met the guy. So have you."
I smiled. "He claims the publicity he's getting from it is worth it."
"Worth a hundred and fifty thousand bucks? Wouldn't you love to handle his PR account?" He shrugged. "What do I know. Maybe it is worth it to him. I'm glad it worked out for the museum." Suddenly he was tired, subdued. The muscles around his mouth had flattened. The pain was back, I thought.
I searched for something to make conversation about. "There was some excitement on the art-theft front today," I told him, feeling like the aged Cyrano reciting the news to Roxanne. "I got to see Colonel Antuono in action."
"Is that right?" he asked dully.
"Max, do you want a nurse? Do you need some pills or something?"
He shook his head. "I'm not due until seven o'clock, and I'm not about to let them make a junkie out of me. So go ahead. What did Antuono do?"
"He recovered a couple of stolen pictures from Cosenza. Pittura Metafisica, nothing big, but he thinks it might turn out to be related to the Bologna thefts. He told me—"
"Chris—" He started to sit up, grimaced, and sank back. "Look, I don't want to know anything about this."
"Well, he didn't mean there was a direct connection. But he thinks the dealer that tipped him off, Filippo Croce—"
"Chris, please!" He seemed really agitated. "Don't tell me any names. The less I know, the better, that's all. The less you know, the better. Why the hell don't you go home? What are you doing talking to Antuono? You don't know anything. Why take a chance on making them think you do? Jesus, you want to wind up like me?"
I tried to settle him down. "It's okay, Max, don't worry. All I was going to tell you—"
"Never mind, don't tell me." His eyes fluttered and closed. "Oh, God."
I leaned closer to the bed, put my hand on his wrist. "Max, listen. I understand why you don't want anything to do with this anymore. I'd feel the same way if I were you. Look, those five names you were going to pass along to Antuono—or anything else for that matter—I could tell him for you. You
r name wouldn't have to come up. How can you just let them get away with it? What about Ruggero Giampietro? Just let them get away with murdering him when he got in their way? Max, I wouldn't tell Antuono where I got the information if you didn't want me to."
His eyes had remained pressed closed. He was breathing through his mouth.
"Max?"
"You know," he said softly without opening his eyes, "maybe I could use a nurse after all."
I had dinner again with Calvin. Then we walked back to my hotel for coffee and dessert in the bar. As we passed the front desk the clerk waved me down.
"A message for you, signor Norgren."
He pulled a form from a slot behind him and handed it to me. Tony Whitehead had telephoned. From Tokyo. I was to call him back at the Imperial Hotel. That seemed odd. He had telephoned just last night from Seattle, full of concern about my condition. It had gotten me out of bed, and we had talked for over half an hour.
I asked the clerk to have cappuccinos sent to my room and took the elevator up with Calvin.
"What's he doing in Tokyo?" I asked.
"Thinking about putting in a bid on that late Tokugawa screen, I guess."
"Good-bye, hundred and fifty thousand," I said.
Calvin peeked at the note. "The Imperial Hotel," he read admiringly. "The guy really knows how to travel. No dumps for Tony."
The glance at the hallway with which he accompanied this was patently disparaging. The Europa wasn't Calvin's kind of hotel. Nor mine. It was a commercial hotel, a big barn of a place, clean enough but shabby when you looked too closely at anything. I had made a reservation at a pleasant hotel called the Roma, where I always stay, but there had been a mixup and no room was waiting for me. With a big trade fair going on—Bologna has a lot of them—I'd been lucky to get this place. Of course, Calvin wouldn't have approved of the cozy, unpretentious Roma, either. He was staying at the four-star Internazionale a few blocks away.
