Captain Barbaccia took advantage of this interlude in the conversation to step into the office. He looked down at me thoughtfully, a craggy handsome man with an air of quiet authority, and a uniform that must have been tailored for him. Now here was someone who would have made a respectable Eagle of Lombardy.
"And who are you, please, signore?" he asked me pleasantly.
I told him.
And your business here?"
But by this time Salvatorelli had found speech. "This is too much!" he cried. "I am being persecuted, hounded to death, as was my sainted brother! What do you want here? What do you hope to find? How can I run a business if—"
"We believe there may be several missing works of art on your property, signore," Barbaccia said calmly.
Salvatorelli's mouth fell open. His face went from dull red to sick gray. He sagged back into his chair. "You . . . you accuse me?"
"No one accuses you, signor Salvatorelli. We have no reason to suspect you of anything." After a moment he added, "I tell you the truth."
Some of the color came back into Salvatorelli's cheeks. He took a breath. "What paintings?" he asked.
"Perhaps you would show us the way to your Lot 70?" Barbaccia suggested.
"What paintings?" Salvatorelli demanded. He might be excitable, but he wasn't a pushover. "I insist that you tell me."
The captain paused, then complied with a small bow of his head. "A landscape by Carrà and a small still life by Morandi; stolen from the municipal gallery in Cosenza five years ago."
Carrà and Morandi, along with the better known De Chirico, were painters of the quasi-surrealist Pittura Metafisica movement of the 1920s; distinctly minor figures in a short-lived school. Hardly worth stealing, you might think, but given today's bizarre market, I had no idea what they might be worth—or rather what they might sell for. Two or three hundred thousand dollars each, I supposed.
"Cosenza? " Salvatorelli echoed, sounding genuinely amazed. "What have I to do with Cosenza? I demand, I insist—"
But Barbaccia's patience had worn through. "Please get up, signore. We wish to see the lot in question." He stepped briskly out of the office and waited, stiff and commanding, for Salvatorelli to follow.
The businessman jumped up and scurried out. "I go," he muttered, "but under protest, under protest."
Without looking at me, Barbaccia leveled a finger in my direction. "This one remains. The others, too," he said to the policeman with the machine gun, who nodded and took up a position in the hallway, presumably to guard me, the receptionist, and a couple of big-eyed workers who had drifted in to see what the commotion was about. Barbaccia and the others followed a grumbling Salvatorelli into the back of the building.
In accord with what appears to be prevailing Mediterranean police custom, the vicious-looking, black semiautomatic had been entrusted into the hands of the youngest, most jittery-looking carabiniere, a downy-faced, nervous kid who seemed to be all of seventeen. As always, this had a markedly quieting effect on those in his charge. No one talked to anyone else. No one made anything remotely like a sudden move.
But after a while, when he'd relaxed a little, I smiled at the youngster. "How's it going?" I said, dropping my classical Italian for a cozier, slangier version. "What's up, anyway? Do you think—"
Either he recognized my accent, or he had heard me tell Barbaccia that I was an American. Whichever, he seized the opportunity to practice his English.
"Shuddup, you," he said, with a concise but expressive jerk of the black machine gun.
I decided my questions could wait after all.
In twenty minutes they were back, with a noisily expostulating Salvatorelli leading the way. It was a mark of just how unsettled he was that he had allowed one of the hair strands to work loose and slip down, so that it now clung curving to one temple, like a Caesarean laurel wreath. Italian was flying thick and fast, with not much attention to syntax, so I couldn't understand all of it, but I got the gist: He, Salvatorelli, had no way of knowing that the two paintings were there. How could he? Lot 70 had been deposited the previous month for eventual shipment to Naples, by a man who said his name was signor Pellico. No, Salvatorelli had never seen him; the business had been conducted entirely by mail. A three-month storage fee had been paid, and the crate had remained on the premises until such time as signor Pellico directed that it be shipped. How could Salvatorelli know what was inside? What did the captain expect of him? That he would search through the effects of his clients?
The captain assured him that he didn't expect it at all, that no suspicion attached to signor Salvatorelli or his firm, that the carabinieri were in fact grateful for his excellent cooperation in the recovery of these valuable works of art. It was clear to anyone with eyes that Trasporti Salvatorelli had been the innocent pawn of a slippery criminal who would, with luck, soon be brought to justice.
Slowly, Salvatorelli became more composed. The handkerchief was applied to his forehead and neck. The nonconforming hair was detected and smoothed back into place. He was, he said, happy to have had the opportunity to be of service. The captain could count on his continuing cooperation in this matter.
The captain was pleased. Perhaps the signore would be kind enough to show him the correspondence with signor Pellico?
At this point Salvatorelli noticed with apparent surprise that I was still there.
"Ah, signor Norgren," he said, "I hope you will forgive this intrusion. But our business is concluded, no? You will understand if. . . ?" His gesture took in Barbaccia and the others. He became solemn. "It is my civic duty. . ."
"Of course," I said. But before standing up, I looked at Barbaccia to make sure it was all right to leave. I still wasn't about to make any unexpected moves around the adolescent with the weapon.
Barbaccia gave me a cordial nod of dismissal. "Perhaps we'll meet again," he said pleasantly.
Chapter 11
Outside in the parking area there were three cars that hadn't been there when I'd arrived. Two were white and blue, with POLIZIA MUNICIPALE on the sides; the other, huge and black but unornamented, had its rear door open. One of the two carabinieri—the grown-up, the one without the machine gun—was leaning into it, evidently reporting to someone in the back seat on what had happened. The carabiniere's clipped speech and rigid posture made it obvious that he was reporting to a superior officer.
As I passed by, hoping to find a taxi stand on Viale Lenin, I could just see the crossed legs of the listener, clad in khaki trousers and softly gleaming boots. "Capisco," he was saying. "Sì, capisco. . . . Benissimo. . . . "
Something about those hollow, dessicated capiscos made me cock my head. As I did the voice floated forth again.
"Do my eyes deceive me," it wondered dustily in English, "or can this be Dr. Norgren?"
The Eagle of Lombardy, on the spot. So he did come out of his warren sometimes.
I stopped and came back to the car. "Buongiorno, Colonello. "
"Buongiorno, dottore." He subjected me to an unamiable examination. "You're feeling better?" he asked indifferently.
"I'm feeling fine, thanks." These cool, empty conventions were just that. We seemed to be starting off on the same foot on which we'd concluded our previous meeting.
"Good." The dispassionate scrutiny continued. "I must say, I'm surprised to find you here. Would you be kind enough to tell me what brings you?"