“Okay, Sylvia. I give up. Tell me about the paintings.”
“The de Grassi Collection. Nineteen paintings. Some, Menti had from his parents, others he collected himself. Before World War Two.”
“And I suspect during and after World War Two.”
“Before, during, after World War Two.”
“He was an Italian officer during the war?”
“He did nothing about the war. The de Grassi’s turned their palace, Livorno, into a hospital.”
“Palace? Big old house.”
“They took care of Italian soldiers, citizens, German soldiers, American soldiers, British soldiers—everybody soldiers. Menti told me. He spent his fortune. He hired doctors, nurses.”
“And picked up a few paintings.”
“He had the paintings. Them he did not sell. Even years after the war. Angela was born. He sold his land, bit by bit, the de Grassi land, but never sold a painting. You know what the paintings are. You have the list.”
“Yeah. From what I’ve been able to find out so far, they’ve never been recorded. Anywhere. No one knows they exist.”
“Because they have always been in a private collection. The de Grassi Collection. See? You are looking for them!”
Fletch said, “I made an inquiry.”
“You son of a bitch! You are looking for them. You lie to me!”
“Andy gave me the list. I said I would make an inquiry. I’ve asked one dealer about one painting. Please don’t call me a son of a bitch anymore. I’m sensitive.”
“You and Angela are not going to rob me of my paintings!”
“You’ve made that point pretty well, too. You’re accusing me of robbery. Go on with the story. When were the paintings stolen?”
“Two years ago. Stolen overnight. Every one them.”
“From the house in Livorno?”
“Yes.”
“Weren’t the servants there?”
“Ah, they’re no good. Very old, very sleepy. Deaf and blind. Ria and Pep. Menti had great loyalty for them. Last two de Grassi servants. I told him they stupid old fools. Never should he leave such a fortune in paintings to their charge.”
“They heard nothing and saw nothing?”
“Flesh, they didn’t even realize they were gone until we came back to the house and said, ‘Where are the paintings?’ They were so used to them. They had seen them all their lives. They didn’t even recognize when they were gone. All the time we were away, they never even went into front of the house!”
“And the paintings weren’t insured?”
“Never. Stupid old Italian counts do not insure things they’ve always had, always been used to.”
“Menti was a stupid old Italian count, eh?”
“About insurance, he was as bad as the rest of them. As bad as the Catholic Church.”
“He probably couldn’t afford the premiums.”
“He couldn’t afford the premiums. Then, whoosh, on day they were gone. The police did not care so much. Just some paintings, they said. There was no big insurance company making them find the paintings and kill the people who stole them.”
“You weren’t in Livorno when the paintings were stolen?”
“Menti and I were on our honeymoon. In Austria.”
“That’s not far.” Fletch tried one of the olives. “So where are the paintings, Sylvia?”
“What you mean, Where are the paintings, Sylvia?”
“I think you stole them yourself. Is that what you don’t want me to find out? Is that why you’re here?”
“Stole them myself!”
“Sure. In your mid-thirties, you marry a sixty-seven-year-old Italian count, with a palace in Livorno and an apartment in Rome. You’re his third wife. He’s your second husband. Your first husband was Brazilian?”
“French.” Her face vacillated between studied amusement and murderous rage.
“You have, let’s say, international connections. You marry the old boy. You go on your honeymoon. You discover he’s broke. Or, he has very little money. Nothing like the fortune you thought he had. You realize his whole fortune is in these paintings. He’s thirty years older than you. You think he might leave the paintings to his daughter, to as museum. After all, you told him you married him for love, right? So you arranged to have the paintings stolen. You stashed them away. Did you even arrange to have Menti kidnapped and murdered? Now you’re scared to death I’m going catch you.”
The amusement in her face was agonized.
She said, “I hate you.”
“Because I’m right.”
“I loved Menti. I would do nothing to harm him. I did not steal the paintings.”
“But you, too, left Rome the day after the funeral.”
“To catch you.”
“It’s one thing for the prospective son-in-law of the deceased to leave town the day after the funeral. It’s something else for the grieving widow to skip.”.
“If I killed anyone, I would kill you.”
“Which brings up another question, Sylvia. Did you come to my apartment Tuesday night? Was the door opened by a naked young lady who said she was waiting for Bart Connors? Not being able to make sense out of her, did you hit her with a bottle of whiskey?”
“I not make sense out of you.”
“Of course not.”
“You say your apartment is twenty miles away. That’s what you said.”
“It’s just around the corner, Sylvia. And you know it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. ‘Killing a girl.’ First you say I kill Menti, and then you say I kill some girl. You’re crazy, in the head.”
“I’ve already admitted that possibility, today.”
“Who is this man you talked to about the paintings?”
“I have to have a few secrets of my own.”
Fletch stood and neatly put his chair back under the table.
“Thanks for the drink, Sylvia.”
“You not paying?”
“You invited me. It’s a whole new world, babe. You pay.”
Sixteen
“I guess it’s a pretty good job,” Fletch said. “I can’t read the shit through the paint.”
“It’s a nice job if you like hearses,” the manager said. “What will a black truck do for your plumbing business?”
“I don’t know,” Fletch said. “Might improve it.”
“Neighbors will think you’re carrying out a body.”
Friday morning was cool and cloudy again.
The manager said, “Did you get down to the Registry?”
Fletch said, “I brought cash for you.”
“I’ll get the bill.”
Fletch paid him off and took the keys to his black panel truck.
“Okay, fella,” the manager said. “You get stopped in that truck and the registration don’t match, don’t say where you got it painted.”
“I’ll get to the Registry tomorrow,” Fletch said. “Saturday.”
When he was getting into the truck, the manager said, “Don’t suppose you got a spare minute?”
“Why? What’s the matter?”
“Leak. In the men’s room.”
“No, thanks,” said Fletch. “Don’t need to.”
Seventeen
“Will you tell Mister Saunders that Mister Ralph Locke is in the lobby waiting to see him?”
The smile of the woman at the reception desk was a widow’s smile. In her fifties, she had learned to smile again, after a funeral, after someone had given her a job, a new but lesser life. Fletch guessed she was the widow of a journalist—perhaps one of those later names inscribed in a long plaque on the lobby wall, starting with 1898 and dribbling through years of war, collisions with fire trucks, and accidents with demon rum.
“A copy boy will be right down to get you,” she smiled.
In mid-afternoon, Fletch had gone down to the Ford Ghia parked at the curb.