“So whoever it was shot him was standing close? Is that fair?”
“Maybe. Depends on the gun, doesn’t it? If you want a guess …”
“Why not?”
“I’d say small pistol, fired close. Less than a metre. More I cannot say. Certainly not at the moment.”
Great. She had expected no less, and certainly no more.
“There is one thing, though,” Alberto said as she was about to leave.
“What?”
“In his pocket.” He held out a piece of paper in the palm of his hand. “We found this.”
“So?”
“It’s a key for a left-luggage deposit.”
“Can I borrow that for a while?”
“If you sign for it and give it back.”
“So fussy you are.”
“Can’t trust anyone these days, you know. Do you have any ideas?”
She shook her head. “None that make sense. What about you?”
“We thought we’d have that restorer in for a chat. Menzies.” She looked puzzled.
“They were enemies,” he pointed out. “So your friend says. Came to blows. Had another squabble a couple of days ago. You’re the one who says art restoring is a vicious business.”
“Not that vicious. Had someone pulled his head off, then Menzies would be your man. But shooting him?” She shook her head.
Alberto shrugged. “We’ve got to do something to pass the time. Unless you can suggest something better …?”
She couldn’t, so she signed a receipt, put the key in her pocket, and walked slowly away.
There are well-established ways of finding out where keys come from, but they are enormously tedious and often take a long time, even when you are fairly sure that what you are looking for is a left-luggage locker. Nonetheless, Flavia put the machinery into action, and herself sat at the desk in her office and tried to hurry things up a little.
Let us assume, she thought, that this is important. Let us assume that it will get us somewhere.
She got out her old and much-used map of Rome, spread it on her desk and considered. The twin stations of Ostia Lido and Ostiense were the most likely, although there was also the metro station at the Colosseum. If it had lockers.
Keys, she thought as she walked to the taxi rank and pushed her way to the front of the queue. The Romans accepted it; the tourists looked daggers at her. Keys, she thought as the taxi inched its way into the traffic. Lots of keys. To lockers and to church doors. Tiresome. But, you never know. Journey’s end might be just around the corner. With a bit of luck.
Not today. Not with that key, anyway. The Colosseum was a dud; Ostia Lido was a dud; Ostiense was a bit of a poser.
For a brief moment she had a surge of hope. The station had its bank of lockers, and a few moments’ examination led her to one labelled C37. It was locked. With a tremor of anticipation, she put the key in, and smiled as it turned in the lock.
There was a bag inside. But not a canvas one. A suitcase, covered in American airline stickers.
She pulled it out, still hoping but already half suspicious that something wasn’t right, put it on the floor and opened it up.
Socks. Underpants. T-shirts. A tag identifying the case as the possession of Walter Matthews, 2238 Willow, Indianapolis 07143. USA.
Totally perplexing. She frowned as she sat cross-legged in front of the scattered contents, oblivious to the passengers skirting round her, trying to figure out the connection. She didn’t understand. She was just about to start putting all the bits and pieces back into the case when she vaguely heard a footstep from behind. She ignored it, but was forced to be a bit more attentive when this was followed up with a loud cry of triumph as she was put into a neck lock by a large, sunburned, muscular and American arm.
“Gotcha!” screamed Walter Matthews of Indianapolis.
“Oh, for God’s sake …”
“Thief! Police!”
An interested circle of passengers gathered round to watch this little drama, and Flavia was pinned to the ground by the outraged tourist for several minutes until the station manager put in an appearance. Followed by two passing carabinieri who attempted to arrest her while the manager tried to calm the situation down.
“Look, guys …” Flavia said.
“Shut up. You’re under arrest.”
“I am not under arrest.”
“Oh yes? That’s what you think.”
She reached for her identification, and was instantly pinned to the ground again.
“Jesus Christ! I am in the police. Let me go, you stupid morons.”
It was said with sufficient force to make them hesitate long enough for her to drag the identification out of her back pocket. Her colleagues in law enforcement looked at it, twitched with embarrassment, then let go of her arms, producing a bellow of outrage from Walter Matthews.
“Oh, be quiet,” Flavia snapped, conscious that she wasn’t exactly enhancing Rome’s international image but not really caring either. “Take your bloody bag and be grateful we don’t confiscate it.”
Not that he understood a word, of course, until she calmed down long enough to translate a slightly calmer version. Crime. Murder. Locker involved. Police investigation. No damage. Thanks for your cooperation which is greatly appreciated. Etcetera.
All this in English, which the station master did not understand. Which was a pity. If he had, he might have been more sympathetic; as it was, he was more indignant about the smooth running of his station and was distinctly cool about answering Flavia’s questions.
He couldn’t go into details, he told her, because he was merely a standin while the real station manager was on holiday.
“Where?”
“Vienna. The State Railway choir. They’re going on tour in Austria. Verdi’s Requiem. And some Palestrina. Signor Landini is a tenor.”
“Good for him. How is it that there are two keys? I have one, this American had one.”
He shrugged. Evidently one had been reported lost and replaced.
“When?”
Another shrug. Such matters are always put in the book.
“Get the book.”
Reluctantly, he did. Flavia examined it with care. Nothing.
“You would have cut the new key sometime. Is there a record of that?”
There was always a duplicate set, he explained. People lose keys all the time, and get very upset.
“So you have no idea when the second key came into operation? When the original went missing?”
“No.”
“Can you tell if this is the original?” She handed over the key found in Burckhardt’s pocket. The station master looked at it and nodded. It was the original. You could tell by the numbering. She retrieved it, and looked so discouraged the man finally took pity on her, and picked up the phone.
“Lockers? Did Signor Landini ask you to get out any replacement keys in the past few days?”
There was a pause. “Yesterday? The number? Good. No, everything’s in order. He forgot to note it in the book, that’s all. Holiday spirit, I suppose. He didn’t say anything about who lost the key? I thought not.”
He put the phone down. “Yesterday,” he said. “Someone came saying they’d lost the key yesterday.”
“I heard. They didn’t say when yesterday?”
“No. Signor Landini reported it just before he left.”
Getting the necessary permissions to go into Burckhardt’s hotel room took the usual length of time. That is to say hours; he was on his own, there was no one to ask and official permission had to be sought from some legal nook and cranny. Left to her own devices, Flavia might well have just let herself in with a picklock, but the carabinieri were involved and they were terribly fussy about that sort of thing these days. They used not to be, but what with enquiries and investigations and assessments and all that, everyone was being awfully careful and punctilious about following the rules. Partly to avoid trouble, and partly to show to the powers-that-be that following rules was time-consuming and expensive.