The shutters on the house were closed up tight. I knocked on the door but heard nothing. I walked around the house to find a small but charming vine-covered terrace, with a small table and two chairs set out there. A jacket hung over the back of one chair.
"Antonio?" I called out. "Where are you? You don't have to hide. It's only me."
There was no answer. Not a sound, even, except the wind stirring the silvery leaves of the olive trees. I pulled out the other chair and sat down. Beside the terrace, a rosemary bush and sage gave off a wonderful scent. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. A little closer, came the squawk of a small animal or bird. Something creaked nearby, then banged, a shutter perhaps. For the first time since I arrived, I looked up.
The house had been outfitted with a pulley arrangement in the peak of the roof on this side of the house, presumably to pull large pieces of furniture, like the family's baby grand, up to the second floor. It was now serving a new purpose, supporting Antonio, a noose tight around his neck. He'd been strung up, perhaps still alive and fighting for his life, given that the fingers of one hand were caught between the noose and his neck, as if he'd struggled to keep it from strangling him. The rope that held him aloft had then been neatly and firmly wrapped in a figure eight around an iron cleat anchored in the wall at about shoulder height.
As I stood there, horrified, I heard something. It was almost indefinable: just a rustle perhaps, or the sound of a breaking branch. Nonetheless, I was certain someone was there. I had a sense of a malign presence very close by. Stumbling, I ran to my car, and hands shaking so badly I could barely get the key in the ignition, somehow managed to drive away.
NINE. ROME
THE NEXT DAY BROUGHT ITS OWN SET of unpleasant surprises.
"Now, let's go over this one more time," Massimo Lucca said. He was a tall, thin man, with reddish hair and a dashing mustache. He was pleasant enough, polite, quiet spoken. He was also a police officer.
"What you're telling me is that you found the chimera vase, hydria, or whatever it is called—you corrected me on that score already—in France, and that you brought it back into Italy."
"That's right," I said.
"And your intention was to return this hydria to the museum in Vulci from which it was stolen many years ago."
"That's also correct."
"And Signora Leonard?"
"She was assisting me. She had the hydria in safekeeping and brought it there to give to me. You arrested her before she was able to do that. Once the transfer was complete, Signora Leonard would most certainly have paid off her hotel bill."
"What hotel bill?"
"Her hotel bill in Arezzo," I said, heart sinking at the thought that I might have made Lola's situation even worse. "That's what you arrested her for, is it not? She already reached an arrangement with them. Go ask them."
He made a note on the pad in front of him. "No," he said. "We were not chasing down someone who didn't pay a bill. We were looking for the antiquity."
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had already reached that conclusion, even if I'd refused to admit it to myself until now. "How would you know she was going to be there with the hydria?" I said.
"I'm not going to tell you that."
"Oh come on," I said. "It will all have to come out at her trial, won't it? You'll have to tell her lawyer." I had no idea whether or not this was true, given that I had no previous requirement to learn the intricacies of the Italian justice system, but it sounded good and did the trick. Furthermore, it had given me an idea.
"We were acting on a tip from a concerned member of the public," he said.
"Who?"
"You know I can't reveal that," he said irritably. "Anyway, I don't know. It was an anonymous tip, a phone call, which we are trying to track down."
"I don't suppose this was the first such anonymous tip on this subject you'd received, was it?" I said, as the events of the past few days started to come together.
"No, it was the second. We were told a woman would be at the Tanella di Pitagora with it a couple of days earlier, but nothing came of it. We almost didn't go to the Melone, thinking it was a prank, but my supervisor, a very meticulous man, made us go. You will understand, I hope, that I have more important things to do than go dashing about the countryside looking for pots."
"I don't suppose you could check whether there was a similar call in Volterra," I said.
"I could, but why would I?"
"Doesn't it strike you as a little unusual, all these anonymous calls?"
"A little," he admitted. "But there are people who value Italian heritage and are less than sympathetic to those who traffic in illegal antiquities."
"But we were planning to return it to its rightful place in the museum."
"Here we are back at that story again," he said. "I don't understand why you are doing this. Signora Leonard has already said that she didn't realize that the pot was an antiquity. That, I gather, will be her defense. Your story would appear to contradict what she is saying, and if you think you're helping her by being here telling me this preposterous tale, then perhaps you should think again. I'm tempted to record this conversation to use in court ourselves, but I'm going to do you a big favor and ignore everything you said to me on the basis that you are trying to help a friend. If you persist—" The phone at his elbow rang, and a young woman knocked quickly and poked her head around the door.
"The call you've been waiting for, sir," she said. "Signore Palladini."
Palladini, I thought. Familiar name. Where? Then I had it. Vittorio Palladini was the fellow who'd got Boucher to put me in touch with Robert Godard in Vichy. It was a common enough Italian name, of course, but still.
"Grazie," he said, picking it up. "Yes," he said, and after a few moments, "I'm afraid so." Another pause. "It's being checked out right now."
He grimaced slightly. "You know that is not possible. There is nothing we can do now that it is here. Regrettable, I know. Perhaps next year. We'll speak again soon." He hung up and looked at me. I opened my mouth to speak, but the door opened again, and a rather pleasant-looking man poked his head around the door. He was dressed in jeans and a turtleneck and expensive-looking jacket and was carrying a small duffel bag of the sports variety, as if he was off to his gym any moment. He certainly looked as if he worked out regularly.
"All done," he said. "Oops, sorry to interrupt."
"No problem," Lucca said. "Everyone else is. Is it what we think it is?"
"Most certainly," the man said.
"Well, there you are," Lucca sighed.
"Indeed," the man said. "I'll be off now."
"Tell the others, will you?" Lucca said.
"I will," the man said.
"Could we talk a little more about my friend Lola?" I said.
The young policewoman interrupted us again. "Sorry, sir," she said. "Can I speak with you for a minute?"
"Not right now," he said.
"But sir, we have a problem."
"We always have problems," he said, irritably. "In a minute."
"A body, sir. Near the Tanella in Cortona," she said. I gasped quite audibly at her words.
"Don't say that kind of thing in front of visitors," Lucca said. "You've upset Signora McClintoch." The young woman rolled her eyes. In truth, I didn't know whether to be upset or just relieved I hadn't been losing my mind in the fog.