Errant Angels (10 page)

14

The average Monday morning was not generally a busy one for Riccardo Fossi. Shortly before ten he had descended the stairs to his small, but tastefully decorated office. He strode through the modest outer office, acknowledging the greetings of his small team of employees, but saving his cheeriest greeting for
Signora
Litelli. She was busy at her desk, typing her way through the correspondence he had left the previous Friday. She was a mature woman, well past the age of presenting any danger of physical attraction to a passion as potentially volatile as Riccardo's. Besides which, his intentions were firmly fixed on Renata di Senno and had been for some considerable time.
Signora
Litelli's attraction for the eminent Luccan accountant was the fact that she saw little and said even less. That was important for a man like Fossi.

It had been the same for his father, who had first employed the young slip of a girl many years before – except that then there had been the small matter of a sexual spark, which his mother had moved swiftly to extinguish. The young
Signorina
Litelli had survived the resulting hostile scrutiny from Riccardo's mother and had matured into the elderly woman she was today. In fact, so secure had her tenure behind the desk in the inner office become over the years, that to dispense with her services had long ago become unthinkable. That had not been the case in the past.

‘Get rid of that seducing witch!' Riccardo's mother had
wheezed at him, through pain-racked eyes heavy with the languid ambrosia of diamorphine, as he sat at her bedside in the hospital. ‘Your father never listened to me … God rest his soul.' There had been a rattling pause. ‘Get rid of her before she brings down ruin on your head.'

‘I cannot,
Mamma
,' he had whispered softly in reply. ‘You know that. She has given us many years of loyal service and what reason would I have to do such a thing?' His mother had made a spluttering sound of vehement disagreement as he wiped the spittle from her mouth. ‘Besides which, she has seen things and knows of things … many things over the years.'

And that was why the now elderly
Signora
Litelli was such a valued inhabitant of Riccardo Fossi's world. She knew a lot about it and to keep her within it, ensuring that such information would remain unspoken, was his only sensible option.

‘
Buongiorno, signore
,' she said maternally as he walked up to her desk. She smiled at him, but did not take her eyes off the screen in front of her.

‘
Signora
, you are well?' asked Riccardo. It was the same question he asked every morning.

‘Thank you, I am. May the Blessed Virgin be praised.' That was the standard reply given each morning as well. Riccardo had lost all but the shallowest of connections to the Church years ago and now any active participation in what he regarded as the nonsensical mumbo-jumbo of the whole thing was purely as circumstances dictated, for the maintenance of his position in society. It amused him that what he had lost over the years seemed to have been added to this woman's portion of belief and faith. He also thought it a contradiction in terms that she could be so devoutly religious when she knew so much about things that were better not to know. Perhaps that was why she was so
devoted; she was seeking absolution in the next life.

‘Good … good. Then let us proceed with the day, shall we?' he said, concluding the morning ritual of their greeting.

Signora
Litelli clicked the ‘print' icon on her screen and a printer to the side of her desk twitched into life.

‘No mail yet… No faxes either,' she said very matter-of-factly, as she picked up her notepad and flipped back to the previous page, ‘but you have two telephone messages,' she said. ‘The Contessa says that you are not to forget to ask your clients if any of them have a screen they would be willing to lend the opera group for the performance on Friday.' She took her pencil and drew a tick through the message, writing the date and time at the bottom of it. She was extremely methodical.

‘The Contessa and her screen,' Riccardo chuckled as he lit a cigarette.

‘Cannot
Signor
Marinetti provide one … from the
Casa dei Gioielli
?' she asked, looking up at him for the first time. Her face was lined, but the eyes burned with a steely determination.

‘I think that the Contessa has already spoken to
Signor
Marinetti,' he replied.

Signora
Litelli knew all the members of COGOL. In fact, she seemed to know just about everything about everybody in Lucca.

‘You said that there were two messages?' he asked encouragingly.

‘I did,' she replied, looking back at the pad, ‘and there are. The second one was from
Signor
di Leone; he requests that you meet him this morning at eleven to discuss the matter he briefly mentioned to you last week over the telephone – last Thursday at…' she flipped back another page, ‘…at four thirty-seven.'

‘Ah, yes … I remember,' said Fossi. That had been before
the rehearsal and the resulting night of passion with Renata di Senno at the
Villa Legge. Ah
, he thought, inhaling the warm cigarette smoke,
but that memory has nothing to do with you, Signora Litelli.

She continued to look at him, as if awaiting her instructions.

‘You say he will be here at eleven?' he asked.

‘No,
Signor
Fossi. You are to
meet
him at eleven. He will wait for you at
del Mostro's
– the café on the
Piazza Napoleone
.' She ticked the message, made the usual notation next to it, turned to a blank page and put the pad back on the desk.

‘
Del Mostro's
?' he asked in irritation. ‘Their
espresso
is awful. Why does he want to meet there, for God's sake?'

Signora
Litelli did not approve of blasphemy. She looked up at him over the top of her glasses, reprovingly. ‘I would suspect that
Signor
di Leone has little interest in their
espresso
and is possibly more concerned with a discreet meeting venue, disguised by the presence of several tourists staring at the statue of the
Francese
and at all the trees. The trees are not as green as they should be. The summer has not been kind.'

The
Piazza Napoleone
contained a statue of Napoleon's sister, Elisa Baciocchi, the
Francese
, who had ruled Lucca under the protection of her brother for a few years in the tumult of the early nineteenth century.

‘You could possibly be quite correct,
Signora
,' responded Fossi as he walked on into his spacious office, with its view out across
Via del Giardino Botanico
to the gardens beyond.

His father had bought the villa for next to nothing shortly after the Nazis had left, at a time when the country was convulsed by civil war and everything was in a state of almost total chaos. He had turned the ground floor into his
offices and had moved his wife and son into the other accommodation offered on the remaining floors. Tucked away in the south-eastern corner of the city, almost on top of the massive defensive walls, Riccardo had enjoyed a blissfully happy childhood, being doted upon and basically spoilt rotten. He had shown an early aptitude for singing and music in general and had sung in the cathedral choir. He had even asked if it would be possible, when he was old enough, to attend the
istituto
in Lucca. That question had not been favourable received, as it had always been understood that he would follow his father into the accountancy business and perpetuate the good name of Fossi, which his father had worked so hard to establish.

‘Music does not make you rich,' his father had told him, ‘not unless you are a Puccini, a Verdi, a di Stefano or a Gobbi. You have a God-given voice, and God has smiled on you, Riccardo, but not to the same extent as He did with these others. You are none of these people, I am sad to say, so you had best take what fortune has placed on your plate and learn to be an accountant, just like your
papà
, and follow in his footsteps. That has always been our Italian way.'

And so it had come about, but with one single exception. Riccardo was far more of a lad-about-town than his father could ever have hoped to be. His more outgoing nature, the absolute opposite to the widely held perception that accountants were boring men in grey suits, had allowed Riccardo to make certain contacts over the years – contacts that were very lucrative and also potentially rather dangerous.

‘It is nearly ten thirty-five,' called a voice from the outer office. ‘
Signor
di Leone probably would not like to be kept waiting, especially if the
espresso
is not very good.'

‘Yes, thank you,
Signora
Litelli,' he replied. ‘I am on my way.'

Riccardo strolled the short distance to the awful
del Mostro's
in the balmy warmth of mid-morning, humming his way through ‘
E lucevan le stelle
' – the famous tenor aria from Puccini's
Tosca.
As he did so he smiled to himself at the thought that his stars were, indeed, brightly shining. This aria was his party piece and was guaranteed to bring the house down at the concert on Friday.

‘…so, that is why I have asked to meet you,' said Daniele di Leone as he picked up his cup of
espresso
and raised it to his lips.

Riccardo looked on in near disbelief; he couldn't believe that this man was actually going to drink such foul liquid. He had opted for a sparkling water – at least that came in a sealed bottle, which meant that there was nothing
del Mostro's
could do to adulterate it, which, in his opinion, was exactly what they did to their coffee.

‘Although I am, of course, flattered, I do not quite see why you have come to me specifically. There must be any number of highly respectable accountants to whom you could turn for their services.'

‘As I briefly explained to you,
Signor
Fossi, my family have always had extensive involvement in olives and their oil. We have recently purchased extensive groves in Umbria, around Lake Trasimeno. We also have a sweeter interest and produce candied fruits in our factory in Genoa. These are just a few of our business involvements, you understand.'

Riccardo was intrigued by the mention of these being just the tip of this man's empire.

‘Obviously, the greater our business activities become, the more will be lost to … shall we say, lost to the tithes modern business is expected to pay over as a measure – a punishment almost – for their hard work and success,' di Leone continued. ‘I have contacted you because of Don Amico Forno's personal recommendation.'

Riccardo Fossi took a long drink of his mineral water and then he reached for a cigarette.

‘You will excuse me asking, but di Leone is a southern name, is it not … from Sicily?'

‘Yes, from the Trapani region at the western end of the island. That is where the best olives are grown. My family have farmed there since before the time of the Kingdom of Naples. We are well placed and have many contacts … many
important
contacts.'

In the silence that followed, the two men sat at the little round table casually glancing out in to the
Piazza Napoleone
and at the throng of tourists who meandered through it like a steadily flowing stream.

‘I am told that you are acquainted with certain ways that payments to the State could be, shall we say,
reduced
,' said di Leone softly, so that his voice barely carried to the other side of the table. ‘It is appreciated that these ways can be expensive due to the certain level of risk involved, although they would not be as expensive as the taxes themselves.'

Riccardo Fossi said nothing in reply, but the smile that now covered his face confirmed that what the other man had just said was, indeed, a distinct possibility.

Di Leone relaxed and seemed to settle more comfortably into his chair. ‘Don Amico Forno's confidence has obviously not been misplaced,' di Leone whispered as he emptied his
espresso
. ‘I am very pleased to have made your acquaintance,
Signor
Fossi. Are you certain I cannot tempt you to have an
espresso
?'

15

What Fossi had no way of knowing was that significant events were unfolding not far from
Café del Mostro
. Although they would not involve him directly, these events were connected to the Contessa's forthcoming concert – albeit in a somewhat tenuous way. In the best operatic tradition, jealousy and intense rivalry had reared their heads in the form of a certain Alonzo Adriani, renowned dealer in antiques and mortal rival of Gregorio Marinetti. He had stood at the window of
Casa dei Gioielli
the previous Thursday and peered open-mouthed through his reflection at what looked very much like a Venetian screen. Not just any Venetian screen, but
the
Venetian screen – the one belonging to the von Hohenwald family and the one which had not been seen since the collapse of the Third Reich at the end of 1945.

Questore
Bramanti, the senior officer in charge of the
Questura
– the outpost of the
Polizia
, or civil police, not far from the statue in the
Piazza Napoleone
– had enjoyed yet another bad weekend of over-indulgence and was now paying the price. His stomach felt like a tumble dryer with its control set to maximum, as his ever-growing ulcer fought valiantly to stave off the effects of the excess of garlic, oil and assorted fats his weekend of culinary abandonment had thrown at it.

‘What do you make of this?' he barked at his chief inspector, flinging a small sheet of paper across the desk at him,
the discomfort of his gut clearly etched on his face.

Michele Conti caught it and looked at it.

‘Obviously written with the wrong hand to try and disguise the handwriting… Good quality paper, which could be significant… Written with a fountain pen, which might also be significant… Unsigned, which could indicate a vendetta or someone trying to just waste police time … and what is the von Hohenwald screen, anyway?' Conti looked up from the paper in his hand. ‘Is that a new cinema complex?'

Questore
Bramanti groaned, but not in reaction to anything his junior had just said. His ulcer was now in open revolt.

‘The
questore
made a comment?' asked Conti, trying not to smirk.

They had all become used to their commander's regular culinary excesses, the results of which were always best observed on a Monday morning.
Signora
Bramanti, not to mention the
questore's
mother, saw it as her duty to feed him with the best traditional Tuscan cooking possible; neither of them had made the slightest attempt to understand what effect their well-meant culinary efforts were having on his stomach and its unhappy ulcer. Bramanti winced and then glared at Conti.

‘Go and see what it's about,' Bramanti sighed. ‘Pascoli has already looked it up on the computer. He'll fill you in.'

The
questore
was near retirement and wasn't quite a full member of the new technological age; computers were something of a closed book to him.

‘Pascoli! Get in here!' he shouted.

The door opened and Sergeant Pascoli entered.

‘Tell him what you found out about this screen,' he barked, before relaxing back into his well-padded chair. He had effectively washed his hands of the matter for the next
few minutes. Instead of having to tell his junior what to do next, he could now concentrate on the misery he felt in his stomach.

‘This von Hohenwald screen was stolen from the family of the same name, who were bankers and representatives of the Austrians in Venice since way back before the time of Napoleon.' It was in a very matter-of-fact way that Sergeant Pascoli made his feelings known about the wrongs done to Italy during its historic past. ‘They had no right to be there and who knows, they had probably stolen the thing from its rightful owners in the first place.'

‘And how do we know all of this, on the strength of this largely uninformative little note?' asked Conti, holding it up.

‘From that we do not know anything,' replied the sergeant, making it obvious from his expression that he was about to launch into a detailed explanation of how he knew what he was about to reveal. ‘I have a friend in Geneva.'

Conti raised his eyebrows. It was a widely held belief that the sergeant was so wrapped up in his work that he didn't have time for any friends – or partners, for that matter.

‘In Geneva,' he repeated determinedly, ‘who works through the Council for Looted Art in Europe. The council is referred to as CLAE and they are affiliated with similar bodies throughout the world. So you have HARP, which is the Holocaust Art Restitution Project in the United States and also the IFAR, which is the International Foundation for Art Research in New York. Then there is –'

‘Just get on with it, Pascoli!' snapped Bramanti. ‘We all know that you are very thorough and have all the time in the world to play at finding things on your computer at the department's expense!'

For a moment, Sergeant Pascoli stood stock-still glaring at his superior, his mouth still opened at the point in his unfinished sentence where he had been abruptly cut off. It
occurred to Inspector Conti that, in the unfortunate event of the
questore's
ulcer finally getting the better of him, there was a certain sergeant who would definitely not be giving a donation to the resulting collection.

‘The von Hohenwald family is Jewish. They lost their entire art collection when the Nazis took over in Vienna. This screen is listed in the databases of all the organisations I have already mentioned and it has not been seen since the middle of 1940,' Pascoli concluded with a look of superior triumph on his face.

‘And now we have an anonymous, even childish, note telling us that it is here in Lucca?' continued Conti, his disbelief sounding in his voice. ‘And why would a stolen, highly valuable art treasure of international significance end up in a little shop in Lucca?'

Sergeant Pascoli was about to say that he had absolutely no idea when he was cut off for the second time in as many minutes.

‘How should I know?' barked a very irritated Bramanti from behind his desk. ‘I suppose that just to be certain, you had better go and see if there is any truth in this allegation. And don't take all day. We have other pressing matters to continue with.'

‘Have any of these agencies of Pascoli's been informed that we might have one of their stolen artworks here in Lucca?' asked Conti.

The
questore
, who was now in considerable discomfort and couldn't have cared less either way, looked enquiringly at Pascoli.

‘My friend in Geneva,' Pascoli turned to look at both of his colleagues in turn, ‘advised me to inform you that we should make sure of the facts of the allegation before we say anything to anyone. Stolen artworks are a highly sensitive issue and are very emotionally charged. If we say anything first and then, on investigation, the allegation turns out to
be a blind lead or hoax, we will not only upset a great many people, but we will also look incredibly stupid.'

The sergeant glowed with a sense of a job well done and a message successfully delivered. The
questore
looked very uncomfortable, a victim of his internal struggle. Inspector Conti felt as if he was about to embark on a wild goose chase.

Some twenty minutes later, Michele Conti stood in
Casa dei Gioielli.
Gregorio Marinetti was being his usual charming self, shrouded in the omnipresent cloud of expensive cologne, as he concluded a transaction with a Swiss couple – regular customers of his – for a miniature chest delicately inlaid with mother of pearl.

‘Neapolitan, late seventeenth century and in excellent condition,' he gushed, ‘and, if I might be permitted to say, a very wise investment. My able assistant, Nicola, will have the item securely packaged and I will have it delivered directly to you in Lausanne, as per usual.' He nodded to his assistant, who set about preparing the materials necessary to package the chest securely. ‘How nice to have seen you again,' he beamed as he held open the door and the couple left the shop. He waved them away down
Via Fillungo
and smiled broadly to himself at the thought that he really did have an international clientele for his business. It was just a pity that there weren't a few more of them, particularly during these hard economic times. ‘
Buongiorno
,' he half sang as he turned back into the shop and approached what he thought was his next customer. ‘Can I help the
Signore
in any way?'

‘
Buongiorno
, perhaps you can. Michele Conti …
Polizia
,' replied the policeman.

Although the smile on Gregorio Marinetti's face never faltered for an instant, it suddenly developed the ice-cold attributes of the marble bust of the Emperor Septimus
Severus, which stood on a column in the centre of the window.

‘
Polizia
?' he repeated, trying to keep his voice natural and only just managing to avoid an embarrassing swoop up into the falsetto register. ‘How can I assist the
Polizia
?' he continued, but the underlying tone was one of immediately suppressed panic.

‘
Signor
Marinetti, we were wondering if you could tell us anything about an item – a very valuable item – known as the von Hohenwald screen, from Venice originally.'

Conti was watching Marinetti intently as he spoke, ready to register any flick or twitch of reaction. Gregorio was giving the performance of his life – quite literally. He gave nothing away.

‘The von Hohenwald screen… The
Signore
knows about the von Hohenwald screen? Ah yes…' he said, turning away from the policeman to break any remaining eye contact. This action also masked the beads of perspiration which had suddenly appeared on the antique dealer's brow. ‘Let us go into the office,' he continued, walking ahead of Conti and past where Nicola was busy with the bubble wrap and cardboard. Such matters were best discussed discreetly. His brain was almost as active as
Questore
Bramanti's stomach as he fought hard to control the sudden panic that this policeman had so unexpectedly caused him. ‘How can anyone know?' He blurted out suddenly, giving voice to his thoughts.

‘Know what?' asked Conti, alert.

Gregorio Marinetti had realized his unintentional slip even before he had finished making it. He desperately tried to recover. ‘Er, know about the screen,
Signore
. It is of great value and importance to the artistic heritage of our country and to Venice in particular,' he continued rambling, ‘but it has not been seen since the Nazi collapse. The family lost many of their other art treasures to the Nazis as well, all of
which have long since disappeared. They were Jewish…' Marinetti shrugged in that uniquely Italian way.

‘And do you think that such an important treasure might, shall we say, “turn-up” here in Lucca?' asked Conti, waving his arm around the expanse of the shop.

‘Good Lord, no!' replied Marinetti, attempting a laugh. The first word started in the falsetto register and he had to consciously bring his voice back to its normal level by the end of the third one. He coughed, discreetly. The panic continued to rise within him. Were his answers convincing this policeman? It was hard to tell. In any case, who could possibly have seen the screen in his shop? It had been there for less than an hour, in the dead quiet of the mid-afternoon, before he had fetched the van and spirited it away to its hiding place. ‘Such an event would be the talk of the antiques world. Lucca would be the unfortunate centre of attention, I can assure you of that,' he continued.

‘So you have not seen this item?' asked Conti. He preferred a direct approach to his enquiries.

‘Me?' replied Marinetti, his voice now firmly under control. ‘But where would I see this precious object? There is a black and white photograph of it on the Internet… Very old, from before the war … but that is the only image I have seen.' He smiled at the policeman, wondering if he had given too much away. ‘I fear that nobody will see it ever again, until the police and other agencies have better fortune in their attempts to locate it,' he continued, his confidence growing as the panic receded. ‘It has been missing for nearly sixty years now, but the police might meet with ultimate success and trace it… Who is to say?' he concluded raising his eyebrows.

Michele Conti wasn't sure, but had the feeling that this man had just delivered a non-too-subtle dig at the police. ‘That is always possible,' he replied as he turned to face the window and the street. ‘You are remarkably well informed
about this specific object,
Signor
Marinetti, when I consider the coincidence of my walking in out of the blue and asking you about it, and you being such a veritable mine of information about that same object…' The inspector paused to allow what he had just said to sink in. ‘Especially when I am told by Sergeant Pascoli that there are perhaps in excess of 150,000 stolen artworks still to be found and returned to their legal owners; the von Hohenwald screen is but one of very many.' The inspector did not turn around, but addressed Marinetti over his shoulder. For his part, Marinetti continued without a pause.

‘It is, indeed, a coincidence that I should recently have read about that very same treasure, but that is part of my job … to be
au courant
with what is going on in the world of antiques. I am very highly thought of in my profession,' he replied immodestly. He laughed with considerably more success than before, but his feet were swimming in his shoes. The smile on his face was also, possibly, a little too jovial to be convincing. Conti observed none of this.

‘I am impressed that you find the time in your busy career to consult the databases of HARP or IFAR or even our very own CLAE.'

‘Oh yes … indeed … that is where I have seen the photograph I spoke of, but I cannot remember which website specifically,' muttered Marinetti, truthfully. He had searched the Internet for details of the screen when he had first heard of the collector who was interested in acquiring it. It had been quite by accident that he had discovered a less than reputable agent to supply him with it – no questions asked. Risky as it was, the transaction was well worth the gamble as it would resolve his financial nightmare once and for all. ‘What on earth makes you think that such a priceless, looted object might turn up in an establishment as humble as mine?' he asked with exaggerated surprise. This policeman and his questions had become somewhat annoying.