The Girl With the Botticelli Eyes (5 page)

Manship could see the press releases now being cobbled together by the publicity wizards; some spicy tale, mostly apocryphal, about the great-great—whatever she was— granddaughter of Isobel Cattaneo, known to history as the Simonetta. What was the matter with him? Couldn’t he see it was box office?

“Bill, I’m up to my ass in problems here. There’s a million and one details still left …”

“You don’t want to go to Florence,” Osgood bellowed into the phone, “don’t go.”

Manship had to hold the receiver away from his ear while the rest of the tirade blew on.

“What if she refuses to come?”

The pause that followed told him that Osgood had never seriously entertained such a possibility. “She’ll come, all right,” he finally said, full of brash assurance. “She’s broke and alone.”

“So am I.”

“The difference is, you have an expense account.”

Manship ignored the barb. “Okay. Enough. I know the rest. Just get me Venus’s telephone number.”

“Wait a minute. I’ve got it right here. In Fiesole. Name’s Cattaneo.”

A short time later, Manship called for his bill and had his bags brought down. His plane to Berlin was due to leave in less than an hour.

“A
RE YOU SURE?”

“The records are quite clear.”

“There can be no mistake?”

“Those are the drawings, are they not?”

“They appear to be, although you can’t be certain with photographs.”

“Yes, of course.” Major Von Marie, head of the art-theft division of the German Bundeskriminalamt, nodded sympathetically.

“The old man …” Manship resumed.

“Streicher?”

“Dead?”

“He died in Spandau.” Von Marie flipped through some papers. “In 1982. Convicted in Nuremberg in 1946 for high crimes against humanity.”

The major rattled off a series of dates, indictments, and convictions in his crisp, uninflected English.

“So you would never have known about the drawings if it hadn’t been for the murder of the son.”

“Correct.” Von Marie inserted a cold, half-smoked Marlboro into a cigarette holder and relit it. “After all, if you’re bright enough to smuggle priceless masters out of Italy in 1940, you’re not going to be so foolish as to exhibit them on a wall in your home in Germany.”

“His son did.”

Von Marie smiled wearily. “Much to the poor fellow’s regret. The moment old Streicher died, the foolish boy hauled the drawings up out of storage and plastered them over his walls for all the world to see. I can show you the house. It’s in Leipzig.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Manship dismissed the offer with a wave. “Have they ever found the fellow’s murderer?”

The major riffled through a stack of files at the bottom of his desk drawer. Whistling softly to himself until locating a particular file, he plucked it out with an air of triumph. “Ah, here we are.”

Glasses perched at the crown of a closely cropped pate, he lip-read to himself, peering periodically over his frames at Manship, who was seated opposite him.

“According to this report, it was a case of robbery. Someone had evidently heard that the drawings were there in the house and relatively unprotected. He, or they, broke in on the night of October ninth, 1987, with the intention of taking them and were surprised by the son and his wife returning home after a night out. Both were killed. Horrible, filthy business. Blood. Mutilations.” The major lowered his voice to a discreet whisper. “The woman’s eyes were gouged out.”

“Gouged out?”

“That’s what it says here. Care to see?” Von Marie opened the folder and slid it across the desk. Manship let his eye drift down over a long official document written partly in German, partly in English. Attached to that were several fairly graphic police photos, which he declined to view at all.

“Something wrong?” the major asked, amused at what he took to be American squeamishness.

But it was not this report or the grim photographs that had upset Manship; rather, it was that business of the eyes. He was thinking of the mutilations in the paintings at St. Stephen’s and the Pallavicini.

“Any witnesses?” he asked.

“Not according to this report.”

“Anything else taken?”

“Other than the drawings, nothing. The matter was reported to the police, who referred it to us. Once it was determined that they were masterworks stolen during the war, naturally we became involved.”

“Eleven through thirteen,” Manship muttered to himself.

The major’s caterpillar brows rose up above the rims of his eyeglasses. “Pardon?”

“Nothing. Just talking to myself. Any suspects?”

“None to speak of.” Von Marie gave a tired shrug, then seemed to spark. “Wait.” A hand rose as if to keep Manship in his seat. “Just one moment, please.”

“Yes? What?”

The major did a half turn in his swivel chair and reached back into another file behind him, where he rummaged about a bit. When his chair squealed around again, his face was red and he dangled a slim folder.

Manship, scarcely breathing, watched the thin, strong fingers flip with remarkable agility through a stack of papers.

“Ah, yes, here it is.”

Manship leaned forward.

“A special unit of our division,” von Marie began, “devotes itself solely to the recovery of art stolen during the war.”

“Yes, of course. Our own FBI and U.S. Army intelligence have such a branch, too.”

“There was so much of that unfortunate looting then.” The major shook his head regretfully. “During the occupation here, the Russians were the worst offenders along those lines.

“Ordinarily, we would not have pursued the matter,” von Marie went on, “but work of this quality, by an artist of this stature, we were not prepared to forget quite so quickly.”

“Of course,” Manship waited breathlessly.

“I remember the case very well, Mr. Manship. As a matter of fact, I was in charge of the task of seeking out paid informants both here and in the Berlin underworld in order to put together a profile of the guilty party.”

“And?”

“Interesting. Several of our most reliable sources, quite independent from one another, were all certain the assassins were Italian. Possibly even Corsican.”

“You speak of more than one.”

“Indeed. So we were led to believe. I seem to recall something about some group there—a handful of disaffected fascists, holdovers from the Mussolini era. The typical failures and misfits you find in such groups. Never got over the humiliation of defeat. Determined to redeem all works of Italian art, the heritage of the motherland looted during the war. You know the drill. That sort of typical folderol.”

Manship pondered a while. “Presumably, then, this group would still have the drawings.”

“I should think so. We were not successful in recovering them. And the last attempt …”

Manship waited, barely moving.

“Several of our people—top agents, highly responsible—they never returned.” The major seemed tired now, and his mouth drooped at the corners. “Simply disappeared. We tried for months after to find them. Never a trace.”

There was a moment of silence while the two men appeared to weigh the significance of this last detail.

“You don’t happen to have the name of the organization?” Manship asked.

The major shrugged. “If I did, I don’t any longer. May I interest you in some refreshment? I have an excellent plum brandy.” He held up a bottle of slivovitz.

“That’s very kind of you, Major.” Manship rose. “I’ve a plane to catch to Florence and I’m running late already. May I take these?” He pointed to the photos of the drawings on von Marie’s desk.

“By all means. I have no further use for them.” The major smiled somewhat sadly. “Good luck with your exhibition, I wish I could come,” he added somewhat wistfully, and raised his glass to Manship as the younger man waved good-bye from the door.

Before checking out of his hotel in Berlin, Manship called the number in Florence Osgood had given him. He was unable to reach Isobel Cattaneo herself but spoke to a housekeeper who knew little, if any, English. Their conversation went on in halting, demotic Italian, from which he was able to gather that the signorina was out and not expected back until much later that evening. He left his name and said he would call again when he reached Florence. Having spelled his name for her the sixth time, he had no great hope that the signorina would ever receive his message.

Late that afternoon, checking into the Excelsior, he was given a room with a terrace overlooking the Arno. It was sunset and already the city had begun to glow in the burnt pinks and russets for which it is famous. The streets below Manship’s window were thronged with shoppers swarming along the embankment. Motor scooters snarled up and down the cramped alleyways, a clanging counterpoint to the basilica bells just chiming vespers.

He made himself a Cinzano and soda from the well-stocked refrigerator in his room and strolled out on the terrace to watch the scullers darting over the motionless water with the speed and airy weightlessness of waterbugs.

Sprawled on his bed, he tried the Fiesole number again. Again, he was unable to reach the signorina, but this time he was told by the housekeeper that she would be able to see him at four the following afternoon.

He went out briefly for dinner, then returned to the hotel and went directly up to his room.

No sooner, it seemed, had Manship closed his eyes that night than he was wakened by a call from Osgood in New York, out of breath and talking too fast.

“Listen, Mark. They’re thinking of canceling the show. They think it’s a security problem. Lawsuits …”

“Lawsuits?”

“If there should be any trouble during the run of the show … If someone were to get hurt … We couldn’t exactly claim we didn’t know there was a problem. I’ve been on the phone with the underwriters this morning. And our lawyers, too. They say we’d be liable big-time. What with thousands of visitors streaming in and out of here every day, we can’t possibly monitor everyone’s movements. Already they’re talking higher premiums.” His manner became conciliatory, almost wheedling, “Come home, Mark.”

Manship was tempted. No more planes, he thought. No more airports and hotels. No more avid estate lawyers and conniving gallery owners. His own bed. His beautiful little converted mews house on East Eighty-fifth Street, just across from the park.

“I intend to,” Manship said finally. “Just as soon as I finish up here with Torelli.”

“Mark!”

“Don’t worry about it, Bill. I’ll be fine. I promise you. I suppose you know—we’re not going to have those last three Chigi sketches.”

“I don’t care about that anymore.” Osgood sounded resigned. “About the money, I can’t get you any more than maybe two hundred at the outside. Van Nuys won’t budge.”

“We’ll make do. Look, I’ll finish up here tomorrow and get right home on Tuesday. Who did you talk to in Istanbul?”

“Hakim himself. It’s pure chaos over there. They blame us for the
Centurion.
Also the guard at the Pallavicini lost an eye.”

“Good God.” Manship gritted his teeth.

“Don’t do anything foolish,” Osgood warned. “Let the police do it all. Whoever is behind this looks like a dangerous nutcase.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t take any risks.”

“I trust no one.”

“That’s because you’ve been working in museums too long.”

They both laughed grimly.

“Look—do as I say,” Osgood went on. “Come right home.”

“I will. Bill. I told you. It’s just for another day. I need to talk to Torelli. I have to see the damage to the
Centurion
and the Pallavicini canvas for myself. Then, of course, there’s your Simonetta look-alike. I’ve an appointment with her tomorrow. You still want me to run her down?”

There was another of those long, weighty pauses. When Osgood’s voice came again it bore a tired sigh of resignation. “You may as well, since you’re there already.”

BODY OF WOMAN DISCOVERED IN ASHES OF BURNED-OUT CAR

The woman whose cadaver was found in a burned vehicle on the autostrada between Naples and Castello de Mar was first thought to be the victim of an accident. Police now suspect, however, that this is a case of homicide.

Forensic experts report that the body was burned beyond recognition. Autopsy reports have disclosed that the eyes had been forcibly removed—almost surgically pared—from the skull …

—
Il Messagero
, Rome

C
OLONEL LUDOVICO BORGHINI SAT
at his desk, affixing his signature to a stack of documents. He sat stiffly and scarcely moved his hand. Mostly, the papers were solicitations for funds, addressed to a well-guarded list of private benefactors who contributed substantially to his work.

A direct descendant of the powerful Renaissance family of Sforza, Borghini never used the title Count, to which he was fully entitled, but insisted on being addressed by his military rank of colonel—to which he was in no way entitled, since he was not, nor had he ever been, a member of any official military body recognized by the Italian government. An incorrectable astigmatism had kept him from a career as a professional soldier, a fact he looked upon as the central sorrow of his life.

Instead, he was a full-time member of some vague paramilitary group made up of disaffected middle-aged men and a smattering of aimless youths, all of whom seemed to enjoy getting dressed up in surplus army fatigues once or twice a month and strutting about like soldiers.

More zealous than the others and therefore willing to work harder, Borghini was given the title Colonel and some nebulous authority to act on the group’s behalf.

Self-denying by nature, the colonel was a man who scorned physical comfort and made few concessions to adversity. The office he occupied was small and windowless, its walls constructed of plain concrete block, unadorned by anything that might possibly be construed as decorative or frivolous. The few bits of ornamentation permitted there fell more naturally into the category of official furnishings. These consisted of a signed photograph of Benito Mussolini to Borghini’s father, Count Ottorino; a photograph of Ludovico Borghini and his father taken at the family villa on Lake Maggiore; and, centered on the wall directly above the plain pine desk, a black banner upon which the insignia of a mailed fist of iron appeared to rise high in an attitude of threat. Above the fist, woven in gold, were the words
Il Ferro Pugno.
Below the fist, set in flowing cursive on an arc, was the motto:
Tutti per la Patria.