Stood to reason. Icon and icon man. Bit of a coincidence otherwise.
But why steal it? Obviously because he wanted it. But a distinguished man like him? Stealing in person? Very unusual. Unheard of. Even the stupidest dealer would subcontract something like that. To a specialist. Like Mrs Verney. So what was he doing leaving before she got there? And surely someone like Mrs Verney wouldn’t do a job and take her employer along for the ride?
This stumped her, so she punished her stomach some more by smoking another cigarette and having another coffee and staring at the ceiling in the hope that something would occur to her.
It didn’t. And then, before she could take that precious half hour off for something to eat she’d been promising herself since five o’clock, Alberto rang. He had news, he said. They’d found someone floating in the Tiber. Did she want to come and have a look? She might be interested.
Why? she asked. Nothing novel about that.
“Ah, well, you see. His name was Burckhardt. He had identification on him saying he was an art dealer. From Paris. So I thought …”
“I’m on my way.” She picked up her jacket, calmed her stomach and walked out.
Whoever was responsible hadn’t tried very hard to conceal what they’d done; the body would have surfaced and floated ashore sooner or later anyway, even if one of the ancient, slow dredgers that pursue the thankless task of scooping up silt from the bottom of the river hadn’t sucked him up bodily and spat him out into the cavernous hold of the boat.
On the other hand, it was lucky that anyone had noticed. Had one of the crew not been new to the job, and been leaning over the railing watching because he was not yet experienced enough to have lost interest, the body might have been instantly buried under several tons of sand, taken out to sea and dumped four kilometres or so in the Mediterranean. Equally, had the new recruit not been the son of the captain, it is likely that his alarm would have been ignored anyway.
Either way, it was only by mere chance that the corpse of Peter Burckhardt was discovered so quickly, allowing the police to avoid a considerable waste of time in their less than urgent desire to talk to him. Time which they were instantly able to divert to the more urgent task of discovering who had taken him a couple of miles down river, shot him in the head, then tipped his body in.
And why, of course. He had nothing on him which helped in any way, except for an address book containing several hundred numbers which the unfortunate Giulia was told to ring up, one by one, in search of stray information. Certainly, there was nothing which instantly made the enquiry progress by leaps and bounds. The information lay in the existence of the corpse itself. But even that was relatively uncommunicative, offering no help over when it got there or who put it there. And, so the pathologist assured Flavia morosely, it probably wouldn’t. Not even a bullet, which had gone straight through and out the other side.
“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
