police, to escape a life that had held nothing for his parents and would hold nothing for him. It was a choice: the military or the factories of Turin and Milan, which were crying out for southern labor. Even as an adolescent, Bottando had thought there was more to life, possibly, than a fat wage packet and an apartment where the concrete was still damp from the hasty construction.
Tarento does not like the young man, although he cannot say why; his behavior is impeccable, his efforts unsparing, and his aptitude considerable. That, perhaps, is the problem, for Tarento has reached the peak of his career, and knows it. Even in a force riddled with corruption and incompetence, he has reached his level. Not so Bottando, who has already attracted the attention of the prosecuting magistrate; if he can bear it, the young man will rise—farther and faster than Tarento. The realization of this, and the fact that already Bottando has more self- confidence and assurance than his superior has, made the older man harsh and rude, going out of his way to impose his seniority while he still possesses it.
At least he manages to suppress a little bow and an obsequious smile when Stonehouse comes in to welcome them with all the grace and elegance of nobility, for Tarento is unaware of the great subtleties of English class distinctions. Instead, he takes his seat with a flourish, as though sitting in a seicento chair covered in fine Brussels tapestry is quite normal for him. He even makes a comment on its beauty, but notices that, somehow, his effort comes across less well than Bottando's indifferent silence as he also sits down. Stonehouse acknowledges the compliment but a brief, unsettling look of vague puzzlement passes across his face at the words. It is enough to make Tarento lose the little assurance he possesses.
So, he tries to become professional, the representative of the Italian state, with all the might of the law behind him, almost barking questions that are answered, in flawless Italian, with courtesy and concision.
There has been, Stonehouse says, a theft of a small painting. It was noticed that morning and he contacted the police directly.
'And the item removed?”
Stonehouse picks up a sheaf of paper from the desk: Argyll imagined it being part of the carefully handwritten inventory still in the Buonaterra muniments room. 'I got this out for you,' he says. 'I have a description of all my collection. It is a painting on wood of a Madonna. Florentine, fifteenth century, but of no great importance. Not compared to some of the other pictures in the house.”
'And the artist?”
'Unknown, although my friend Mr. Berenson gave it one of his own attributions. I do not think his efforts are very helpful, however. More important is that it is quite small—easily carried by one person—and was taken out of its frame in a responsible manner.
The thief took his time, and was concerned not to damage it.”
'It is my job to ascertain what is important,' Tarento says stiffly, and is pleased to see Stonehouse acknowledge his error. 'What elements of security do you possess?”
'None.”
Tarento affects to look surprised, although there is no cause; this was not yet the time when anyone, rich or poor, felt much need to defend themselves from the outside world.
'In fact,' Stonehouse continues, 'all the windows were wide open. The maid judged that there would be no rain last night— rightly, as it turned out—and opened everything up to try and blow some of this hideous heat out of the place.”
He is right there, Tarento thinks; the heat in the past fortnight has been oppressive to a degree he can hardly remember, a dull, weakening heat that dampens the spirits and slows brain and body together.
'The maid opens the window, and allows the burglars in,' Tarento says knowingly. 'I shall have to talk to this woman.' Maids are something Tarento knows about, his wife having been in service with a grand Florentine family until she married him.
'No doubt,' Stonehouse says. 'But you should know in advance that she is sixty-five, has been with my family here for twenty years, and is of impeccable character. I do not and will not entertain any suspicions of her.”
'Nonetheless, she must be interviewed,' Tarento replies firmly.
'Whatever you wish,' Stonehouse says. 'Would you like a glass of wine? Water?”
The prospect of a drink, of becoming acquainted on more friendly terms, is irresistible; Tarento imagines himself sipping away, gradually winning the respect, even the regard of this man, becoming almost familiar. But not with Bottando there to watch; he chooses a glass of wine.
'And while we talk, perhaps my subordinate could tour the grounds. Footprints, you know. That is the sort of thing he is very good at.”
He speaks confidingly, as if Bottando isn't there, as if he is a pet spaniel. And Bottando obediently gets up and salutes and does as he is told, leaving the two men alone.
In Argyll's imagination, Bottando goes through the motions, for although the orders deserve nothing but contempt—the earth is baked hard as concrete and you could have driven a tank over it without leaving any mark —he is not yet sure enough to treat them as such. And so he stares briefly at the gravel, the browned piece of grass, the wilting hedges, then gazes at the house to try and figure out which room had contained the stolen painting.
'That one,' says a cheerful voice behind him. He turns to see who has spoken.
'Top floor, second from the left,' the voice continues, and the young woman who owns it, holding a straw hat on her head with one hand, points with the other. Then she smiles engagingly at him. An entrancing smile, impish and seductive all at once.
'Thank you,' Bottando says gravely.
'Why on earth are you standing out here? You'll boil away to nothing.”
'Inspecting the scene of the crime,' he says, conveying in his tone of voice that he, too, knows it is a waste of time.
'I see. You stare at the house from a hundred meters, see that a chimney pot is slightly askew, and conclude that the thief parachuted onto the roof. From a glider, it must have been, as everyone was awake all night because of the heat. Someone would have heard a plane.”
'Remarkable,' Bottando says. 'You must have read my mind.”
She laughs. 'It was easy. Nobody could expect to see anything else standing here.”
'That's true.”
'Have you seen the very scene itself? The patch on the wall where the great masterpiece used to hang? Come on, then,' she says when he shakes his head. 'I'll show you. Then you can sit quietly and have a cold drink. It'll be as useful as wandering around getting heatstroke.”
'Are you staying in the house?' Bottando asks as they walk across the gravel path.
'A member of the family?”
'Oh no,' she says. 'I'm a student. Friend of a friend. I'm just visiting. I have a little house twenty kilometers from here. And, as you are obviously a suspicious sort of man, that's where I was when the picture disappeared.”
'You speak Italian very well.”
'Thank you.”
They climb the staircase slowly, lest the effort make them feel even hotter. Bottando walks behind, incapable, despite his wishes, of ignoring the girl's presence, the way she moves in her light cotton dress, so easy and relaxed.
'There,' she says, flinging open a heavy door. 'Now, who did it?”
She leads him into a small, brightly painted bedroom that contains little more than an old wooden bed and a heavy wardrobe. On the walls, papered with inappropriate, fusty Victorian paper, are some old prints, a portrait— exactly as the inventory said, and in fact still pretty close to how it had looked when Argyll sneaked in during his visit to the villa—and a small rectangle that is slightly lighter than its surrounds. Bottando walks across the floor—it creaked badly, Argyll had noted—and examines it closely, even though he knows it will not help at all. Then he looks around. An open window, the shutters hanging motionless on the outside, bright sunlight streaming in.
'Mr Stonehouse told the maid not to shut the shutters as she normally does.
Fingerprints, he thought.”
'Ah, yes,' Bottando says. 'Quite.”
Their eyes meet and hold for a tiny fragment of a portion of a second. Just enough.
