A Glancing Light

Antuono's accent, although slight, clouded his pronunciation enough to make me think I'd misheard him. 'Did you say an advertisement?'

He nodded. 'I think in this way he sends a message to the underworld here.'

'I'm afraid I don't get it. What message?'

'The same message that you seemed to find in his actions.'

'That he's a crook?'

'Exactly. It's a subtle way of telling those who know about such things that he is approachable in matters of this kind; that he can deal skillfully with the authorities without implicating others; that for a reasonable consideration he might help in disposing of other missing artworks; that he is—'

'Bent.'

'Eccoti, bent,' Antuono agreed with another pale smile— two inside of five minutes! 'My belief is that he hopes that those behind the robberies of two years ago will approach him to make contact with us or perhaps with the insurance company regarding the return—the profitable return, to be sure—of the paintings. I tell you frankly, dottore,' he said resolutely, 'I hope in my heart it works. I would like to have those paintings back.'

'But how could he do that? If he comes to you again, you'll know he's a crook.'

'Of course we'll know. We already know.' He snorted. 'Two men in a bar! So? Next time he'll come up with another story. He'll tell us someone called him anonymously on the telephone, or someone—also anonymous—tried to sell him one of the paintings and the selfless, virtuous signor Croce wormed the location out of him and ran straight to us with it. He will not be too selfless to accept the reward, however.'

He hunched his bony shoulders. 'So what? How could we prove anything? But we would have the paintings; that's the important thing. The paintings would be preserved.'

And to hell with finding the thieves, with prosecuting Croce himself, with worrying about the millions that the insurance company would shell out. Forget about catching the thugs who broke Max's legs, or punishing the murderers of Paolo Salvatorelli and old Giampietro the watchman. The paintings were the only thing that mattered, that was Antuono's philosophy.

Tony Whitehead has told me many times that I'm a rotten negotiator (it's true) because I'm no good at hiding my feelings. My face gives me away. As it apparently did now.

'You don't agree?' Antuono asked with a tinge of acid. 'You think I look at this in the wrong way?'

'No, it's just that . . . Well, sure, the paintings are important, but does that mean we just write off the human costs? That we hand these creeps their ransoms, collect the paintings, and call it square? Until next time, when we play the same game all over again?'

It was more than I'd meant to say. Antuono had defended his position cogently enough in his office the other day, and who was I to quarrel with him? Especially when I had no alternative to offer.

He waited sourly for me to finish. 'Do you happen to know what the recovery rate is for stolen art in America?' he asked.

'About ten percent.'

'That's correct. Interpol's rate, too, is ten percent. France does better: almost thirty percent. Do you know what our rate is?'

'More than thirty percent or you wouldn't be asking me. '

'Almost fifty percent. Since 1970 our unit has recovered 120,000 works of art- 120,000! Italy recovers more stolen art than any other country in the world.'

'Maybe that's because it has more stolen art to recover,' I said. 'What other country even has 120,000 stolen works of art?'

Why was I being contentious? Possibly because I was still smarting from his cavalier treatment of me in his office on Wednesday. Or maybe I'd never forgiven him for not being the imposing Eagle of Lombardy I'd expected (although he was doing a lot better today). Or—most likely—because I kept seeing Max, lying mustache less and wax-fleshed with pain in the clutch of that monster-contraption, and I wanted somebody to pay for putting him there. As far as that goes, I wouldn't have minded seeing someone called to account for my own lumps and bruises. Antuono responded with surprising moderation. 'You're right,' he said with a sigh. 'It's a hopeless task. You know what we say here? We say: `Come and see the wonderful art treasures of Italy—only don't wait; they might not be here next month.' ' He sighed again, sagged against the seat, and went back to gazing out the window.

And suddenly, uniform or no uniform, Antuono was Antuono again. Tired, crabby, defeated. Scrawny, not spare. The Turkey Buzzard of Lombardy. I was sorry for what I'd said.

'Colonel, I apologize. I don't know what I'm quarreling with you about. Your record speaks for itself.'

He glanced quickly at me to see if I'd intended a double meaning, which I hadn't. 'You know, Dr. Norgren,' he said slowly, 'it's not that I wouldn't like very much to put my hands on those responsible. It's only that we have learned— learned in the hardest possible way—to go about it in our own manner.'

'Who do you think is responsible?' I asked. 'Could Croce himself be behind it?' Antuono had been surprisingly forthcoming so far. Maybe he'd keep it up.

He laughed; a single, scornful note. 'Not Croce. We know all about Croce. A minor figure. No, he simply offers his services, and he accepts a commission. He has no idea where the paintings are. He has no idea who took them. He advertises, and he waits.'

'What about Bruno Salvatorelli?'

'You know him better than I. What do you think?'

'I hardly know him at all. But if you ask me, he was genuinely surprised when the Carra and the Morandi turned up. Either that or he's a hell of an actor.'

'In Italy everybody is a hell of an actor.'

As if to illustrate the point, our driver suddenly stamped on the brakes and shouted a few staccato syllables at a car that had cut in front of us. We were in the Old City now, at the foot of Via Maggiore, where seven narrow, crowded streets converged, without benefit of traffic lights, at the base of the two strange, leaning 800-year-old towers that were even now the tallest structures in Bologna. The driver of the other car responded in kind, and a series of furious, rapid- fire gestures were exchanged: Chins were flicked; temples were dug at with spiraling index fingers; forearms were jerked. The cars moved apart, and our driver returned whistling to his work.

'You see, to perform is part of our national character,' Antuono said. 'I understand it's part of our charm. But I believe you're right about signor Salvatorelli. I have no reason to think he knew anything of this robbery or of any other. I can also tell you that the paintings are not in his warehouse. That we know.'

'What about his brother?'

'His brother?'

'Paolo, his dead brother. Look, there's obviously something funny going on with Trasporti Salvatorelli, and if Bruno isn't behind it, then the chances are it must have been Paolo.'

'No, no. You're unfamiliar with these things. There are other reasonable explanations. That Morandi, that Carra— they could easily have been—'

'I'm not talking about those, I'm talking about Clara Gozzi's Rubens. How did that get there? Do you have a reasonable explanation for that?'

'No,' Antuono said mildly, 'do you?'

'No, I don't have an explanation for that,' I said with more irritation than I intended, then lowered my voice. 'But it stands to reason that Paolo had something to do with those robberies, doesn't it? The Rubens wound up in their warehouse, didn't it? And Paolo was attacked—murdered—because he was about to pass some kind of information about it on to you, wasn't he? He must have been involved.'

The car had pulled up on Via Montegrappa, in front of my hotel. Antuono let go of the strap he'd been clutching for the entire ride, turned to face me, and folded thin arms over his chest.

'First,' he said, 'your conclusion as to the reason Paolo Salvatoreili was killed is surmise.'

'Maybe, but it's a pretty reasonable surmise.'

'Second, if we do assume it to be correct, then does not the same logic force us to conclude that your friend signor Cabot was also involved?'

'Look, Colonel—' I said hotly, but it was from force of habit. He was right; being targeted by the bad guys hardly proved you were one yourself. 'Yes, you're right,' I admitted. 'Well, thanks for the lift.' I climbed out and