alone in the building just like today, doing her lunchtime cleaning, when the fuses had tripped and she’d had to make her way down to the basement to flip the switch on the box. It was a long way down for her, and she didn’t like the empty feeling of the place when it was closed.
She munched on her sandwich for a moment or two, hoping the electricity would come on again on its own. It didn’t. She heaved a sigh, picked up her radio and started towards the stairs.
Ben examined the piano and decided on his plan of action. The front right leg had to come off as quickly and cleanly as possible. He might not have a lot of time. A member of staff might be back any minute. If he could lift the right corner of the piano an inch or two and jam something underneath the lip of the keyboard to keep the leg raised up long enough to saw it off…He grabbed a double piano stool, flipped it up on end, but it was too high.
He stepped up on the plinth, laid the saw down on the piano and tested the instrument’s weight. He could barely move it quarter of an inch, and he didn’t think that Leigh’s extra strength would make the difference. He gazed at the saw, then down at the leg. It was going to take a good fifteen minutes to cut through the solid wood. He might not have fifteen minutes.
Leigh tensed. ‘Ben, there’s someone in the building.’
Ben heard it too. Footsteps, slow and heavy, on the creaky stairs leading down to the main hall. In the quiet building the echo carried softly but clearly. There was another sound too. It was music, growing steadily louder. Someone with a radio was coming down towards them.
This wouldn’t do. It was now or never. He looked around him desperately.
The rope cordon around the piano was supported by six brass pedestals, three feet high on broad circular bases. Yes, that was the only answer. He used the saw to cut the rope, then picked up one of the pedestals. It was solid and heavy. He turned it upside down and held it like an axe. The brass was cold in his hand.
‘Fuck it,’ he muttered. He caught Leigh’s horrified look as he swung the pedestal back over his shoulder and then smashed it sideways into the piano leg with all his strength.
The crashing noise shattered the stillness of the room. There was a huge crunch of splintering wood. The piano gave a juddering groan, strings vibrating in unison. The leg gave a little, and the front end of the instrument sagged, creaked. Then stopped.
Halfway down the stairs and puffing with the exertion, Germana heard the terrible sound over her music. She turned the radio off.
Ben hit the piano again. The pedestal hummed through the air. Another shuddering crash. The leg gave way and folded out from underneath the keyboard. The front corner of the instrument tipped downwards and he stepped quickly out of its way.
A ton of iron frame and heavy wooden casing toppled over and smashed through the plinth it stood on. Splinters flew. The massive ringing chord of the fallen piano filled the whole museum with a cacophony of sound.
Germana was getting very scared now. There were thieves in the place. She reached the bottom of the stairs and waddled across the hall to the ladies’ toilets. She wedged herself into a cubicle and bolted the door. Her heart was pounding and her breathing came in rasping gulps. She felt the shape of her mobile in her pocket.
Leigh was standing over the wrecked piano with her mouth hanging open. All her father’s work, hundreds of hours he’d spent restoring the valuable instrument. The loss of this piece of musical heritage. It was terrible, sickening.
The strings were still resonating as Ben picked up the smashed leg. He hoped it had been worth it. He pulled away at splintered bits around the broken end. ‘I can’t see anything,’ he said. He picked up the saw and hacked frantically at the end of the leg. The sharp blade skipped off a splinter and sank into his hand, biting at the flesh and drawing blood from a jagged gash. He swore and ignored the pain. He sawed harder. Leigh was standing at his shoulder, her eyes widening.
He blew sawdust away, wiped blood off the wood. Nothing.
‘This wood is solid,’ he said. ‘There’s no hollow.’
Germana spoke in a flurry to the police switchboard. There were thieves in the Museo Visconti. Relief spread over her face as the man’s voice on the other end of the line reassured her. The police were on their way.
Ben glared up at Leigh. ‘You said you were sure.’
‘I-maybe it was the left leg.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he muttered. He jumped to his feet, glancing at his watch.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
‘I will be too, when someone walks in on us.’ He grabbed the pedestal and raised it up again. The devastated instrument was lying like a beached whale with its remaining front leg sticking out at an angle. Ben brought the pedestal down hard. Another tremendous crash filled the museum. Leigh covered her ears.
Ben stood back. The leg had broken cleanly away. He dropped the pedestal with a clang on the wooden floor and fell on his knees. He picked up the severed leg.
It was hollow. His heart jumped. He pushed two fingers inside the smooth cavity and felt something.
There was a roll of paper inside. He turned the leg upside down and shook it out. The tight roll was old and yellowed, tied neatly around the middle with a ribbon. It fell on the floor amongst the wreckage of the smashed piano.
Leigh knelt and snatched it up. She picked at the ribbon and unfurled the single sheet, handling it as though it could break apart at the slightest touch. ‘My God, this is it,’ she said, staring at it. The ink was faded, but there was no mistaking the handwriting and the signature.
She was holding her father’s prize. The Mozart letter.
When she heard the sirens, Germana Bianchi ventured out of the toilet and opened up the front door to let the police in. She pointed and jabbered and led them through towards the piano room where the robbers had been. A whole gang of them, vicious, armed. She was lucky to be alive.
They rounded the corner. The keyboard exhibit room was empty. They all gaped speechlessly at the wrecked piano. Who would do this? It was senseless.
The thieves were far away by then, the old Fiat lost in the crazy sea of Milanese traffic.
Ben drove fast out of Milan, wanting to put as much distance between the city and themselves as possible. He checked his mirror every few minutes. Nobody was following them. Sleet and hail hammered the Fiat’s windscreen for two hours as they headed north-east towards the Austrian border. Beside him, Leigh was bent over the old letter, deep in thought. Signs flashed up for
The motorway cafeteria was half-empty. They bought two coffees and headed for a corner table that was far from the other diners and close to an emergency exit. Ben sat facing the room and kept an eye on the entrance.
Neither of them had eaten anything since the night before, but the letter came first. Leigh unrolled and flattened it carefully across the plastic table, using the salt and pepper mills to weigh down the edges and stop it from springing back into a tight curl.
‘This is so precious,’ she said, running her fingers over the aged, faded paper.
‘Fake or no fake, it’s only precious if it can teach us something.’ Ben took Oliver’s file out of his bag and opened up his notebook. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got. How’s your German?’
