“Then you didn’t talk to him after he got to Urbino four days ago,” said Rick.
“I was referring to public recognition of his support. I did see Signor Somonte the day after he arrived. I had just read in the paper about the donation of the drawing when he appeared in my office, which I found somewhat ironic. We had a short conversation.”
“That was the day before he was to go to Sansepolcro.”
Vitellozzi nodded. “Yes. He talked about the donation of the drawing to the museum there, reminding me that his mother was born near that town. He brought up the subject, not me. Perhaps he was feeling some guilt that he hadn’t given it to us.”
“What did you say to him?” asked Betta.
He thought for a few moments before answering. “I could have reassured him that he made the right decision, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. We were not able to purchase it when it went up for sale—that was expected. But when we heard a few months ago that he was donating it to such a small museum rather than this one, well…” He shook his head. “So I changed the subject.”
Rick recalled Morelli using the phrase “a slap in the face” when describing the museum director’s reaction to the donation. Vitellozzi was clearly uncomfortable talking about it now, but he didn’t appear to hold much of a grudge. If he was still greatly annoyed, he was good at not showing it. Or he was never that upset about not getting the drawing, and Morelli had been exaggerating to deflect suspicion from himself.
“I understand,” continued Vitellozzi, “that the drawing has gone missing. It is certainly a very valuable piece of art, but acquiring it doesn’t appear to be reason enough for murder.”
“Our experience,” said Betta, “is that art thieves can get violent.”
Something caught Vitellozzi’s eye and he jumped to his feet. “Excuse me—I’ll be right back.” He rushed over to where workers were lifting a frame from one of the crates. The picture was the portrait of a young man with long reddish hair, dressed in a black shirt and cap. The features were soft, the neck long, the skin pale. The sitter had turned his face to stare at the viewer with a bored look, giving the impression he was unsure about having his portrait painted.
“That’s the Raffaello self-portrait from the Uffizi,” Betta said as they watched Vitellozzi hovering over the workers. “If he’s going to run over each time one of these masterpieces comes out of its box, we could be here forever.” She turned back to Rick. “What do you think of what he said about the drawing?”
“He admitted that he was unhappy not to have the donation. If he’d told us it meant nothing to him that Somonte snubbed his museum, that would have been hard to believe.”
Vitellozzi’s eyes moved around the room as he walked back. “Sorry about that.” He settled back in his chair but kept his eyes on the portrait that was now being raised to the wall. “We were talking about Piero’s drawing. I hope it turns up soon; it would be a great loss to the art world if it isn’t found. My fear is that whoever did this to Somonte didn’t know its value and simply threw it in the trash.” He frowned at the thought. “But artwork has a way of reappearing. Remember that Somonte’s drawing was found hundreds of years after Piero sketched it.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Betta. “Inspector DiMaio requested that I ask you where you were the evening before last. Purely for the record, you understand.”
Vitellozzi had been looking at the portrait of Raphael, but the question got his attention. “Being routine doesn’t detract from the fact that I may be a suspect. To be frank, it hadn’t crossed my mind, but I suppose there might be some suspicion, since I knew the man and saw him that day.”
If he was waiting for reassurances from Betta about her question being a routine requirement, they were not forthcoming.
“Well, like most of the evenings for the past week I’ve been here preparing for this exhibit. In my office, that is, which is one floor down. Since I come and go through a back door to the palazzo, I’m afraid the guards won’t be able to vouch for me. Their concern is the safety of the art collection, not the movements of the director.”
“I understand,” said Betta. “Tell me something, Dottore. In your opinion, if someone had the drawing in their possession, where would be a logical place to sell it?”
“Well, really now, isn’t that the kind of thing you art police are supposed to know?”
“We often find that local sources are the most reliable.”
“You should ask that question to someone like Bruzzone, the man who sold Somonte the drawing in the first place. I don’t follow the black market in art.” A glance at his wristwatch was more of an unspoken comment than a need to find out the time.
Betta got up from the chair. “Dottor Vitellozzi, I appreciate your time, especially with what is happening now.”
Vitellozzi’s smile showed more relief than friendliness. “I hope I was of some help, though for the life of me I can’t think what it might be. We will see you two tomorrow night, I trust?”
“We would love to,” Rick replied quickly.
After thanking the museum director, Rick and Betta went back through the same door, leaving the hubbub of the exhibit preparation. The guard looked up for a moment but then resumed his vigil. He concentrated his attention on a group of young tourists, thinking these two visitors might report back to Vitellozzi.
“We have time, Rick—let’s see a
