wake. 'See if we can get any kind of line on that job Johnny did Friday morning. Then we'll go home, okay?'
'Fine. Except I think the Fogg's closed on Sundays, like everything else in this state is, except bars.'
'Except bars. Right. The Irish influence no doubt.'
The Fogg was closed. But Joe and I peered through the glass of the Federal-style front door and saw the display screens for the exhibit entitled 'Renaissance Treasures of San Marino.' On the screens were mural-sized photos of that tiny republic (reputedly the world's oldest as well as smallest) and its flag, showing the three stone castle towers on three summits that mark its crest. The museum was all dark inside though.
'Help you?' said a voice. It belonged to a Harvard campus security guard, who wouldn't open the Fogg doors for us even when Joe flashed his badge. But he did give Joe the phone number of the right person to contact regarding Fogg exhibits and their sponsors. While Joe went off to make his phone calls, I went to the john in the lower level of a red-brick building that was pointed out to me by the guard. Standing in from of one of the urinals in the men's room, I was struck by the graffiti. Yes Virginia, there is graffiti on the walls of Harvard rest rooms. However, it was all neatly lettered and obviously not the product of average minds. For example, there was a running debate penned on the wall above me concerning the behavior of accelerated particles in cloud chambers at various temperatures. This was complete with lots of Greek letters and appropriate formulas. Underneath the arguments was the wry observation that perhaps the warring factions would do themselves and
everyone else who used the facilities a favor by transferring to M.I.T. Then there was this: CONSERVE GRAVITY: WEAR THICK-SOLED SHOES!
Followed by this, from the first book of Gargantua and Pantagruel : Come sit an cack
With lusty back
But leave no wrack
Beside our closet.
Void, spurt and pump
Your turdous rump
But leave no lump
Here for deposit.
He shall know shame
Who misses aim,
St. Anthony's flame
Burn his scut sear,
Who will not swab
His thingumabob
To the last blob
Ere he leave here!
– Rabelais
Well, I was impressed. I glanced around and saw the greatest names of science, literature, and philosophy well represented in the Crimson maison de merde. Perhaps fittingly, most of the quotes and diatribes concerned politics.
Finally, as I dried my hands and prepared to depart, I saw this terse warning: FOOLS NAMES AND FOOLS FACES OFT APPEARIN PUBLIC PLACES
– Shakespeare
Hell, I considered as I sprinted up the steps back out into Harvard Yard, I was wasting my money sending jack and Tony to Bowdoin and Williams. I could save almost forty grand a year by making them hang around the Harvard johns. Joe was still on the phone. I heard his cop voice haranguing some poor soul on the other end. He hung up and turned to me.
'Guess what? We're going to pay a brief visit- I promised her, and I promise you, it will be brief to Lucia Fabrianni over at the Copley.'
'You said we. Where do you get we?'
'Aw c'mon, Doc. It's only eleven-thirty. We'll only see her twenty minutes.'
So we went to Copley Square, where the Fabriarmi family was ensconced in Boston for the duration of their show. According to our information they owned the whole kit and kaboodle of the treasures from San Marino, and the senior Mr. Paolo Fabrianni was anxious to display the art treasures to increase tourism to his tiny country. But Joe told me during the ride over the Charles River to Boston that Lucia Fabrianni had sounded put out and wasn't at all eager for an interview with the police, especially on Sunday.
'Know what she said to me?' asked Joe as we strode into the ornate lobby of the Copley Plaza Hotel and punched the elevator Button. 'I spoke some Italian phrases to her, you know, to kinda break the ice a little. The extra effort, you know? What she says is, 'You're from the South, aren't you? I can tell you're from Naples.'jeez!'
The elevator arrived, and we went up.
We sat in the small parlor room decorated with Louis Quinze furniture. Or was it Louis Seize? Well whatever, it was one of them. The furniture was white and gold with bent legs and claw feet. The chair backs and seats were overstuffed. ellipses of velveteen. There was scrollwork and curlicues everywhere. Give me Shaker any day.
Lucia Fabrianni entered the room. She was everything we thought she'd be, and more. She was rich and beautiful. After a few minutes Joe suggested we get coffee. Lucia gladly accepted, and ten minutes later we were in the lobby sipping and munching. Lucia, educated in Switzerland, France, the States, and England, spoke perfect accent-free English. Boy, was she a looker too. Her dark-blonde hair was rather short and swept back soft and thick. I guessed her to be around twenty-five. Her face was finely chiseled and showed no sag or fat. Her mouth was almost too large and full. But not quite.
She puckered her lips over the steaming cup and sipped. A gold pin on her blouse glowed with bucks. Her nails were shiny beige. Bracelets twinkled. Four of them on her right arm, but thin, not overdone. Beautiful watch on her left wrist. I stared at it hard. Something wrong with the watch. Why did it make me uneasy?
'Well,' she said, brushing crumbs off her hands, 'it's Sunday, and like a good European I don't do business on Sundays, so what is it, please?'
Joe explained to her about the death of the messenger who had transported a piece for her exhibit. She was shocked and subdued at the news.
'Oh, I am truly sorry. The poor man. And he was so nice! He let me pet his big beautiful Alsatian dogs. I hope they are all right…'
'They were killed too, ma'am. It was a gas bomb. They were all killed instantly. Because of the nature of the killing we're investigating all possible motives. You say the cup is safe back in the museum?'
'Yes.'
'And why was it taken out in the first place?'
'We took some pictures with it here in the hotel suite for a newspaper. The World, I think.'
'The Globe?'
'Ah yes, the Globe. This man, he was a black man, sort of old with gold glasses, yes? Well, he brought the cup and then took it back. It is quite priceless. It was made by Baccio Bandinelli in Florence in fifteen thirty. But it is the legend surrounding Romeo's Chalice that makes it especially valuable, even though the legend is false. Supposedly it was the chalice used at the wedding mass by Romeo and Juliet. So it is still called that- Romeo's Chalice.'
'And it is really pure gold?' asked Joe.
'Yes. Gold inlaid with silver and black onyx. It is a prize one might kill for, but as I told you the killing was quite unnecessary, since the cup was safely delivered by this man and his messenger service. Is this all now, please?'
'Uh, almost, Ms. Fabrianni. We just want to know if, when you met Mr. Robinson last Friday, anything seemed unusual. Did he seem nervous? Did he say anything unusual?'
'Well,' she replied impatiently, 'since I have no idea what his usual was, how could I tell if there was anything unusual, you see?'
