A Glancing Light

'I put my life on the line for those paintings. If you'd let me, I could have been helping you all along.'

'No doubt.'

'Damn it, I told you days ago that Croce was involved, didn't I? But no, you —'

His attention had wandered. He was looking over my shoulder, a slow smile actually lighting up his pale eyes. 'Wonderful work, Major,' he said. 'A year's effort—congratulations!' He reached around me to shake hands. 'I believe you already know dottor Norgren?'

I turned.

'Sure, we're old friends,' said Filippo Croce.

Chapter 23

Yes, that wonderful facility of mine to make razor-sharp character judgments had done me in again. The odious, transparently disreputable Filippo Croce was in fact Abele Foscolo of the Comando Caribinieri Tutela Patrimonio Artistico; one of Antuono's most trusted undercover agents. Antuono, in what I now recognized as one of his little jokes, had practically described him to me at our first meeting, specially grown mustache and all.

For almost a year Foscolo-Croce had been working meticulously to establish his credibility as a shady dealer, first building a suspect reputation in Sicily to provide 'credentials' that could be checked when he appeared on the scene here. Antuono and Foscolo had quickly zeroed in on the Salvatorellis, but as Antuono kept telling me, it was the paintings he was after, not the people. The important thing was to get the pictures safely back.

And so, just about the time I got to Bologna, Foscolo had begun working his oily charms on Bruno (Paolo had just been killed). The two Pittura Metafisica paintings 'discovered' in the Trasporti Salvatorelli warehouse had of course (in retrospect, 'of course') been planted by the police. Salvotorelli had truly known nothing about them. The raid had been staged to give him convincing proof that Foscolo was indeed the crook he appeared to be, and that he had art-world connections. More important, he was shown to be a 'trustworthy criminal'—the phrase was Antuono's, delivered with a straight face. What he meant was that, inasmuch as no arrests were made, 'Croce' demonstrated his reliability at keeping names to himself when required.

In a way, this had all been explained to me days ago by Antuono himself, on our drive back to town from Trasporti Salvatorelli. He'd neglected to mention only a couple of trifling particulars: It was fact, not surmise, and Croce happened to be working for him.

And all this time I'd gone along thinking he didn't have much of a sense of humor.

'You must see, dottore,' he said now, leaning over the table and clasping his hands, 'that I couldn't very well let you in on our plans. I had to mislead you just a little. I hope you accept my apology.'

We were in the Palazzo d'Accursio, not in Antuono's makeshift warren of an office, but in a big, handsome upstairs chamber that he had commandeered, with thick, wall-to-wall red carpeting, red-flocked wallpaper, and massive old furniture. I had been making statements and signing depositions in one part of the palazzo or another for the last three hours, except for a twenty-minute break I'd insisted on to call Anne and tell her what had happened to me.

'I was starting to wonder,' she'd said dryly when I reached her. 'You hear these stories . 'Yes, well, the last time I saw him he said he was going down to the corner for cigarettes. That was back in '54, of course.' . . .'

But I'd heard the breathy tremble in her voice, and it had warmed me. And now for the last hour I'd been basking in a different kind of warmth, one not experienced before: the freely given gratitude of a relaxed and expansive Eagle of Lombardy. Antuono had been openly impressed with the information I'd provided on Max and Blusher. He had immediately arranged to have Max placed under arrest for murder and attempted murder, and since then he'd been—well, friendly. And unless I'd misheard him, he'd actually offered an apology a moment ago.

'I accept it,' I said, 'but you misled me more than just a little. You also told me Salvatorelli wasn't a suspect.'

He nodded. 'We were very near to moving, as you now know. Your ... explorations were threatening the sensitive balance we had achieved. I wanted you out of our hair.' He smiled, pleased with himself. 'I believe that's the American expression.'

'Well,' I admitted, 'Salvatorelli had me fooled all by himself, even without your help. I thought he was just another harried businessman.' I uncapped one of the small green bottles of mineral water an aide had brought, and poured it into a glass. 'And what do you know, he's tied up with the Sicilian Mafia.' I drank down the water thirstily, my third bottle.

Antuono smiled. 'Well, I wouldn't say that. The Milanese Mafia, yes, but that's all. I doubt that the Sicilian Mafia had any direct part in this.'

I put down the glass and stared at him. 'But you told me— twice you told me—no, three times, you said the Sicilian Mafia was—' Laughing, I sank back against the chair. 'You just made it up, right? Also to keep me out of your hair.'

'I'm afraid so, dottore. It was regrettable but necessary.'

'No wonder they had no idea who the hell I was down there.'

'They. . . ?' Antuono's eyebrows went up, but then he thought better of it, probably out of fatigue, and decided not to pursue it, which was fine with me.

Something else had occurred to me. 'And is that why you told me you didn't want me ferreting information out for you—'

'Correct.'

'—even though you'd already told the FBI you wanted some help?'

He nodded. 'By the time you arrived in Bologna, we no longer needed help. We were sure Salvatorelli had the paintings.'

So what Tony had told me about Antuono's asking for my assistance was true, which meant I owed Tony an apology. I grimaced. I hate it when I owe Tony an apology.

I stretched somewhat stiffly, realizing for the first time just how spent and grubby I was. I'd done a lot of sweating that morning and I needed a shower. And I wanted to be with Anne. 'Am I free to leave now?'

'Yes, but tell the clerk where we may get in touch with you.'

I stood up. Antuono, watching me with his head tipped against the highbacked old chair, suddenly barked with amusement.

'Did I say something funny?' I asked.

'I was thinking of all your warnings to me about the infamous Filippo Croce. It was hard not to laugh at the time, dottore. What do you think of him now? Foscolo's good, no?'

I laughed back. 'I still don't trust the guy.'

We had been on the train for almost two hours. Anne had a paperback mystery open on her lap and I was leafing through the skimpy European edition of Time. Both of us were doing more dozing than reading.

It had been a grueling day. By the time I'd gotten back to the hotel and showered, it was after four. Anne got the idea of seeing whether there was a train that would get us to Lake Maggiore that evening, instead of waiting until the next morning. There was; the Rome-Geneva Express would make a two-minute stop in Bologna at 5:04 P.M. We took a taxi to the station, stopping at a grocery store for sliced mortadella, rolls, fruit, and a liter of red wine with a twist-off cap. By the time the train cleared the northern outskirts of Bologna we were happily gorging ourselves in our seats, and since then, dopey with food and wine, we'd been drowsily watching the countryside