A Glancing Light

rhythmically all the time, on the principle of the revolving garbage crusher.

Max, expectably, had a different approach. He was a man who enjoyed the pleasures of the table, and he made no bones about it. There were lip-smackings, eye-rollings, sighs of pleasure, exclamations. The food was tossed into his mouth with quick, happy little flips of the fork, which he held upside down in his left hand, European style (less time wasted that way). And all the while he managed a stream of cheerful chatter.

Dr. Luca had his own modus operandi, too, masticating slowly and weighing each mouthful with grave, head- tilted deliberation. The stock in which the veal was simmered—a trifle too salty? No, on second thought, quite good. The wine stirred into the drippings—is it not too, er, austere? No, no, on second thought, quite fine. Perfect, in fact. He seemed to be doing more cogitating than eating, but somehow the food was disappearing as fast as Max's.

Have I stumbled on a new psychological principle? Are people's eating styles extensions of their personalities? I'll have to ask Louis what he thinks. I know he enjoys my theories of psychology every bit as much as I enjoy his on-the-house counseling sessions.

After a few minutes the conversation came back to the theft of the Rubens. 'You know what I keep thinking about?' Max asked. 'I keep thinking about all the inside knowledge they needed. Somebody had to know the picture was in my shop at the time; somebody had to know exactly how to get by my door and window sensors, how to dismantle both security systems—'

'Who would know such things?' Di Vecchio asked, He looked uncomfortable. Somebody had known such things about his museum, too.

'I wasn't very smart about it,' Max said with some bitterness. 'A lot of people knew. Well, a few. Five, to be exact. I've gone over it a thousand times in my mind. Five people. The only thing they didn't know was that poor Ruggero would be there,' Ruggero Giampietro was his longtime night watchman, an old friend hired whenever there was something particularly valuable in the shop. 'So they killed him.' He chewed steadily. 'Or maybe they did know.'

'A terrible thing, terrible.' This from Dr. Luca, of course.

'I was familiar with your security arrangements,' a prickly Di Vecchio pointed out. 'I helped you plan them. Am I one of your five?'

'Sure,' Max replied equably, 'but I doubt if you did it.' He followed this with a happy chuckle.

Di Vecchio was amused, but just barely. 'I'm extremely happy to hear it.'

I made my first contribution in a while. 'Max, this list of suspects , . . Surely the police followed up on it?'

The look that passed between the three of them was hard to describe but impossible to misinterpret. A swift glance that managed to combine amusement, derision, awareness of secret knowledge, and cognizance of the venality of mankind—especially official mankind. All very Italian; done with the merest flick of an eyebrow, the faintest of shrugs, the most minute contraction of the lips. Even Max did it as if he were born to it.

'The police were bought off?' I said to show them it hadn't gotten by me.

'Who can say for sure?' Luca asked rhetorically. 'Let us simply say that Captain Cala strutted furiously upon the stage, producing sound and fury, but in the end signifying nothing.'

Despite the garbled paraphrasing, it was the meatiest thing he'd said all evening. And beautifully delivered.

'Captain Cala,' Di Vecchio muttered with a snort of contempt. 'Well, he's been removed now, and it's about time. I hope this Colonel Antuono who's coming is better, but I have no high hopes.'

'I do,' Max said, 'I have an appointment with him the day after tomorrow.'

Me too, I almost blurted out. Colonel Cesare Antuono was the man I was supposed to contact on Wednesday, according to Tony's instructions. I caught myself in time and kept it to myself. Not because I didn't trust them, but because Antuono would no doubt expect a report on the conversation we were having at that very moment. And I would no doubt give him one. Ratting on people, I thought miserably, would be easier if they didn't know about it.

'I think we'll find him a different sort, Amedeo,' Max continued. 'He's a big wheel, you know; a deputy director of the carabinieri's art theft unit. He's the one who got back those Pisanellos from Verona.'

'Certainly, he has a fine reputation,' Luca agreed wisely. 'They call him the Eagle of Lombardy.'

Di Vecchio gulped some wine, and snorted again. 'And how much of the ransom from the Pisanellos found its way into the Eagle's own pockets, do you suppose?'

'Well,' Max said with warmth, 'I'm sure going to give him a chance.' He swallowed the last of the wine, wiped his lush mustache with the back of a finger, and refilled his glass. Max could tipple with the best when it came to good wine, and he had already put away quite a bit of the Sangiovese. While he wasn't exactly smashed, his gestures had grown more expansive, his voice louder. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.

'I'm really going to give him an earful,' he declared, loosening his belt a notch. 'There's a lot I can tell him.'

The look that passed between Di Vecchio and Luca was a dark one this time. Di Vecchio glanced warily around at the other tables. Luca slowly licked his lips, frowning.

Di Vecchio laid a slim, cautionary hand on Max's forearm. 'Massimiliano, you have to be careful. You can't go around shouting things like that.'

'Someone might overhear,' Luca said.

'I'm not shouting,' Max said, and promptly lowered his voice. 'Well, maybe a little. Anyway, what do I care if people overhear? I haven't made a secret of it.' He made an impatient gesture. 'Am I the only one who wants the rest of those pictures found?'

Di Vecchio made soothing noises. 'Of course not. We don't say you shouldn't cooperate with the police. Don't you think I'm going to cooperate? But do you see me going around advertising it?'

'Think,' Luca said somberly. 'Think about what happened to Paolo Salvatorelli, God rest his soul.'

'Paolo Salvatorelli?' I repeated. 'Is he connected with Trasporti Salvatorelli?'

'Of course,' Luca said. 'The two brothers founded it; Paolo and Bruno.'

At this point I got what is commonly, and accurately, referred to as a sinking sensation. Trasporti Salvatorelli was the firm I was counting on to ship thirty-two paintings worth over $40,000,000 from Italy to the United States. I had an appointment with them on Friday to confirm the arrangements and sign the papers. They had been recommended unreservedly by Max, who did most of his shipping through them, and by the Pinacoteca and the Ministry of Fine Arts— that is to say, Di Vecchio and Luca—both of whom had a lot more to lose than I did, since most of the paintings belonged to the state. Luca had, in fact, generously assigned one of his deputies to the onerous chore of grinding through the preliminary paperwork with Salvatorelli, which would have otherwise fallen to me. For this, I probably owed him my sanity.

So far, I had no cause for complaint, but lately the Salvatorelli name seemed to be cropping up in ways that did nothing for my confidence. Accidentally shipping Clara Gozzi's Rubens to Blusher without even knowing they had it, for example. And now, if I was understanding Luca, one of the two brothers who ran the firm had been done in by the Mob. You will understand when I say that I was starting to get just the least little bit apprehensive.

'What did happen to Paolo?' I asked woodenly.

They explained. It was a matter of common supposition that the Salvatorelli brothers had some knowledge of the art thefts of two years earlier—

I came halfway out of my chair. 'What? We're trusting those paintings to—'

Luca's sonorous, calming laughter bathed me. 'Knowledge of,' he said. 'That is not to imply any connection with. They are simply in a position to hear things, you understand.'

'They're wholly reliable,' Di Vecchio said. 'We've used them many times. We've trusted our Guido Renis to them, and our Raphael. There's no cause for concern, believe me.'

I settled back, not entirely pacified, while Luca, with some help from Di Vecchio, filled in the pieces: Despite these suppositions of 'knowledge,' the notorious Captain Cala, for all his sound and fury, had been no more inclined to seriously pursue the subject with the Salvatorellis than with anyone else. But Colonel Antuono was a different matter, and expectations had risen that the brothers would be subjected to painstaking interrogation when he took over. There were even rumors that Paolo had set up a secret contact with Colonel Antuono on his own. At that point the underworld had taken matters into its own hands.

Max brought his lengthy story to its point. 'He was shot,' he said to me with a shrug.