As the Lufthansa jet, predictably punctual, rose from the runway, bound for Italy, I was turning a hundred questions over in my mind, and two in particular: Who were "they"? And what was the forgery Peter had found? The first I couldn't do anything about, other than put it in the hands of the police. The second, I could. And would.
I began that evening. Fog and ice storms over much of northern Italy made it impossible for the jet to take off from Milan's Malpensa Airport, where it had made an intermediate stop. I checked into an Agip Motel near the airport, called Lorenzo Bolzano to tell him I'd be a day late, and then telephoned Robey's office in Heidelberg, which would not give me his telephone number but promised to give him mine.
Twenty minutes later, while I was under one of those functional, unenclosed Italian showers where the entire bathroom serves as the shower stall and the water runs down a drain in the middle of the floor, the telephone rang. I grabbed a towel and ran for it.
"Chris?" Robey's daydreamy voice asked. "Where are you-Florence? Is there a problem with Bolzano?"
"I'm in Milan. I'll see Bolzano tomorrow."
"Ah."
"That's not what I called about, though. There's another problem." I sat down on the bed, toweling my hair, and went through what Peter had told me one more time.
"A forgery in The Plundered Past," Robey mused, with all the feverish intensity he might have shown if I'd told him we needed another bottle of glue for the partitions. "Are you going to be able to find it?"
"I don't know. That's what I'm calling about. I think I may have to bring in some technical help. It's expensive. Can the budget stand it?"
"Oh, don't worry about that. If we need help, we'll get help. You let me worry about the budget."
These words were so unlike any I'd ever heard at the San Francisco County Museum of Art that I was momentarily struck dumb. "That's good," I finally managed.
"Well, that's what I'm here for." He was ready to go back to whatever else was on his mind.
"There's something else, Mark. I think Peter's death was a setup; I think he was killed because of the forgery."
"You what?" I had his full attention at last.
I explained as well as I could the conclusions I'd come to in Frankfurt, but my reasoning sounded pretty lame even to me, and I could feel his concentration wander as I told him about the seedy Hotel Paradies.
"Well, yes," he said. "I can certainly see why you'd think that. Hm." Back to business as usual with Robey. It was what he'd said to Anne.
"But what do you think?" I asked.
"Well… I wouldn't rule it out."
That was what I'd said to Anne. "Mark, I think I ought to talk to Gucci about it."
Silence.
"Do you have any objection?" I asked.
"No, no objection. Just-well, I wouldn't want to see a lot of adverse publicity about the show. It's bad enough already."
"I'm as concerned about the show as you are, but Peter's been killed, for God's sake-"
"You're right, you're right," he said soothingly. "Totally. I was just worried about the media getting a hold of it in some sensational way, that's all. I know you'll conduct yourself discreetly."
"I'll be discreet," I said, not showing my annoyance.
"Of course you will. And Chris?"
"Yes?"
"Assuming for the sake of argument that you're right about Peter's death having something to do with the forgery, then, well… I guess what I'm trying to say is pretty obvious."
"I don't think I-"
"Well," he said with a long, slow sigh, "you'd better take care of yourself." Pregnant pause. "Hadn't you?"
And that was the first time, right then, while I sat naked on the bed, with my hand still on the cradled telephone, that it belatedly dawned on me that I was in danger myself. Peter had been killed, I was now assuming, because he'd come upon a forgery. And here was I, doing everything I could to find the same forgery. I remained there, thinking that over for a while, but I never seriously considered- never considered at all-giving up the investigation.
I don't mean to imply that I'm particularly brave, because I don't think I am. (I was proud of the way I'd reacted in the storage room, but I knew very well I had charged into that fracas instinctively, without stopping to think about it, which is a different thing than bravery.) But when I get started on a problem, there is a dogged streak that surfaces-that old anal fixation, I guess-and it had most certainly surfaced now. I was not about to pull back until that fake was identified. And until Peter's killer was found.
Resolute as all that may sound, I was glad I'd bought a small bottle of Italian brandy at the airport, and when I'd slipped into my robe, I poured myself a substantial dollop. Then I sat down at the small round table and called Harry Gucci.
It was after eight, but he was still in his office.
"Hey, Chris!" he cried happily. "What's up? Where are you, anyway-Frankfurt? Florence?"
"Milan. Harry, you were right. I think Peter was murdered, and that it had something to do with the forgery."
"What brings on this change of heart?"
"Well, I'm not sure it'll make much sense to you, but I had a look at the Hotel Paradies today."
"And?"
"And Peter van Cortlandt would never in a million years have walked into that place. Not of his own free will. It didn't really hit me until I saw it."
"That's your evidence?"
"I'm afraid so. But I know I'm right, Harry."
The earpiece whistled with a sigh. "Yeah, I think you are, too. The whole thing doesn't sit right, does it?" He was quiet for several seconds, if you don't count tooth-sucking.
"Are you going to follow up on it?" I asked.
"Yeah, I'll follow up, but technically this is the Polizei's case, not the U.S. Army's; all I can do is sort of work along with them. I think it'd be a good idea if you talked directiy with the guy that's running the investigation in Frankfurt."
"Oh, sure, I can hear it now: 'Herr Inspektor, I know with certainty that Peter van Cortlandt would never have gone to bed with a prostitute in the Hotel Paradies.' ' Ja? And how do you know this, Herr Doktor?' 'I know, Herr Inspektor, because it would have offended his aesthetic and hygienic sensibilities.' That'll really get them going, won't it?"
Harry laughed. "OK, leave it to me. Listen, do you have any idea at all who might have wanted to kill him?"
"No. Nobody."
"Well, somebody. What about motive?"
"All I can think of is what Anne Greene suggested to me: Somebody wanted to keep him quiet about the forgery." I stood up and looked at the sleet thrumming against the black window pane. "It isn't much, is it?"
"I wouldn't exactly call it a watertight case, no," he said cheerfully. "But have a little faith. Hey, what about the forgery, by the way? Any luck yet?"
"No. But I'll find it."
"Right on. And Chris? You really want to be-"
"I know." I swallowed the rest of the brandy. "Careful."
Chapter 9
I have been to Florence a dozen times, first as an impoverished graduate student grinding out a dissertation, and then as an expenses-paid curator from a rich and acquisitive museum, but I have never stayed anywhere except at the Hotel Augustus. When I was a student, it was a little more than I could realistically afford; now it is a lot less. Whenever I turn in my expense account after a visit, Tony predictably fumes and tells me I ought to put up at the Excelsior ("At least think about appearances, Chris. Jesus Christ, what will the Uffizi people think?")
One reason I stay there is that it's interesting; a sixteenth-century town house that's been altered so many times you can't figure out where the original rooms were. The exterior is nothing to write home about: a plastered facade of mustard yellow-plain, peeling, and ugly-with a few touches of old stonework that are next-to-invisible under all the grime. But inside it's a clean family hotel with Florentine touches that never fail to please me: vaulted ceilings, worn stone, seats tucked in corners, surprising little reading niches, handsome but transparently fake antique furniture old enough to be antique in its own right. There is a tiny bar with a domed ceiling on which is a creditable fake seventeenth-century fresco of birds and foliage.