They were opposites in temperament, too. Max was easygoing and easy to be around, radiating satisfaction with his life. Di Vecchio was dour, itchy, critical, with a febrile glitter to his eyes like an Old Testament prophet's, at least if you can believe Bellini or El Greco.
"Well," our other tablemate said in his rich baritone, "at least we can be grateful that the painting's safe, what do you say?"
The speaker was Benedetto Luca, Regional Superintendent of the National Ministry of Fine Arts. Despite his imposing title, I had never gotten his precise function quite straight. But he had been extremely helpful in tunneling through the bureaucratic maze—sometimes terrifying, sometimes slapstick—that had to be negotiated in getting the thirty- two paintings in Northerners in Italy out of the country for a year. He was, therefore, a man of power and fortitude, and he was made for the part: white, leonine mane; patrician nose; craggy, lined face; voice as mellow and subtly colored as a bassoon.
The impression he made was so commanding, so mesmerizing, in fact, that I had known him for a year before I realized I had never heard him say anything intelligent, let alone profound. It was one banality after another—but, ah, what style.
"God willing," his resonant voice continued with conviction, "we'll get the others back, too."
"I hope so, dottore," Di Vecchio said absently. As host, he topped off our glasses with delicate, fruity red wine; Zuffa Sangiovese, locally made, and as pleasant and relaxing a wine as Italy produces.
By now the pasta course had been removed and the main dish brought: cuscinetti di vitello, veal scallops stuffed with prosciutto and cheese. The reverence with which the waiter and his assistant set it down made it clear that we were to give it our full attention, at least for a while, and we complied willingly. We concentrated on our plates and made discreetly appreciative noises.
That is, most of us did. Di Vecchio wasn't the type to murmur agreeably over food. For him, eating was a necessity, and from the looks of it, a grim one. He chewed in silence, slowly and methodically, sweating slightly, his mind somewhere else, his jaw ligaments shifting and cracking. Periodically, the fork was forced between unyielding lips, carrying one morsel of food at a time, at an unvarying rate; swallow one piece, shove in another, chewing 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.