I was quite pleased with myself for having thought of that, until I caught a glimpse of a headline on the newspaper on the table.
"Would you mind if I had a look at that newspaper?" I asked.
"Go ahead. I can't read it. It's in Italian. Angelo got it."
"I haven't seen an Italian newspaper for a few days," I said. "I'm feeling a little out of touch."
"Feel free," she said. "It's pleasant just to sit here and read, isn't it? You read that, I'll look at Italian Vogue. I can't read a word of it either, but the photos are spectacular."
The article I was interested in was right on the front page and was written by a reporter by the name of Gianni Veri, a name I thought I'd heard before, although I couldn't imagine where. It had caught my eye because of a rather nice photograph of an Etruscan hydria, almost certainly the same one, in fact, that I'd had in my possession more than once. Veri was on something of a rampage, journalistically speaking.
NATIONAL DISGRACE!
AUTHORITIES FIDDLE WHILE ITALIAN PATRIMONY LOOTED.
Members of the Commando Carabinieri Tutela Patrimono Artistico are sitting idly by as hundreds if not thousands of Etruscan artifacts are stolen, looted, and then smuggled out of the country. This reporter has seen with his own eyes the exquisite Etruscan hydria pictured here, a hydria touched by the hands of none other than the Micali painter from ancient Vulci, and knows for a fact that it was on its way to Switzerland when the local police force apprehended an American woman who had it in her possession. The woman is part of a smuggling ring, headed by a foreign businessman, that systematically moves priceless pieces of our Italian heritage to foreign countries where they are sold illegally to collectors worldwide, where they are destined to remain hidden in the private collections of those with no scruples, never to be seen by Italian eyes again. While the woman remains in police custody, the ringleader moves about the country, indeed the world, without fear of prosecution. One has to ask whether it is incompetence on the part of Italian officials that permits this to happen, or worse yet, complicity. Or, perhaps worst of all, that the police are being directed by the most corrupt of politicians.
The article went on to talk about how the Etruscans, as all Italian schoolchildren knew, were the true ancestors of the Italian people, a fact that would no doubt be proven when the results of DNA testing became known, and that all Italians should be enraged by the fact that evil foreigners were allowed to go free. It was all rather overwrought, if not inflammatory, and a little light on both details and accuracy as far as I could see, but it was really depressing when one thought of Lola in jail. It was definitely not looking good for her. The article ended by asking Italians to express their views by E-mailing the reporter at Veii at an Italian ISP address.
I looked up to find Dottie watching me over the top of her reading glasses. "Anything interesting?" she said.
"I was just reading about some stolen antiquities," I said. "Apparently someone is smuggling Etruscan artifacts out of Italy. I suppose people like you and me have to be careful when we're buying."
She looked startled. "We certainly do," she said after a moment's pause.
"Speaking of buying," I said. "I'd better be on my way. I can't be idling away the hours here, no matter how pleasant it is, when there's work to be done. It was nice to see you again, Dottie. Perhaps our paths will cross again."
"Why don't we get together for dinner?" she said. "Angelo knows some fabulous places."
"That's very kind of you," I said. "But really—"
"You have to eat sometime. We'll come and pick you up at your hotel around eight. Where are you staying?"
I gave her the name of the hotel. There didn't seem any way around it. She wrote down the name and the street address. I kept thinking she must know, somehow, where I was staying, because here she was in the square just a few yards away. But there was absolutely nothing in her manner that would lead me to believe that. I decided I was being paranoid and that I should just get on with finding the fake Crawford Lake.
"See you this evening," she said. "Maybe I could ask Angelo to bring one of his young friends for you."
"No, thanks, Dottie," I said. The idea of spending an evening in Rome with a young man from a modeling agency just depressed me.
I went to check telephone listings. My memory was a little fuzzy on the subject, but for some reason, I recalled that the agency name Antonio had told me about with evident pride had made me think of an Italian classical composer. I looked at the listings again. Arcangelo Corelli, seventeenth-century Italian composer, pioneer of the concerto grosso form. Corelli Ponte, actors' agency. That was it.
I telephoned Corelli Ponte for an appointment. I spoke only in English and told them I was an advance scout for a small but particularly highly thought of film company. I told them I was looking for actors who looked good in suits and could pass for successful businessmen. I also told them my name was Janet Swain, and while I knew I was being completely unreasonable, hoped they'd be able to accommodate me that very day. There was a little protestation about such short notice, but in the end, they suggested I come in and look at some photos that afternoon.
It was a small office in a very old building but in a good location off the Via Veneto. I rang at the street door and was buzzed in, then entered the office, which was on the main floor. A young woman took my jacket, motioned me into the first of a series of rooms that led off a central hallway, and then took her seat at a desk. The walls were covered in photos of very beautiful people, male and female. Two particularly large photos, one a man, the other a woman, were front and center behind the reception desk. The woman looked very familiar, one of their star models perhaps. The young woman at the desk asked for my business card. I made a show of rummaging about in my bag and then shrugged my shoulders. "Sorry," I said. "I must have left them at the hotel. The Hassler," I added, naming one of the more expensive hotels in town, and one, now that Lake's money had been cut off, way beyond my means. The receptionist, however, did not look impressed.
"You'll be seeing Signora Ponte," she said in a low voice. "I would ask that you not mention the incident. She has just returned to work this week."
"The incident?" I said.
The young woman looked about to ask me if I were new to the planet. "Her husband," she whispered. "Killed himself." She may not have wanted me to mention the incident, but she was obviously rather keen on discussing it with me herself.
"Of course," I said, suddenly putting the face and the name together with the news reports. "Dreadful. He threw himself off the baize in Volterra, didn't he?"
"Yes," she said. "Can you imagine? Just left his office without saying anything, drove all the way to Volterra, and then threw himself off. They say the place is haunted, you know."
"So I've heard," I whispered back. "Why do you think he did it?"
"You just never know, do you? He ... shhh," she said. I could hear footsteps in the hall, and the woman whose glorious face, albeit a few years earlier, was on the poster behind the desk, entered the room.
"Eugenia Ponte," she said, extending her hand. "How may we be of service?"
She was a very attractive woman of about forty, shoulder-length hair bleached reddish blond in the style that Italian women of a certain social status seem to favor in Rome and Milan. She looked casually elegant in very slim black pants and a white silk shirt, black flats, and some simple but expensive looking gold jewelry, a bracelet, necklace, and a pair of large, round earrings. If she was grieving her late husband, she didn't show it. Her manner was completely professional.