"And you know what else I've done? I've written letters to Italian authorities and UNESCO, decrying the trade in antiquities. I've penned articles for the local archaeological society newsletter, telling everyone not to purchase antiquities. I even picketed outside one of the large auction houses in New York, protesting their sale of an Etruscan bronze! You heard one of my declamations on the subject that first morning we met over breakfast. All rather holier than thou, wasn't I, lecturing you on the subject! I'm surprised you didn't toss a bun at me. Can you believe anybody could be that hypocritical? I keep thinking about those people, you know, policemen who go into schools warning students about the dangers of drugs, or psychologists and priests who counsel against extramarital sex, who succumb to the lure of the very evil they've been advocating against."
"Lola, please. Don't be so hard on yourself. You made a mistake."
"And then I see the hydria," she said, ignoring my protestations, "and every single thing I thought I believed in flew/ out the window. I had to have it. Not only that, I told myself it was already stolen goods, so I could have it. I was prepared to smuggle it back home and hide it somewhere. Even though I knew I could never show it to anyone, I wanted it. In the few seconds it took for you to open the hotel room door that evening, I was already plotting how to get it home, no matter what the risk. And then there you were, holding off the police at the door, and I was stealing it from you. You'd fed me, given me a ride in the rain. You even offered to help me with my hotel bill. I heard you, when you were out on the fire escape. I heard you say you'd pay my bill, and I just stood there clasping my beloved to my bosom and waited until you gave up and went in. You have no idea what I felt at that moment."
"In a way, I do, Lola," I said. "Lots of times I've seen rare artifacts I know I shouldn't buy, but that I really want, not for the store but for myself, and there's always a moment when I almost give in to the urge."
"But you don't," she said. "That's the difference between you and me. You tell me that you let yourself be duped by these people. Maybe you did. Maybe your pride got the better of you for awhile. But you never lost your moral center the way I did." She started to cry.
"That's ridiculous," I said. "You came to your senses. You brought it back. You can't pay for a lifetime for one small slip, can you?"
"People pay for slight slips all the time, don't they?" she said. "A moment of inattention, and someone dies. Another plans a joke, perhaps, that goes terribly wrong. Someone makes one mistake, and a lifetime of hard work is like nothing. So you talk about justice? I'd say justice has been served."
PART III. THE SNAKE
…the Etruscans were vicious. We know it, because their enemies and exterminators said so.
—D. H. LAWRENCE
FOURTEEN. ROME
DOTTIE BEACH MADE HER WAY SLOWLY down the Via Condotti, stopping often to look into the shop windows, and from time to time entering one of the establishments, to emerge some time later with another parcel. After about an hour and a half of this, it was pretty clear to me that Dottie was merely shopping. Not just anywhere, mind you, but in some of the finest designer stores there are. I gave up on her, for the moment, and found myself a place where I could watch the door of the building where the Corelli Ponte agency did business.
While I waited, I called Clive. "Hi Clive," I said.
"Where are you?" he demanded.
"Rome."
"I hope you're calling to say you're on your way home. You've been away a long time, and it's tough running this place all by myself," he grumped.
"You're not all by yourself," I said. "Alex is with you, isn't he? Anyway, what was all that stuff about my having a nice holiday? You and Moira take several holidays a year."
"I suppose," he said. "Not as long as this, though."
"Guess who I've run into a couple of times?" I said, ignoring his ill humor.
"Who?"
"Dottie Beach. I've had dinner with her a couple of times in France, and I saw her again in Rome."
"What's she doing there?"
"Buying for her store, of course," I said.
"Boy, if you and I went bust, and then tried to turn right around and open another store right away, do you think they'd let us? Of course not. I don't know how some people do it!"
"What are you talking about Clive?"
"She went broke. Didn't I tell you?"
"No, Clive, you didn't."
"Sorry. I guess I forgot. It's not as if she's our best friend or anything."
"When did all this happen?"
"Just after the last New York winter antique fair," he said. "She was there, and pretty desperate, let me tell you. Looking for a partner for what she called her successful business, of course, but you know how gossipy it is in the trade. Everybody knew she was in trouble."
"I thought she was doing okay. What happened?"
"Her husband, Hugh what's his name, is divorcing her. I did tell you that, didn't I? Very messy divorce, too. Not civilized like ours. He's refusing to give her a dime. He says he set her up in that antique business, and paid for the whole thing for years, and if she couldn't make a go of it, now it's her problem, not his. Or words to that effect. She didn't last long after the show."
"She must be doing okay again, because she's out shopping in the designer stores on the Via Condotti," I said.
"Some people always land on their feet, don't they? Maybe they named the street after her. Dottie, Via Con-Dottie. Get it? Har har. Now, when are you coming home?"
"Soon," I said.
"Soon?" he wailed. "What does that mean?"
"I'm having trouble booking a flight," I lied. "Airline strike pending."
"Those Italians!" he said. "They're always striking about something."
"Does the name Pierre Leclerc mean anything to you, Clive?"
"Pierre Leclerc," he repeated slowly. "I don't think so. Should it? Who is he?"
"A rather sleazy art dealer in France," I said. "Would Pierre Le Conte ring a bell either?"
"Le Conte, Le Conte," he said. "No. But why don't you ask that Mondragon fellow we met at Burlington House? He seemed to know everybody. You're not dealing with this sleaze are you?"
"Trying not to. Mondragon is a good idea. See you soon."
"When's soon?" he said.
"Just soon," I said.
Around one, Eugenia Ponte left the building and strode purposefully along the Via Veneto. Unlike Dot-tie, she ignored the shop windows, but turned into one of the fancier hotels, crossing the lobby and entering the bar cum restaurant. A rather tall, slim, and handsome man rose from his seat as she arrived. I got a table behind a pillar.
After a few minutes of animated conversation, they ordered, and a bottle of champagne and two plates of raw oysters arrived, which should have given me a clue as to what was going to happen next. Their love food downed, the two of them walked out of the restaurant and headed directly for the elevators. I knew who the man was, given I'd met him already. But just in case he wasn't who he said he was, I waited until the maitre d' had left his post at the entranceway and checked the book to see if there was a name I recognized. There was: a table for two at 1:15 for a Signore Palladini. Circles within circles: the man who owned the apartment with the woman who'd supplied the actors. I felt as if I was closing in on something, even if I didn't know what it was.
At three, as previously arranged, I called Salvatore. "What have you got?" I said.
"I began with those I could identify personally, and looked, as you suggested, for a link to Crawford Lake," Salvatore said. "Cesar Rosati was first, because I already knew something about him, and he is very easy to research. Rosati used to be a banker, quite a successful one. He started to dabble in Internet banking, and he got run out of business by Marzocco Financial Online, which as you know, is Crawford Lake's company. Rosati survived it somehow. He seems to have recovered rather nicely, although not in banking."