“I know very well what I have done, signor,” Mario said calmly. “I have destroyed a piece of pornographic filth.”
“You!” I cackled like a madman. “But you’re the most evil person I’ve ever known. You’ve robbed me since the minute we met, you rob your poor old mother, you tried to sell me a woman, you tried to buy Carole for the white slave trade, you’re a drug pusher, and you were prepared to murder us a minute ago. You can’t even drive a car without trying to run over cats and dogs.”
“These things you say may be true, signor,” Mario said with an odd kind of dignity, “but they do not prevent me from being a patriot. They do not prevent me from loving my glorious Italia.”
“Huh? What the hell has patriotism got to do with it?”
“The great Leonardo was the finest artist who ever lived. He is the pride of my country—but tell me, signor, what would the rest of the world think of Italy if it was learned that the immortal Leonardo had prostituted himself in this way? What would they say about a nation whose noblest artist had wasted his divine gifts on …” Mario’s voice quavered with anguish, “… on medieval skin flicks?”
I shook my head, blinking back tears as the machine collapsed inwards on itself in showers of topaz sparks. The chamber filled with smoke as the last fragments of the oil paintings were consumed.
Mario pointed to the exit. “All right—we can leave now.”
“Aren’t you going to shoot us?”
“It isn’t necessary. Even if you were mad enough to talk about this, nobody would believe you.”
“I think you’re right.” I gave Mario a curious stare. “Tell me, doesn’t it bother you that you’ve just lost sixty million dollars?”
Mario shrugged. “Some days you win, some days you lose. By the way, because of all the trouble I’ve had, if you want to travel back to Milan in my mother’s car there will be a small extra charge …”
Carole stared at me thoughtfully as we sipped our after-dinner liqueurs. “You were very brave once or twice today—even with a gun pointed at you.”
“It wasn’t much. For all we know, Crazy Julio had no shells in it.” I smiled at Carole across the candle flames. “I mean, he wouldn’t even buy flashlight batteries.”
“No, you were brave. I was quite impressed.” Carole lapsed into another silence.
She had been like that all through the meal, even when I had pointed out that the painting she still had back in Los Angeles would make her a very rich woman. I guessed that the events of the day had been quite a strain on her, and that she was suffering from a reaction.
“It hardly seems possible,” she said in a small voice.
I squeezed her hand. “Try to forget it. The main thing is that we got out of that cave in one …”
“I’m talking about the Mona Lisa,” she interrupted. “That trick she did with her … urn … accoutrement. Do you think I could do it?”
I drained my brandy in one gulp. “I’m sure you could.”
“Are you an expert on these things?”
“Well, I’ve seen Fabulous Fifi Lafleur a few times, and if she can do it you probably could.”
“Let’s go up to my room and find out,” Carole said in a low husky voice.
I tried to gulp more brandy from the empty glass and almost shattered it against my teeth. “You’re kidding,” I said, not very brilliantly.
“Do you think so?”
I looked at Carole, and something in her eyes told me she wasn’t kidding. I’m too much of a gentleman to say anything about how the rest of that night worked out, but I’ll tell you this much.
Every time I look at a copy of the Mona Lisa, especially when I notice that famous smile, I can’t help smiling back.