Читать книгу The Immaculate Deception - Iain Pears, Iain Pears - Страница 9

Corrado the trainee had done an exemplary job. Not only had he unearthed almost everyone in Italy ever involved in art theft, correlated them with those people known to have a penchant for art, then constructed another list of those connected with organized crime, and broken it down by region (on the reasonable ground that most criminals are remarkably lazy and don’t like commuting), but he had also typed it all up in two dozen typefaces, illustrated it with handsome (if largely meaningless) tables and bound it into a properly professional-looking report some forty-five pages long, complete with references to the case files. Flavia tried not to look impressed.

‘Very pretty,’ she said as drily as she could manage, tossing it on to her desk. ‘Now, if you would summarize your findings?’

‘None,’ he said with commendable directness.

‘None at all?’

‘No one in the files has the profile you need. That is, I was looking for people who work singly and have stolen something similar. I even separated that and assumed that the person who stole the painting might be acting for someone else, but still no one fits very well. I didn’t manage to check everything, of course, but … ’

Good, she thought. So he was fallible after all. A chance to be censorious. ‘Why not? Thoroughness is essential in these matters, you know. Without it …’

‘Not all the files were there,’ he interrupted, cutting the ground away from her just as she was getting into her stride. ‘A few were missing.’

Flavia ground her teeth. The sloppiness of some people was one of the few things that really made her annoyed, largely because she had once been the department’s worst offender in this regard. As a sign of her Damascene conversion, her ascent to the realm of responsibility, so to speak, her first act on moving into Bottando’s office had been to issue a severe memorandum to everyone about signing files out, putting them back afterwards and not resting coffee cups on them. The second had been to clear out all the old files from her office and send them back to the stacks herself.

The edict had as much effect as Bottando’s similarly worded commands had had on her. Great gaps continued to appear, files were placed in the wrong year or the wrong category even on the rare occasion they were put back at all, and every now and then a bellow of rage would echo through the building’s corridors as someone found a blank space where the answer to all their problems should have rested.

‘That’s your afternoon’s entertainment sorted out, then,’ she said. ‘You’d better find them. They must be somewhere in the building.’

‘Maybe. One isn’t, though.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The librarian said it’s down at the EUR. General Bottando borrowed it.’

‘Do without it, then, but find the rest.’ She had ruined his day, she knew that. The poor, crestfallen lad had hoped the splendid job he had done would have won her permission to get back to accompanying Paolo on his rounds.

‘The faster you find them, the faster you get out again,’ she added as he sloped out of the office. Then she leant back in her seat. Really she must get something for the nausea. The only reason she didn’t was her certainty that the doctor would find something wrong. The word ulcer hovered in the back of her mind; the sine qua non of all good bureaucrats. She couldn’t stand the idea. Then the phone rang. The ransom demand had shown up. And about time too.

It was classic stuff; so traditional that it caused a mental eyebrow to waggle up and down in suspicion. A telephone call to the museum – although it seemed that the poor robber had had a hard time getting anyone to listen to him initially – then a codeword to demonstrate his authenticity. Chocolates, the man had said. Fair enough; only someone who knew about the theft knew about the chocolates. Then the demand: three million dollars’ worth of mixed European currencies – how much simpler the Euro will make life for everybody in the ransom business – and a statement that the handover would be communicated tomorrow.

‘I think you should come down here, by the way,’ Macchioli said after he had relayed this information.

‘Why? There’s nothing else is there?’

‘Only this package.’

‘What package?’

‘The one a delivery man has just deposited in my office. I had to sign for it on your behalf.’

Flavia shook her head. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘It arrived five minutes ago. A courier. Don’t know where it comes from. It’s addressed to you, care of the museum.’

‘Why would anyone send me a package there?’

A silence from the other end.

‘Very well, I’ll come and collect it. While I’m on the way, could you see if you can remember anything else about the phone conversation. And get the tapes for me to listen to.’

‘What tapes?’

‘We sent someone round, remember? Just in case you had a phone call. Connected tape recorders to the phone system? Didn’t they?’

‘Oh. That.’ Macchioli sounded doubtful. A small bead of apprehensive sweat put in an appearance at the top of Flavia’s skull.

And rightly, too. For the technicians who fitted the equipment had done their job perfectly in all respects, except for trusting the switchboard operator of the museum to switch it on every morning. She had put it on for the first few days, the vastly obese woman explained, more angrily than was warranted in the circumstances, but the tape kept running out. What was she supposed to do? Didn’t people realize how tiring and stressful it was, answering phone calls all day and every day, without having to worry about changing tapes as well? It wasn’t as if she was paid very much, after all. How often, she asked rhetorically, how often had she told her supervisor that they needed at least two people a day on the switchboard? But did anyone ever listen to her …

Flavia found she wasn’t listening either, and she smiled politely at the indignant, quivering mass of blubber in front of her, and went back to Macchioli’s office.

‘No tape?’ he asked.

‘No.’

He smiled apologetically. Flavia resisted the temptation to throw something at him. ‘You’ve remembered nothing else?’

‘No. Except that we found the frame.’

‘Where?’

‘In the conservator’s office. What with all the excitement, we quite forgot we’d taken it out of the frame to give it a dust.’

‘I see. I suppose I’d better tell the prime minister about the ransom demand.’

‘Oh, I’ve already done that.’

‘When?’

‘When the call came in.’

‘And that was?’

Macchioli looked at his watch. ‘My, how time flies,’ he said. ‘A couple of hours ago.’

There was no point in mentioning that Flavia took it as a personal insult that she came so far down everybody’s list of priorities. Macchioli would, no doubt, have inquired what difference it made. And, of course, it didn’t make any difference at all.

‘Splendid,’ she said. ‘Splendid. Now, this parcel. Where is it?’

Macchioli pointed to a large, brown-paper-wrapped box in the corner. Flavia eyed it suspiciously. No one had ever sent her a bomb before, but there was always a first time. And, she supposed, a last time as well. On the other hand, why on earth would anyone send it here? She picked it up – it was surprisingly heavy, like a box of books – gave it a tentative shake, then shrugged and borrowed Macchioli’s scissors.

Inside was money. A lot of money. A huge amount of money. A gigantic amount of money. She shut the lid rapidly. How much? It wasn’t exactly hard to guess that there would be, in mixed denominations, precisely three million dollars. Nor that it had materialized as a result of Macchioli’s call to the prime minister’s office.

‘Good heavens,’ the director said, as he came across and peered over her shoulder. ‘What’s that?’ He specialized in redundant questions.

‘Well,’ Flavia explained, ‘it was my birthday a few days ago.’ She stood up and picked up the box. ‘Do you think you could have my car come into the courtyard at the back? I would hate to lose this. By the way, what’s the story of Cephalis and Procris?’

‘Pardon?’

‘The Claude. The subject?’

‘Ah. It’s Ovid, I think, although it was mainly known in the seventeenth century from the play by Nicolo da Correggio. Terribly complicated. The gods making mischief, as usual. Diana gives Cephalus a magic spear which never misses its mark; he aims at what he thinks is a deer in the forest and kills Procris by mistake. Then Diana brings her back to life again and everything ends happily. Why do you ask?’

‘Curiosity. I’ve never heard of it.’

‘Really?’ said Macchioli in surprise. ‘Now, when I was young, it used to be part of the school curriculum.’

‘What was?’

‘Mythology. Everybody had it dinned into them. Mussolini was terribly keen on it, I believe.’

‘I suppose it all changed in the sixties.’

‘I suppose,’ Macchioli said, clearly not thinking it was a change for the better. ‘Shows your age, though. I imagine everyone over forty knows it quite well.’

‘In that case,’ said Flavia, ‘I’ll stop looking for young thieves. Except that I don’t imagine the subject mattered to him much.’