The Fine Art of Murder (16 page)

We eschewed dessert and stepped out of the cave into a pristine evening. Guitar music led us back to the plaza, where even more people crowded into the cafés or sat on many benches ringing the area.

“Up for another walk?” Curso asked.

“The surprise you mentioned?”

“Yes.” He took my hand. “Come. It isn’t far. It’s called Giancolo Hill, near the church of Santa Maria di Loreto and the American Academy. There’s someone there that I want you to meet.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said, and we left the plaza and went down a street that gradually became steep.

“You’re all right?” Curso asked frequently.

“Yes, although my shoulder is beginning to protest. I think I’ll put on my sling.”

We stopped as I placed my arm in the sling. It worked, taking the pressure off and alleviating any pain I’d been feeling.

Ten minutes later, we came to the entrance to another cave that had been turned into a living area. Curso stuck his head through the entrance and yelled, “Hey, Vittorio. It’s me, Tony Curso.”

I looked past Curso into the cave, which was illuminated by oil lamps and candles. Curso repeated his call. Soon, an imposing figure filled the interior of the cave and emerged. He was a mountain of a man, easily three hundred pounds, who towered over me and the shorter Curso. Vittorio had a salt-and-pepper beard that reached his chest, and hair of the same color flowed down over his shoulders. His brown eyes were watery and puffy, with fleshy bags hanging beneath them. He wore a badly stained pair of brown farmer’s coveralls over a T-shirt that had been white many years ago. His large feet were encased in sandals.

He squinted at Curso, then at me, before grasping Curso in an embrace that threatened to smother my friend. “Hey, Curso. What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice eroded by too many cigarettes, cigars, and, I presumed, alcohol.

“What, you aren’t glad to see me?” Curso asked.

“Oh, yeah, sure, I am always glad to see my rich American fan.” He looked at me. “You have a new girlfriend, huh? You beat her up?”

“She’s not my girlfriend, Vittorio. She’s Jessica Fletcher. She writes books, murder mysteries, good ones, big sellers.”

Vittorio extended a hand the size of a ham and enveloped mine. “He tells the truth?” he asked. “No girlfriend?”

“No, I’m not his girlfriend,” I said.

“
I
need a girlfriend,” Vittorio said through a loud rumble of a laugh. “Maybe you stay around, huh, be my girlfriend.”

Curso saved me from responding. “So, Vittorio,” he said, “I’ve come, like I promised I would, and brought this lovely lady with me.”

I was confused about what was going on. Was Vittorio the “surprise” Curso had promised? If so, I couldn’t imagine why he would have thought that my meeting his friend was worth the trek to Calcata.

“
Benvenuti
, come in,” Vittorio said, stepping aside to allow us to enter his cave. I had a momentary fear as I entered that I would find a colony of bats hanging upside down above me, or would hit my head on one of the stalactites suspended from the ceiling. Both fears were unfounded, of course, simply the result of my too vivid imagination at play.

We followed Vittorio from the small outer room into a vastly larger space, off which two other smaller areas were visible.

“Welcome to my home,” Vittorio said. He noticed me attempting to peer into the other rooms and said, “Just my bedroom. The other is for storage. You want to see?”

“No, thank you.”

Because of what Curso had told me about the town of Calcata and its attraction for artists, I’d entered assuming that our host was an artist. Once I was inside the main part of the cave, my assumption was verified. It was the quintessential painter’s studio, replete with multiple easels, shelves lined with tubes of oil paint, dozens of brushes, and an array of canvases piled against one another along the walls. Unlike the lighting in the entryway, here the illumination was electric, a succession of bare bulbs strung from the ceiling and across two of the stone walls.

“Here, sit down,” Vittorio said as he unfolded three battered director’s chairs and positioned them around a small table. “Drink?”

“A martini, cold, dry, and shaken,” Curso said.

Vittorio laughed heartily. “You still drink those fancy drinks, huh, Tony? None of that here. Grappa or Genepi, take your pick.” He held up a bottle of what he said was grappa, its contents clear as water.

I looked at Curso, who said, “An acquired taste, Jessica. Fermented peels, grape stems and seeds, potent stuff.”

“Nothing for me, thank you,” I said.

Vittorio held another bottle in front of me. “Maybe some Genepi, huh? It’s from the Alps, the Aosta Valley. Good stuff. Puts hair on your chest.”

I grimaced. Vittorio laughed. Curso said, “You have water, Vittorio?”

To my relief he produced an unsealed bottle of spring water, uncapped it, and poured it into three glasses that appeared to be relatively clean.

“To the beautiful lady,” Vittorio said, raising his glass in my direction. Curso matched his gesture.

“So, Tony, you got my message,” Vittorio said, downing his water in one swallow and refilling his glass from the grappa bottle.

“Yes, I did,” Curso responded. “That’s why I’m here. You’re serious?”

Vittorio’s expression changed. Until that moment he’d had a sparkle in his eyes and an almost perpetual hint of a smile on his lips, at least the portion of them that I could see behind the beard. Now he turned solemn and lowered his head, deep in thought.

“It’s a big decision,” Curso said.

Vittorio slowly shook his head. When he raised it, he said, “I’ve had enough, you know? These
sanguisughe
are too greedy, Tony. They would steal from their own mothers.”

Curso noticed my puzzled expression and said, “He calls them bloodsucking leeches, Jessica.”

“Who?”

“The Mafia.”

I looked at Vittorio. “He’s—?”

“No, no, Jessica. Vittorio is not one of them. But he has worked for them.”

If he worked for them, wasn’t that the same as being one of them?
I silently questioned.

Vittorio started to say something but stopped, looking at me as though it was the first time he was aware of my presence.

“It is okay that she is here,” Curso said. “We are working together, writing a book.”

“Actually,” I said, “we’ve only discussed that possibility.”

“A book, huh?” said Vittorio. “You better not put me in it.”

“Not by name,” Curso reassured him. “Never by name. But your story will make the book a bestseller.”

I’d become impatient at the vague references being bandied about and now asked, “Just what
is
your story, Vittorio?”

The big man looked at Curso, who’d struck a cavalier pose in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, a small smile on his face. “Tell her, Vittorio,” he said.

Vittorio’s response was to haul himself up out of the director’s chair, which had sagged beneath his weight, and motion for me to follow him. He went to a far wall of the cave where dozens of framed oil paintings were stacked vertically against one another. He picked up one and held it for me to examine. It looked like the work of some old master, but I couldn’t identify the artist. I must admit that while I appreciate fine art, I’m not well versed in it. The subject was a pretty young woman draped in a gossamer robe that allowed a veiled view of her naked body. Cherubs seemingly floating in the air above looked down on her.

“What do you think, huh?” Vittorio asked in his deep, gravelly voice.

“It’s very nice,” I said. “Did you paint this?”

“Si
, I painted this.”

“You’re very talented,” I said.

“So was Gozzoli,” Vittorio said.

“I don’t know that name,” I said.

“Benozzo Gozzoli, an artist from the mid-fifteenth century,” Curzo said from where he sat. “He was pupil and assistant to Fra Angelico. Very prolific, best known for his series of murals in the Palazzo Medici.”

“This particular work is very different from his usual settings and subjects,” Vittorio said. “Like most Italian Renaissance painters, he focused on religious subjects, but he had his lecherous side, too,” he added, winking at me. “This painting represents that side of him. It was probably hidden in a closet or beneath his bed.” The large man laughed. “She is pretty, huh, the young woman in the painting?”

“Very pretty, but I don’t understand. You say this is by an artist named Gozzoli, but yet you claim that you painted it.”

Vittorio looked back at Curso, who nodded.

“I
did
paint it,” Vittorio said. “This version.”

“You mean you’ve copied it,” I said.

“Si
.
”

“Why would you do that?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound too naïve.

Vittorio erupted in a laugh that started somewhere deep in his gut. “
Why?
What other reason is there? For the money, lovely lady, for the money.”

“Who pays you to make a copy?” I asked.

The minute I asked, I knew the answer—and the expression on Curso’s face confirmed it.

Chapter Eighteen

C
urso and I stayed in Vittorio’s cave for another hour, one of the more fascinating hours I’ve ever spent. The artist showed me painting after painting that he had copied for wealthy art collectors.

“Let me explain,” Curso said after we’d resumed our chairs and Vittorio had finished what was left in his bottle of grappa. “There are few artists in the world with Vittorio’s skills, Jessica. You’ve already heard of one in Los Angeles.”

“He’s an amateur compared to me,” Vittorio mumbled.

“That’s right, he is,” Curso said, “but he’s still good enough to attract plenty of business. The point is, Jessica, that Vittorio’s copies are not made for the collectors who’ve purchased great works of art. He copies them on behalf of unscrupulous dealers, as well as thieves here in Italy. A wealthy art collector, say, in the United States, is offered a painting by a dealer. The original painting may have been stolen from a church like the one in L’Aquila. It happens every day. More than six hundred thousand works of art have been stolen over the past thirty years, with more than forty percent taken from churches and private collections. These thieves steal not only the art; they even steal the pews.”

“Why would they do that?” I asked.

“They recycle the benches, which are then used to stretch the canvases of fake paintings. The wood from these pews can be several centuries old, and the counterfeiters use it as proof that the paintings are also ancient. But the salient point is that Vittorio’s commissions come not from the collectors but from those who
steal
the art.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, as what was being explained began to sink in. “If Vittorio here is making copies for the thieves, does that mean that the originals aren’t being delivered to those collectors who’ve paid for them?”

“Exactly,” Curso said. “A collector pays a large sum to an unscrupulous dealer here in Italy for a work painted by a master. But instead of receiving the original, he or she receives a superb copy painted by none other than Vittorio. The dealer then has the original to sell again to a more astute and discerning collector.”

I drew a breath before saying, “Jonathon Simsbury?”

Curso replied solemnly, “He was among the naïve and easily duped. Jonathon was too trusting. He believed that every work of art he bought was an original. More worldly collectors hire people like me to examine their intended purchases before going through with a deal. Jonathon put his faith in those he was dealing with in Italy and elsewhere. Art theft isn’t unique to Italy. It takes place all over the world, thousands of pieces each year from every corner of the globe.”

I sat back in the chair and sighed. Our talented host, who was seemingly content with his role in duping naïve collectors, was an accessory to multiple crimes. It was not something I dared comment on in his presence, but I would grill Curso later, after we left. It was no surprise to me that works of art were stolen, of course, but I hadn’t thought beyond that. I had no idea how vast the network was or the extent to which those behind the thefts went to squeeze even more money out of unsuspecting buyers like Simsbury.

I tried to put it into a clear perspective and to draw neat, understandable lines between the players.

A dealer contacts Jonathon and says he has a work of art for sale. They agree on a price. The piece of art has been stolen and the dealer knows it. The thieves bring the original to someone like Vittorio—how many Vittorios are there?—and he makes an excellent forgery, which is delivered to the unsuspecting collector. In Jonathon’s case, he himself has a forger in Los Angeles make a copy of the copy to hang on the wall of his home, and then he sleeps well at night, thinking that the original is safe and sound in his warehouse. But the dealer still has the original to sell for a second time to a more knowledgeable collector who will have the work’s provenance verified by an expert like Anthony Curso.

Amazing!

Was it possible that Jonathon Simsbury and his new partner, Edgar Peters, owned a warehouse filled with phony art?

I sneaked a few glances at my watch and saw that the hour matched my growing fatigue. Curso’s explanation, enhanced by Vittorio’s personal experiences, had given me a clear understanding of how things worked in the big-time world of art theft and forgery. But what I didn’t understand was why Curso had brought me here. He’d mentioned to Vittorio that we intended to collaborate on a book together, presumably based upon Vittorio’s story. But there had to be more to it than that. I’d never actually committed to work on the book with Curso, after all. I decided that I would wait until the drive back to Rome to seek an answer. We had much to talk about. But our departure wasn’t to happen until another hour had passed, during which Curso’s real reason for visiting that night was revealed.

“Let’s get down to brass tacks, as we Americans say,” Curso said to Vittorio, who’d opened a fresh bottle of grappa. “You’re sure you want to go through with it?”

“You bet I do,” was the artist’s response. “No more dealing with those
avvoltoi
. They treat me like dirt, huh, like some worthless
idiota
, always telling me to hurry up and trying to pay less money. Faster! Faster! Too much money! Pigs! I detest them.”

I looked to Curso, who said, “He’s talking about the Mafia, Jessica. He calls them vultures. The Mafia is behind much of the art theft. He is fed up with having to deal with them and wants out.”

“Can’t he just say that he’s closing up shop, retiring?”

“It’s never that easy with the Mafia,” Curso said with a stern shake of his head. “You don’t just walk away. Besides, what Vittorio knows can be detrimental to the Mob’s operations.” He looked at Vittorio, who appeared to be on the verge of falling asleep in his chair. “It is all right, my friend, that I tell the lady what we plan to do?”

Vittorio shrugged his massive shoulders and his glass fell from his hand, the sound as it smashed on the cave’s floor snapping him to attention. He kicked the shards of glass under his chair with his sandal.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what sounded like a scheme between them, but I sat stoically as Curso continued, having gained his friend’s tacit approval.

“You see, Jessica, Vittorio and I have been discussing his desire to leave this life. When I spoke to you about collaborating on a book, it is Vittorio’s story that is the basis of it.”

“I gathered that.”

“And there’s the TV documentary.”

I sat up straighter. “What TV documentary?”

“The one that exposes the Mafia’s role in international art theft based upon Vittorio’s experiences. I have already secured funding for it. An Italian film crew was here for two days recently, filming Vittorio in his natural habitat.” He said to Vittorio, “I must say, I was impressed with how you managed to lay off the grappa during the filming.”

He turned to me. “Our book would be a natural extension of the film, Jessica. Besides, it would be a wonderful opportunity for you to provide your own on-camera experience with this sordid business of art theft that finances the Mafia’s drug trafficking.”

I held up a hand. “Wait a minute, Tony. I’m afraid that you’re speaking with the wrong person. I write books, novels, works of fiction. Being involved in an exposé like this isn’t something I’d be interested in.”

“Then the book will be a work of fiction based upon this true story.”

A sharp pain suddenly radiated down my arm, making me grimace and adjust the sling. “This has been fascinating,” I said, “but I’m afraid the events of today are catching up with me. Could we please leave?”

“Yes, of course. I understand that this is all so new to you, so sudden, that it is impossible for you to fully understand the importance of it. We can discuss it tomorrow after you’ve had a good night’s rest. Come, we’ll go now.”

Vittorio, now fully awake, walked us out of the cave. A full moon bathed the area in soft natural light, and the fresh air was welcome. Curso turned to Vittorio and said, “So it is set. Tomorrow, in Rome. I will have everything you need.”

“Good,” Vittorio said, then laughed. “Those
avvoltoi
will be plenty surprised, huh?”

“They certainly will,” Curso agreed as he took my arm, and we turned to begin our walk back to the car. I’d taken only a few steps when a pebble that had gotten into my shoe caused me to stop, remove the shoe, and shake it out. As I did, I noticed two men standing in the shadows approximately thirty feet from the cave’s entrance. Curso, too, saw them and sensed my concern. “The police,” he whispered. “Undoubtedly your security.”

He drove at a sensible speed back to the city. Despite my intention to press him to answer my many questions, we said little to each other. My head was full of what had transpired since I’d arrived in Italy, and I was so tired I could barely organize my thoughts. But one question nagged at me: I asked Curso why Vittorio was coming to Rome the next day.

“To pick up his airline ticket and cash from me for his trip to the States. It’s not safe for him to have them at his home, since someone might decide to search the place.”

“That sounds like his life could be in danger,” I said. “The Mafia isn’t restricted only to Italy, you know. And what about the Italian police? I’m sure the officers in the art squad would love to hear Vittorio recount his story in front of a judge.”

“All in good time, Jessica. I’ve arranged a place for him to stay in Chicago while the filming continues there. I just need to get him out of Italy first. Then I can see that he’s safe. I’ve thought of everything.”

Curso offered to walk me into the hotel, but I declined.

“You’re deep in thought,” he said as I prepared to get out of the car.

“I’m just wondering whether Jonathon Simsbury’s murder is in any way connected with what I’ve learned tonight about his art collection.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time someone was killed over a piece of art, Jessica. Go now; climb into bed and rest. You have your police lineup tomorrow afternoon. I have appointments in the morning, but I will pick you up after lunch, say at three, and drive you to police headquarters.”

I exited the car and looked down the street, where I saw a young man dressed all in black leaning against a light pole smoking a cigarette. A member of my security detail? If so, his presence was welcome.

I entered the hotel, paused in the lobby, and went back outside. The young man in black had come to the front of the hotel and was peering through the doors. My sudden appearance seemed to startle him. He stared at me, a hard expression on his youthful face, before quickly turning away and walking down the street. Somehow, he didn’t look like a policeman, and I felt a chill run up my spine. It was at that moment that I realized the situation I’d ended up in was far more threatening than I’d ever dreamed it would be. I returned to the lobby, rode the elevator to my floor, entered my room, and bolted myself in.