(36/40) The Fine Art of Murder Read online

  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

  Curso 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 sudde
nly 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.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I couldn’t remember a time in recent memory when being alone was so appealing. So much had happened since I’d arrived in Italy that had sent my mind swirling, my imagination soaring.

  I found myself almost resenting Anthony Curso. While he was a delightful gentleman with a wide range of interests, he was also someone who obviously enjoyed intrigue. I’d been drawn into his mysterious life without the benefit of being forewarned. I could only assume that he’d kept from me the “surprise” he’d promised until it was too late for me to decline to be involved. The documentary about big-time art theft and forgery must have been in the works for a long time; filming in Vittorio’s cave had already taken place, and now the artist was being flown to Chicago for more, and presumably to get him away from any people in Italy who didn’t want him to expose their business. It was also clear to me from what Curso had said about arranging financing for the project that he was the force behind it.

  I had to remind myself not to feel used by him. My arrival on the scene in Chicago came late in the game, which meant that including me in the documentary had to be a last-minute thought. Why he felt that I would add anything to the project was beyond me, unless he was hoping my relative fame as a writer of mysteries would help enhance the documentary’s appeal. Of course, the fact that I’d witnessed firsthand the theft of a piece of art, and the cold-blooded murder that accompanied it, may have given me the sort of credentials that he felt warranted my inclusion in the tale. But I knew one thing: I would not be roped into participating in the making of any documentary.

  I was deep in these thoughts when the phone rang. I looked at the clock. It was close to midnight. Someone from home? It was late for anyone to be calling from Rome. Carefully, I lifted the receiver. “Yes?”

  “Go home, signora,” a male voice said. “It is safer there.”

  “Hello? Hello.”

  The line had gone dead.

  As I pondered what to do, it rang again.

  The same voice said, “Mind your own business, signora. You are too lovely a lady to end up in a Dumpster.”

  “Who is this?” I said into the lifeless line.

  I called the front desk and asked that no calls be put through to my room.

  Where was my alleged security?

  I placed a call to police headquarters, but of course Detectives Maresca and Lippi had been long gone for the evening. I tried to explain to the officer who took the call that I’d been receiving threatening messages and that I was scheduled to view a lineup the following afternoon. He sounded interested, although my limited Italian and his limited English got in the way of what I was attempting to get across. We finally reached an agreement—I hoped. He would try to reach Maresca or Lippi at home and ask one of them to call me at the hotel.

  “Grazie,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

  It was after I’d hung up that I remembered having banned calls from being forwarded to my room. I dialed the desk again and explained that I wanted that prohibition to stay in place, but that if a detective named Maresca or Lippi called, he was to be put through. I wasn’t sure the clerk understood my intention, but he agreed nonetheless.

  The anonymous threats had set my nerves on edge. Every sound from the hallway caused me to flinch. I turned on the television, but a war movie, with its explosions, whistling bullets, and cries from the wounded, was hardly the sort of background I needed.

  I paced the room, stopping repeatedly to open the drapes to see whether the young man with the cigarette was anywhere in sight. Calm down, Jessica, I told myself a number of times. Nothing is going to happen to you. You’re safe here in this room.

  The problem was that I wasn’t convinced.

  Detective Maresca called a little before one a.m. I told him about the threatening messages and asked what I should do. “Inform the desk that no calls are to be put through,” was his suggestion. I told him that I’d already done that. “There is nothing else that can be done, certainly not tonight,” he said. “If the calls persist tomorrow, I can arrange for a trace to be put on your hotel phone. In the meantime, try to get some rest. Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, there will be a plainclothes detective assigned to you tomorrow. I look forward to seeing you at the lineup. Buona sera.”

  Over the next hour, I fluctuated between edginess and anger, concern and relief. This roller coaster of emotions took its toll, and by two o’clock I felt as though I’d been awake for two days. I collapsed on the bed in what I was wearing and awoke at seven the
following morning.

  I was groggy from so little sleep, but a long session beneath the shower did wonders to revive me. My shoulder was mildly sore and my head wound looked less angry. I dressed for the day in clothes I hoped wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. While I did want my police escort to see me, I didn’t want to give any criminal elements an easy target.

  My growling stomach dictated the need for a hearty start to the morning. Downstairs, as I crossed the lobby to the dining room where breakfast was being served, I noticed a man dressed in a gray suit who sat reading a newspaper. I don’t know why he attracted my attention, but he did, and I took a moment to observe him. He seemed engrossed in the paper, and I decided I was being paranoid. But after I passed him I stopped suddenly and turned. He’d placed the paper on his lap and was looking intently at me. I glanced past him to where two other men sat talking. They looked like policemen; were they the ones assigned to keep an eye on me? Just their presence relaxed me.

  The maître d’ seated me at a table for two next to a spectacular vase of tall, colorful flowers and handed me a menu. I looked around the pretty, sunny room. Most of the tables were occupied and waiters moved quickly to serve everyone. Moments later, with coffee and juice in front of me, and my order given for two eggs over easy, bacon, and wheat toast, I settled back and drew a deep breath. My adventure was almost at an end, and that realization swept a wave of relief over me. I was eager to participate in the lineup, put it behind me, and board a plane home. The contemplation brought a smile to my face as I sipped the steaming-hot coffee. I’d allowed my imagination to run rampant last night, something I’m usually able to keep reined in.

  Breakfast was delicious, the eggs perfectly cooked, the bacon crisp and flavorful. As I pondered how to spend the morning—was there time for a little shopping before Curso picked me up?—a man who’d been sitting with three others at another table approached. He smiled and said, “Please excuse me, signora, for intruding on your breakfast, but I have been told that you are Jessica Fletcher, the famous American writer.”