The Case of the Missing Botticelli, page 14
Of course, we have regrets now about our relationship with Mussolini. But Il Duce was so confident, so charismatic, we were sure we would end up on the winning side.
We couldn’t risk anyone finding out about the painting he left with us, no art dealer, no gossiper at a cocktail party. We waited, thinking that Mussolini may have given orders to someone—a criminal, a thief, a fencer, a buyer, a gallery owner—to collect the painting. But no one ever came, and there was no one we could safely approach. Even with all these years passed, I didn’t know what to do or who to call or where to go. You’ll have to decide what to do with the painting. My advice is to get rid of the thing at the first possible opportunity.
Love,
Mother
Hadley returned the letter, and the prince folded it up in its envelope.
“I had called an art dealer in Milan, Signore Bruno Lombardi, under the strictest confidence, to see if I could sell it or at least find out what it was worth. The taxes on this villa will put me into debt. That’s why we’re selling the place. But that was before I read my mother’s letter. I’m afraid that word will spread, and I have to protect my parents’ reputation, even after their death, although I am eager to get it off my hands and out of my life. Just make it go away. I don’t want that stain on my family. And I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder the rest of my life like my parents did.”
“You did the right thing,” Hadley assured. “Our agency will protect your identity. I can’t vouch for the dealer, but I’m going to have a word with him before we go any further.”
“He seemed very anxious to get his hands on the painting. He offered to come to the villa. In fact, we have an appointment scheduled for later today. I have dozens of other paintings that have been in my family for centuries that I want him to appraise.”
“Good. That will give me a chance to meet him and size him up. He can’t take the painting anywhere without your permission. Let me get my associate. Is there an office where I can set up my computer and do some research?”
“Of course,” Sandro said, leading her down the hall to the library.
“This will do nicely,” Hadley said.
“What are you going to do with the painting?”
“With your permission, I’d like to take it back to my boss for authentication,” said Hadley. “I know in my heart and soul it’s a Vermeer, but my boss is the expert. You have a lot of options. You could donate it to a museum. I could arrange a traveling exhibit that starts at the Uffizi and ends in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam.”
“Is there any way to find out who it last legitimately belonged to before Mussolini made off with it?”
“I’ll continue doing research, but the benefit of a traveling exhibit is that someone might recognize it and step forward. Although, with a painting this valuable, I imagine a good many people will be stepping forward to press a claim. With all the publicity, we may be able to turn up the rightful owner.”
“I’m just glad it will finally see the light of day so people can enjoy it. Do you think Mussolini left a trail of other paintings behind with other friends and loyalists?”
“It’s highly possible.”
While the prince went off to attend to business, Luca joined Hadley in the library.
“Did you learn anything?”
“Well, I’m no art expert, but there are a number of valuable-looking paintings packed in boxes down in the garage. Apparently, this guy is about to slip away with the loot.”
“This is his house. Sandro says the artwork legitimately belongs to his parents.”
“You are too trusting, Cara. I know human nature. You’d better take a look. I’ll occupy the prince.”
“How do you know they’re valuable?”
“There are some nice-looking gold frames.”
Hadley laughed. “You can’t always judge a painting by its frame.”
“That’s why you’re the art detective and I’m just an ordinary crime solver.”
Hadley walked down a back staircase to the garage. There were a number of expensive-looking late-model sports cars, along with some artwork in packing crates. Luca was right. There was a treasure trove of paintings, all originals by the old Masters. Did they legitimately belong to the current owner? Or were they stolen?
In cases such as this one, where there were gaps in provenance, the first thing Hadley usually did was check with the Art Loss Register regarding stolen and disputed art and with the Lost Art Database for information on paintings which were removed and relocated, stored, or seized from their owners, particularly Jews, as a result of Nazi persecution and the consequences of World War II. Then she planned to contact her source at the FBI Stolen Art File. Of course, since she’d been working in Italy, she had developed an ongoing relationship with the Carabinieri Commando for the Protection of Cultural Heritage—or Art Squad, for short—the first and most important art police in the world. And Luca had a friend, an officer at the Art Squad, who would be a big help with the inquiry.
Hadley knew that most of the stolen art was Italian. Ten percent tended to be of foreign origin. After just a cursory search, she knew for a fact that many of these crated paintings belonged to Jewish families forced to sell at fire-sale prices just to survive or escape the Nazis. Had Sandro’s parents been complicit in Il Duce’s schemes all along? Her first duty was to solve the mystery of the vanished Vermeer. But she would not rest until she had the full story.
However, she and Luca couldn’t just walk out with the crates. And what role did the art dealer play? Was he coming to pick up the artwork in the garage? Or was he solely focused on acquiring the Vermeer?
Back upstairs, Hadley was polite in her farewell. “Well, Sandro, it’s been an honor to meet you. And thank you for trusting us with your painting.”
Sandro caressed the ornate frame. “Well, she’s not really mine, is she?”
“But if it weren’t for you, she never would have seen the light of day.”
“She’s a real beauty, isn’t she?” he said with some regret. “It’s hard to look away.”
“I agree,” said Luca, entering the room and staring intently at Hadley.
Hadley blushed as she returned his adoring look. “We’re talking about The Woman in Pearls and a Red Dress.” Hadley’s eyes wandered back to the painting on the easel, where it awaited the arrival of Signore Lombardi.
“To my mind, she’s more compelling and enigmatic than the Mona Lisa. I wish I could have heard the conversation between the lady and the master while he was posing and painting her. And find out who she was. A lover, perhaps?”
“We’ll never know,” said Sandro.
The doorbell rang. Sandro went to greet Signore Lombardi and brought him into the solarium facing the lake.
“Hello, you must be Hadley Evans, Massimo’s associate. I’m Signore Bruno Lombardi.” He extended his hand. Hadley took it with a slight hesitation, but Luca refused the offer.
“And this is my associate, Luca Ferrari.”
Signore Lombardi looked every part the villain—dark hair, with a neatly trimmed mustache, beady brown eyes, and a nervous laugh.
Luca inclined his head slightly while continuing to study the man under hooded lids. She could tell Luca didn’t trust him. He was dissecting Signore Lombardi in his mind as though the man was an insect wriggling to escape from under a microscope. Luca had a refined sense of right and wrong. There were no gray areas.
“You were named after your father,” Hadley noted to keep the conversation going.
“Yes,” said the Signore, shifting uncomfortably under Luca’s accusatory gaze. The dealer’s father had a reputation, a bad one, and therefore the son was also suspect. During the war, the senior Lombardi had worked hand in hand with the Nazis, extorting valuable artwork from once-prosperous Jewish families who were homeless, desperate for money and a way out. And although he was tainted, he had escaped prosecution. Throughout the war, Jewish homes belonged to high-ranking party officials who admired the artwork on “their” walls. Some of those dispossessed were lucky enough to have escaped the concentration camps or survived the war, but most didn’t return. Lombardi Senior considered he was doing a service for the Jews, helping them liquidate their assets before they themselves were liquidated. Was Signore Lombardi made from the same mold?
He cleared his throat. “My father died many years ago. I am now running the business. I was called by Prince Alessandro to assess some of his parents’ paintings, one in particular, a Vermeer. I called your agency to verify the painting’s authenticity. Have you seen it?”
“Yes,” Hadley answered. “It almost certainly is the real thing, but Signore Domingo must authenticate it. We’ll be taking it back to Florence with us.”
“Certainly you don’t need to do that, if you believe…”
“Signore,” Hadley interrupted, “surely you are aware that almost all of the inquiries we receive at our agency are junk or reproductions.”
“Yes, but you said…”
“In my opinion. I have a sixth sense about authentic work. I have an art history background, yes, but to be absolutely sure, the painting will have to be officially appraised. Experts will study the brushwork…”
“But surely the date…”
“There is no date, which is typical of Vermeer, as you must surely know. Only three of his signed paintings were accompanied by dates. We will consult a curator at the Uffizi, who will be able to identify…”
“You are stalling,” Signore Lombardi said, dropping all pretense. “Show me the painting,” he demanded.
Luca’s scowl tightened. He was on high alert. His hand instinctively moved to his hidden holster.
“Certainly,” Hadley said, trying to lighten the tension. “It’s right over here.”
Prince Alessandro and Hadley led the dealer to the painting, with Luca on guard by the floor-to-ceiling windows.
When the Signore approached the painting, his hand flew to his throat.
“Dio mio, it is an original,” he exclaimed.
No comment on the painting’s beauty, the model’s lifelike pose. Her compelling eyes. He did not appreciate this masterpiece. All he saw were dollar signs.
“We do not have a certificate of authentication,” Hadley said. “And there is no record, no provenance for this particular painting.”
She could tell the prince wanted to bring out the letter his mother had written, but she silenced him with her eyes.
“This could very likely be a better-than-adequate reproduction,” Hadley posed.
“You’d have to be blind not to see this work is not a forgery. And it’s worth a fortune.”
“Prince Alessandro has agreed for us to borrow the painting and take it back to Florence to have it evaluated. Then it will be up to him as to what he wants to do with it.”
“Prince Alessandro,” Signore Lombardi pleaded, “we had an agreement, did we not?”
“I have some other very reputable works for you to look at in the garage. They’re all bundled up and ready for you to take back to Milan to the gallery for sale.”
“But the Vermeer.” He turned on Hadley. “If it weren’t for me contacting your boss, you wouldn’t even know about the painting.”
“That is true, but things have changed.” At any moment, Hadley expected Signore Lombardi to break out in tears or attack them. She looked at Luca, who intuited her intent.
“Signore Lombardi,” Luca said, placing his large hand firmly on the dealer’s shoulder. “Please come with me. I believe we are finished here. The prince has changed his mind. You will not be representing him in any transaction.”
Signore Lombardi knocked Luca’s hand away roughly. “Who do you think you are?”
Luca inhaled. “I am with the Carabinieri in Florence, with close ties to the Art Squad. I’m sure if I called my associates, they would be very interested in paying you a visit in Milan to inspect your gallery. It would be a shame if they found any stolen art on the premises, or any art of questionable provenance.”
The irate dealer stepped back but raised his fist. “You can’t touch me. We are not in Florence.”
Luca pulled out his Beretta 92 FS pistol. “As a Carabiniere, I have policing powers that I can exercise at any time and in any part of the country. And I have a very light trigger finger.”
Luca was an imposing figure and could manifest a fierce attitude when it came to dispensing justice. There was no one else she trusted more. She was as sure as ever he would make a good life partner. Her cold feet were beginning to thaw.
“Don’t hurt him, Detective,” Hadley pleaded, smiling inwardly.
“He has nothing to worry about if he doesn’t resist,” Luca replied. He turned to Signore Lombardi and said evenly, “I will escort you to your car. But you will leave empty-handed. We can forget this incident ever happened.”
Deflated, Signore Lombardi left the solarium with Luca’s gun at his back.
“Would he really have used the gun?” the prince asked when they were out of sight.
“If he felt we were in danger, he would not have hesitated. You were the one who dodged a bullet, Your Highness, um, Sandro. That man was only in it for the profit. He didn’t appreciate her.” She inclined her head toward the painting.
“No,” Sandro answered, staring longingly at the painting.
“I have a feeling we haven’t seen the last of him,” Hadley said. “But we’ll deal with that later. For now, the Woman in Pearls is safe. Why don’t you accompany us back to Florence? We’ll rent a car and drive the paintings back to our offices. We will put you in touch with a reputable gallery who will get you the best price for your artwork, and we will see what we see with our Woman in Pearls.”
“You do think she’s the real thing?”
“Absolutely.”
“But what you said to Signore Lombardi…”
“To get him off the scent. He smelled money. He did not have your best interests at heart—or hers.” Hadley crossed her arms in front of her. “It would be a shame to give up your beautiful villa. Perhaps with the profits you make on the paintings, you could afford to keep it.”
“I would like nothing more.”
“Then let’s see if we can make that happen.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rule Number Four: Use Your Mind To Paint The Essence Of A Problem As You Interpret It, In The Abstract.
~Massimo Domingo’s Pocket Guide to Stolen Art Recovery—Volume 2
Back in Florence, the sun was shining. The church bells were ringing, and the wedding was only weeks away. But she was no closer to winning Luca’s mother’s stamp of approval than her parents were of warming up to her fiancé. She didn’t have time to take a cooking course, and her Italian hadn’t improved. All in all, in Signora Ferrari’s opinion, she was a lost cause as daughter-in-law material. She wasn’t Italian, and she couldn’t cook. She would be expected to start producing babies exactly nine months after the wedding and stay home and raise them, but she wasn’t ready to have children.
There was no way she was giving up her career. Massimo was thrilled that she had recovered the lost Vermeer. Experts had verified it was an original. Chunks of the provenance were missing, but since it had been in Mussolini’s possession, odds are it had been stolen and the paperwork altered or destroyed. Hadley had arranged for the painting to be displayed at the Uffizi and then go on tour to museums across Europe. Her hope was that someone would recognize the painting and claim it.
Sandro had agreed to donate it anonymously, so Hadley had made the arrangements. No names were mentioned despite the fact that the Uffizi would have loved to honor the mysterious donor. Along with anonymity, the agreement included that the museum would never know how the painting had come into the hands of this particular donor. The Rossi family’s reputation was protected. She had not even revealed the secret to Massimo, the publicity hound, who might have broadcast it at the first opportunity. It turned out that Sandro’s parents had a houseful of Old Masters and other valuable paintings, legitimately acquired, so proceeds of the sale of that artwork allowed him to keep the villa in Cernobbio. She and Luca had a standing invitation to visit Lake Como.
Hadley’s parents were due to arrive early to help her narrow down her choice of wedding dresses and finalize arrangements for the ceremony and reception. They were still stubbornly holding out hope that she would reunite with King Charles. That was never going to happen. Admittedly, she and Luca didn’t have a lot in common. Yes, their backgrounds were very different, but she was convinced he was the one for her.
One member of Luca’s family, his Italian Greyhound, Bocelli, on the other hand, was her greatest supporter. Around the house, Luca and Bocelli serenaded her with romantic arias. Well, Bocelli mostly howled, but they were adorable together. If she had Bocelli’s approval, that was the only recommendation that meant anything to Luca.
Hadley was on her way back to the office when she passed a small ristorante—Antonio’s—that she hadn’t seen before. She walked into the establishment, lured by the most irresistible smells.
“Is this a new restaurant?” she asked the woman at the counter.
“Si. My husband and I just moved here from Capri. He was head chef at one of the resorts there, and when the owner decided to open a restaurant in Florence, Antonio volunteered to run it. It’s a great opportunity for us. Our daughter lives in Florence, so we were happy to come.”
“Welcome to Florence.”
“You’re not Italian.”
“How did you guess?”
“Your Southern accent gave you away.”
Hadley laughed. “That’s turning out to be a big problem for me.”
“Why?”
“My fiancé’s mother was hoping for an Italian daughter-in-law who could cook. She got a Southern belle who can’t boil water. I have a feeling no woman would be good enough for her son.”
