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“He wasn’t,” answered Ferrari. “He was following your friend.”
“Julian Isherwood? Whatever for?”
“As a result of that unfortunate business in Lake Como a few years ago, Signore Isherwood remains on the Art Squad’s watchlist. We keep an eye on him whenever he comes to Italy. Young Rossetti, who was assigned to Venice only last week, drew the short straw.”
“He should have walked out of Harry’s Bar the minute he saw Julian with me.”
“I ordered him to stay.”
“Because you wanted to know what we were talking about?”
“I suppose I did.”
“That still doesn’t explain why he followed me onto the vaporetto.”
“I wanted to make certain you arrived home safely. And how did you repay this act of kindness? By beating one of my best young recruits to a pulp in a darkenedcorte.”
“It was a misunderstanding.”
“Be that as it may, I am left with a most difficult choice.”
“What’s that?”
“Immediate deportation or a lengthy incarceration. I’m leaning toward the latter.”
“And what must I do to avoid this fate?”
“You can start by showing at least a trace of remorse.”
“Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.”
“Much better. Now tell me why Signore Isherwood came to Venice. Otherwise,” said the general, glancing at his wristwatch, “you’re liable to miss your flight.”
Overa breakfast ofcappucciniandcornetti, Gabriel recounted the story as Julian had told it. Ferrari’s artificial eye remained fixed on him throughout, unblinking. His expression betrayed nothing—nothing, thought Gabriel, other than perhaps mild boredom. The general was the leader of the world’s largest and most sophisticated art crime unit. He had heard it all before.
“It’s not so easily done, you know. Engineering a fatal car accident.”
“Unless it was carried out by professionals.”
“Have you ever?”
“Killed anyone with a car? Not that I can recall,” said Gabriel. “But there’s a first time for everything.”
The general emitted a parched laugh. “Still, the most logical explanation is that the Bérrangar woman was running late for her appointment with Signore Isherwood and died in a tragic accident.”
“What about the two men who tried to steal Julian’s briefcase?”
Ferrari shrugged his shoulders. “Thieves.”
“And the ones who searched his hotel room?”
“The search,” acknowledged the general, “is harder to explain. Therefore, I would advise your friend to tell the French art crime unit everything he knows. It’s a division of the Police Nationale called the Central Office for the Fight against Cultural Goods Trafficking.”
“Catchy,” remarked Gabriel.
“I suppose it sounds better in French.”
“Most things do.”
