The Lure of the Italian Treasure Page 8

  “Now, look here, Inspector,” the count said forcefully in English. “These boys have just been through quite a lot. I hope you have a good reason for treating them with such contempt. What’s this about Antonio Cafaggio? We’ve already dealt with that episode, which was, I’m sorry to say, inspired by my daughter’s rather unfortunate dislike of the man.”

  Joe thought Barducci seemed to be caught off guard by the count’s defense of them. But what was she saying about what had happened earlier that evening? Had Pino, after he had been caught at the Boboli Gardens, identified them to the police? If so, what exactly had they been accused of? Had Cafaggio and Speck cooked up some story to deflect attention away from their operations, whatever they were?

  At the end of Joe’s attempt to sort it all out, all he felt sure of was that Frank was right to have given him the keep-your-mouth-shut sign. He couldn’t even be sure that the count, despite his current bout of friendliness, wasn’t somehow involved, given his friendship with Cafaggio.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Inspector Barducci said to the count after an awkward pause. “I must have misunderstood the nature of the complaint.”

  “Yes, indeed,” the count said. “Because unless there’s something I don’t understand, these boys have acted courageously to uncover the very people you should be arresting.”

  “Perhaps so, sir, but Signore Cafaggio believes that they were checking on his business dealings with Mr. Speck when his assistant walked in.”

  “I see,” the count said. “You boys didn’t tell me it was Pino who chased you through the garden.”

  “We didn’t think it mattered,” Frank said, afraid of where this was leading. “It was Speck who pulled the gun on us.”

  “According to Mr. Speck,” said the inspector, “he was only trying to protect his store—like Signore Cafaggio before him.”

  “And how do you explain the smoke bomb, Inspector?” the count asked.

  “We’ve had them before—last month in the church in Colonnata. It’s vandalism, plain and simple.”

  “What about the car that tried to run us over?” Joe asked.

  “Many Americans complain of Italian drivers. They can be impetuous. Perhaps you were driving too carelessly and annoyed someone in a hurry.”

  The count shook his head, concerned. “I think we’ve had enough of this for now. Perhaps in the morning things will seem clearer. Thank you for coming, Inspector.” He saw her to the door and then turned to the boys. “Since your room has been ruined, for whatever reason, I have arranged for you three to stay at a hotel in Colonnata. It will be safer there, as well. Stefano is waiting downstairs to drive you there.”

  • • •

  The next morning Cosimo and the Hardys slept in and missed breakfast at the hotel, which was another grand old building with a past. The concierge told them where the best pasticceria in town was, and they walked down to the village square to find it.

  “Not bad,” Joe said after polishing off a shiny little air-filled pastry. “Now where’s the food?”

  They were standing up at the bar, next to a glass case filled with pastries on one side and sandwiches and small pizzas on the other. “Time to switch to lunch, I guess,” Frank said, eyeing a pizza.

  “I believe you Americans have poor eating habits,” Cosimo said, calmly munching a plain piece of bread.

  “If you say so, Cosimo,” Joe said, joining Frank in front of the pizza section. “But my body needs more than air for breakfast.”

  “You should learn to control your body,” Cosimo said. He was smiling, but Joe thought he wasn’t kidding.

  “You mean like those guys who walk over hot coals barefooted?” Joe asked.

  “That would be an extreme case of what I mean, yes,” Cosimo said, hesitating as though he thought he might be falling into a trap.

  “I’ve got to admit, Cosimo,” Joe said. “I’m not up to that level yet. I wouldn’t even be able to sleep through your snoring without ear plugs. Good thing I brought some.”

  “Speaking of earplugs,” Frank said, before Cosimo could reply, “I wish I had some now. Look who’s coming.”

  “Oh great, Francesca’s boyfriend, Vito,” Joe said under his breath. “Have you met this jerk yet, Cosimo?”

  Cosimo shook his head as Vito walked up next to Frank and barked an order to the man behind the bar. When he got his cappuccino, he turned to Frank and laughed. “Your face looks bad.”

  “Thanks, I know,” Frank said. He wanted to say, “Your personality doesn’t look too good, either,” but he bit his tongue and hoped Vito would just leave.

  Joe didn’t see any point in beating around the bush. “Been hunting lately?” he asked Vito.

  Vito glared at Joe with contempt. “I have better things to do, unlike you.” He put down his coffee cup and walked out, throwing a bill in front of the cashier. Joe watched him strut out.

  “And Francesca thinks she has good taste,” Joe said, remembering her comment about Cafaggio’s warehouse. “I’d rather have an ugly warehouse than that guy for a friend.”

  “Maybe he comes off better in Italian,” Frank halfheartedly suggested. “We should have let Cosimo talk to him.”

  “That guy’s a creep in any language—trust me,” Joe said.

  “I agree,” Cosimo said. “Though Frank is right that some people’s personalities do change when they switch languages.”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed that Frank sounds kind of stupid in Italian.”

  “That’s for sure,” Cosimo agreed.

  “All right, all right,” Frank said as he watched Vito cross the piazza in front of the pasticceria. “The question is, why am I feeling so stupid in English right now? I can’t get this case to make any sense. I almost feel that everybody’s a suspect, but maybe that’s just because I am stupid in Italian.”

  “I feel the same way,” Cosimo admitted. “But then, I’ve never tried to be a detective.”

  Joe was still looking out the window as Vito turned toward the little church at the end of the street. “I’ll be back in a second,” he said, and quickly slipped out the door.

  Joe stayed on the north side of the street and walked toward the church, keeping an eye on Vito. When Vito started to turn around, Joe ducked behind a car to avoid being spotted. At the small piazza between the post office and the church, Vito turned and took the footpath that led downhill through a small park. Joe crossed the street and walked over to the piazza, staying about fifty yards away from Vito. At the bottom of the park, there was a street lined with parked cars. Vito turned once more before stepping onto the pavement, and Joe quickly ducked behind a tree, not sure whether he’d been seen or not.

  When Joe stepped away from the tree, he couldn’t spot Vito. Then he heard a car start. He waited, then watched while a black sedan pulled out of its parking spot. Vito was in the driver’s seat.

  That’s it! Joe said to himself. Vito must be the guy who tried to kill us!

  12 Inspector Barducci

  * * *

  Joe had played out his hunch and hit pay dirt. Although he couldn’t be absolutely positive this was the same car that had tried to run them down the night before, it was enough to put Vito on the list of suspects.

  As he walked back to the pasticceria, Joe wondered about Francesca. It was possible that if Vito was involved in the theft, she didn’t realize it. On the other hand, if Vito shot the rifle that spooked their horses—and if it was the same rifle they found in the secret chapel—then she had to know.

  On second thought, Joe had to admit, it was possible that Francesca had shown Vito the secret chapel and Captain Ruffino’s chest earlier, and that he had gone there on his own.

  Joe walked back to the pasticceria feeling confused once again, though pretty positive that Vito had to be involved one way or another.

  “So what did you do, Joe?” Cosimo asked as Joe walked up to the storefront. “Tell him to eat a better breakfast?”

  “No, I figured the prison dietitian could
take care of that.”

  Frank could see this was a serious joke, and he went a step further. “You followed him to his car, didn’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  “And it was the same one?”

  “I think so. How did you guess?”

  Joe looked at Frank and smiled. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Frank had shadowed his every thought and move. That’s what brothers are for. At least, that’s what Frank seemed to be for.

  “I think we were all thinking the same thing when Francesca wasn’t in her room last night—that Vito had just picked her up in the car that tried to run us over. Then the smoke bomb distracted us,” Frank explained.

  “Which is what it was probably supposed to do,” Cosimo added.

  “And I guess Francesca would have to be a complete dope not to know what Vito has been up to,” Joe advanced.

  “I can see that it’s possible for her not to know,” Frank agreed. “She wasn’t in the car when he chased us. And she was with us when the smoke bomb was thrown.”

  “She obviously didn’t shoot the gun,” Cosimo said. “And if Vito hid it in the secret chapel, it is possible that she didn’t know, though she must have shown him the room to begin with.”

  “And the secret passage,” added Joe.

  “She might have shown him where she keeps the chloroform—if that’s what she uses for her butterflies—without knowing he was going to do anything with it,” Frank continued.

  “We still don’t know whether Vito is involved with either Speck or Cafaggio,” Joe said, straining hard to think if they knew anything that would link Vito to either man.

  “I guess I assumed there was a link with Speck because we were run off the road just after our run-in with him,” Frank said. “But maybe there’s no connection.”

  “And now I’m wondering why Francesca sent us off to Signore Cafaggio’s fort,” Cosimo said.

  “If she is part of this, she might have been trying to divert attention from Vito,” Joe replied.

  “Which would mean that she made up the story about her psychic,” Frank said.

  “And on the other hand,” Cosimo countered, “the story about the psychic could indicate that she is a gullible fool who really has no idea what is going on.”

  “Well, anyway,” Frank said, “if we tell Inspector Barducci about Vito’s car, she could search it and maybe his apartment for traces of the smoke bomb. Cosimo, do you mind calling her?”

  Cosimo agreed and, after being put on hold a half-dozen times, eventually got through. He explained what they had figured out. Then Joe and Frank could see him nodding and saying “Sì—sì, sì,” during a long speech Barducci was giving him. He hung up the pay phone and looked downcast.

  “What’s wrong, Cosimo?” Joe asked.

  “Basically, she told us to stop bothering her. She thinks we’re imagining a lot of stuff. She says without a license plate number we can’t know it was Vito. And even if he was driving dangerously close to you last night, he didn’t actually hurt you. All it would prove is that he’s a big jerk and he doesn’t like you—which we already know.”

  “What about the fact that Francesca was gone when we went to her room last night?” Joe asked.

  Cosimo shrugged and shook his head. “She has a right to take a walk—or go on a late-night ride with her boyfriend—and, unfortunately, the inspector herself has a butterfly collection.” Cosimo paused. “I guess it doesn’t exactly prove anything.”

  “You sound as if you’ve changed your mind,” Frank said.

  “I don’t know,” said Cosimo, gazing off toward the church. “I see the inspector’s point about not having evidence. All we have are ideas, guesses. No reason to arrest—or even search—anybody.”

  “But she agrees that somebody at the villa must be involved to some extent, right? Who else would have known about the secret entrance?” Frank asked.

  “Yes, she agrees with that,” Cosimo said somberly. “And she seemed very interested in the rifle we found in the secret chapel.”

  “You told her about that?” Joe asked.

  “Of course. It may be the only real piece of evidence we have—if it has prints on it. She was actually kind of mad we hadn’t told her sooner.”

  “I guess Julia talked us out of that,” Joe said.

  “Speaking of Julia,” Frank said, glancing up the hill toward the villa, “I guess our day off is just about up. You think we have time to try to check out where Vito lives before going back to the dig?”

  “I suggest to wait until Inspector Barducci checks on the fingerprints,” Cosimo said, using one of his slightly off patterns of speech.

  “If we go back to the villa now, we could get ourselves a free lunch,” Joe said.

  “Now you are learning something,” Cosimo said, patting Joe on the back as they set off for the villa.

  • • •

  “If it isn’t the Three Musketeers,” Julia said. She was just climbing out of the site when the boys arrived, and she looked as excited as she was hot and dirty. The photographer was packing up his camera, having just finished the daily shoot. “You won’t believe what I’ve been finding while you guys were off battling evil. Come down and see.”

  Laid out neatly on the ground in a cluster about three feet from where the jewelry box had been were broken pieces of shaped stone. Joe could make out the hind legs of a horse in one fragment and a bearded human head in another. “Not bad, Julia,” he said. “A couple of statues. You think they’re important?”

  “Extremely. But it’s not two statues.” She knelt down and moved a few pieces around. “You see how they fit together? It’s a centaur—half man and half horse. The Etruscans loved fantastic beasts of all kinds, but this one, of course, shows a Greek influence.”

  “Of course,” Joe said, putting on an English accent.

  Julia smiled at Joe. “But what’s significant about this is that the style shows no trace of Greek influence, despite its subject. You see how stylized the lines are—they’re completely unnatural.”

  “Which is to say,” Joe went on in the same exaggerated English accent, “that it looks nothing like a real centaur.”

  “You really are hopeless, Joe,” she said affectionately as the lunch bell rang. “All right, now tell me what you gentlemen have been up to.”

  They began walking toward the dining hall for lunch, filling Julia in on all that had happened. When they rounded the hedge, Frank saw Inspector Barducci and another officer walking on the gravel path toward the lunchroom. The inspector briefly looked their way but kept walking until she and the officer were inside. Frank picked up the pace as they heard a man crying out emotionally in Italian, his voice echoing in the cavernous stone-walled room.

  They all ran the thirty remaining yards toward the dining hall and arrived as the officers were escorting Bruno out of the door.

  “Sono innocente!” Bruno cried repeatedly. I am innocent!

  13 Francesca Goes Undercover

  * * *

  “Why Bruno?” Frank demanded, marching alongside Inspector Barducci.

  The inspector kept walking at a fast clip toward the door that led from the garden to the street, while the other officer walked behind, prodding the handcuffed gardener along. She shot Frank a quick look and said curtly, as the count came walking up from the other direction, “Ask Count Ruffino.” Then she and the officer dragged Bruno out. As he crossed the threshold, Bruno looked Frank in the eyes and said one more time, “Sono innocente.” I am innocent.

  “I believe you boys will be safe now,” the count said calmly after the door shut. “It’s a pity about Bruno, though. I suppose the jewelry was too great a temptation.”

  “But how do you know he took it?” Joe asked, unable to believe the quick turn of events.

  “I can’t say for sure,” he replied. “What I do know is that Bruno’s fingerprints were all over my father’s military rifle and that it had been fired recently. I had forgotten all about it until the inspe
ctor came about an hour ago to check the rifle.”

  “I see,” Frank said, though he was actually quite confused. At one point he and Joe had wondered if Bruno was leading them on. The fact that he really had shouldn’t have been such a surprise. But it was. Bruno didn’t give Frank the feeling that he’d done anything but expertly tend the garden.

  “In any case,” continued the count, “the inspector had already considered Bruno her prime suspect because of his criminal record. And at the same time, a police informant has come forward as a witness against Bruno. So I’m afraid, all in all, it looks pretty bad for Bruno,” the count concluded.

  “Does Inspector Barducci think Bruno fired the rifle to scare our horses?” Frank asked.

  “I believe that was it, yes.”

  “I see,” Frank said again, though he felt no less confused. He knew that the cartridge that Joe had found—and still had—should be analyzed before assuming that it was fired by the 8-mm Mannlicher. Still, it didn’t look good that Bruno had fired the gun at all, since he had denied ever seeing it. If he’d lied about that, he could well have lied about everything else.

  “Well, I think it’ll be all right for the boys to move back in, even though I still think Signore Cafaggio did it, Papa.” Francesca had walked up during their conversation and was standing next to her father, her arm around his back. “And I can’t believe Bruno would have tried to harm the Hardy brothers—or anyone.”

  “Now, now, cara—let’s let the police do their jobs, shall we. And that applies to you, too, gentlemen.”

  • • •

  “Francesca’s a pretty convincing actress, if she’s involved,” Joe said after they had left the count and his daughter and walked into the dining hall. “I guess it’s time to admit we messed up.”