General Bottando of Rome's Art Theft Squad is in trouble - his theory that a single master criminal, dubbed "Giotto", is behind a string of thefts has aroused the scorn of his rival, the bureaucrat Corrado Argan. He needs a result, and the confession of a dying women provides clues.
General Taddeo Bottando’s triumphantly successful campaign towards the unmasking of the shadowy English art dealer, Geoffrey Forster, as the most extraordinary thief of his generation began with a letter, postmarked Rome, that turned up on his desk on the third floor of the Art Theft Department on a particularly fine morning in late July.
Initially, this small hand grenade of sticky-taped and stamped information lay there until the General—a stickler for routine in the morning until he was sufficiently wide awake to improvise—completed his morning rounds of watering his pot-plants, studying the pages of the newspapers and having a cup of the coffee which came up in regular shipments from the bar across the Piazza San Ignazio.
Then, item by item, he dug his way through the mail put in the in-tray by his secretary, slowly excavating the pile of miscellaneous messages until, eventually, at about 8:45 a.m., he picked up the thin, inexpensive paper envelope and slit it open with his paper knife.
He wasn’t wildly excited; the address had been handwritten, in what was very much the weak and spidery manner of old age, and so it seemed likely that it would be a waste of time. All institutions have their little collection of nutters who gather round and try to attract attention, and the Art Theft Department was no exception. Everybody in the squad had their own personal favourite among this motley, but generally harmless, crew. Bottando’s own was the man in Trento who claimed to be the reincarnation of Michelangelo and wanted the Florence David back on the grounds that the Medicis had never paid him enough for it. Flavia di Stefano—who sometimes exhibited signs of a peculiar sense of humour which might have had something to do with living with an Englishman—had a weakness for the man who, concerned about the plight of the Apulian vole, kept on threatening to smear jam over the Vittorio Emanuele monument in Rome to draw the attention of the world’s press. In Flavia’s view, such gastronomic terrorism would probably greatly improve the horrible monstrosity, and she had to be restrained from writing back to encourage him in his project. As she said, in some parts of the world you get government art grants for that sort of thing.
Not exactly burning with anticipation, therefore, Bottando leant back in his chair, unfolded the letter, and skimmed through it. Then, frowning in the fashion of someone trying to remember a dream that is just out of reach, he went back to the beginning and read it again, this time more carefully.
Then he picked up the phone and called Flavia so she could have a look as well.
Flavia, when she came into the office, read it through with only minimal attention and double-checked she wasn’t missing anything. Then she brushed her long fair hair back into place, rubbed her nose meditatively with the flat of her palm, and delivered her final and considered verdict.
“Pouf!” she said. “So what?”
Bottando shook his head in a thoughtful fashion. “So something. Maybe.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Age has its virtues,” he said pompously. “And one of them is fragments of primeval memory which young snips like you do not possess.”
“Thirty-three last week.”
“Middle-aged snips like you, then, if that makes you feel any better. The Palazzo Straga has a familiar ring to it, somehow.”
Bottando tapped his pen against his teeth, frowned, and looked up at the ceiling. “Um,” he said.
“Straga. Florence. 1963. Picture. Um.”
And he sat there, staring dreamily out of the window, with Flavia sitting patiently opposite, wondering if he was going to tell her what was on his mind.
“Ha!” he said with a relieved smile as his memory began behaving itself after a few more minutes. “Got it. If you would be so kind as to look in the extinct box, my dear?”
The extinct box was a misnomer for the small broom cupboard that was the last resting place for hopeless causes—those crimes which had an almost minimal chance of ever being resolved. It was very full.
Flavia got up to obey orders. “I must say,” she said sceptically as she opened the door, “your memory amazes me. Are you sure about this?”
