Page 12 of Murder at the Ponte Vecchio (Armstrong and Oscar Cozy Mystery #11)
MONDAY MORNING
I went into the office at just before nine on Monday morning and found Lina already there.
She mustered a smile for Oscar and me, but I could see that the strain was beginning to show.
I hadn’t been able to tell her much yesterday after talking to Virgilio and all I could do today was smile back and offer a few words of encouragement.
‘I’m sure Virgilio will get things sorted out very soon. Don’t worry, it’s nothing personal, it’s just a work thing, and I’ve said I’ll give him a hand if he needs me.’ She looked slightly heartened so I changed the subject. ‘What’s in the diary for this week?’
She pressed a key and studied her computer screen.
‘You’re getting a visit at ten this morning from a Mr Jacobs.
No idea what it’s about. He called first thing this morning to make the appointment.
He doesn’t speak any Italian and he spoke English with a strong accent, so I wonder if he might be American.
Then, tomorrow, you’re spending the morning at the theatre – I couldn’t get much out of them, but it sounds as though something fishy is going on.
You have to meet a person called Zebra – that’s the only name she gave me – in a café near the theatre at ten-thirty.
It all sounds a bit weird. And there was a message from the mayor’s secretary ten minutes ago.
Please will you call as soon as you can?
’ She smiled. ‘I saw him at your party on Friday night. Maybe he’s offering you a place on the city council. ’
I went into my office and called the number Lina had given me.
With everything that had happened this weekend, I’d almost forgotten about the meeting I was supposed to have with him and, as I waited on the line, listening to soothing music and a voice telling me how important my call was to them, I wondered yet again what might be behind this.
Was it personal, work-related, or something else?
A minute later, I was through.
‘Good morning, this is the office of the mayor. How can I help?’ She sounded cordial but businesslike.
I gave her my name and told her I’d been instructed to call back. She immediately recognised my name. ‘Good morning, Signor Armstrong, the mayor asks if you would be free for lunch today.’
‘Yes, indeed. What time and where?’
She told me twelve-thirty and gave me the name of a restaurant that was unfamiliar to me.
When I checked it afterwards, I was impressed to see that it appeared to be an ordinary trattoria in a side street not far from the university where Anna worked.
During my career at the Met, I’d lunched a few times with political figures and, without exception, had found myself in the sort of expensive, central London restaurant where I had been very relieved not to be picking up the bill.
Either Mayor Gallo was a refreshingly frugal politician or he was deliberately meeting me in a place where he was unlikely to meet any of his peers. The plot thickened.
I spent half an hour on the computer, among other things checking out the theatre where I would have to go the next day.
Although I was familiar with the big-name theatres here in Florence like the Teatro Verdi or Teatro Puccini, I was unfamiliar with the name Teatro dell’Arno.
I discovered that it was on the outskirts of the city and, by the look of it, it was housed in a former factory building or warehouse.
The outside was spartan and decidedly unprepossessing and I found a couple of interior shots that looked little better.
There was none of the baroque excess of red velvet and gilded luxury to be found in Italy’s more famous theatres and opera houses.
This was art on a budget. I wondered idly how somewhere like this managed to survive in the midst of the current financial crisis.
I also plotted the addresses of the three senior police officers on a map of the city.
Inspector Faldo lived in the suburbs to the west of the city, coincidentally not that far from where Virgilio himself lived, and the other two had addresses inside the centro storico .
Giuseppe Verdi, the vice questore , actually lived barely a three-or-four-minute walk from my office, while Vincenzo Grande’s home was to the west of the main station, not far from the river.
I resolved to spend a couple of hours that afternoon taking a close look at the properties in question and maybe, if I was lucky, I might find some helpful neighbours who could dish the dirt – although at this stage, I had little idea what sort of dirt I was looking for.
At five to ten, Lina buzzed me to say that Mr Jacobs had arrived and I went out to Reception to greet him.
I found a thin older man, probably in his early seventies.
His skin was pale – as if he rarely went outdoors – and he was walking with the aid of a stick.
He looked frail, but the expression on his face was determined and I was reminded of my first and only impression of David Berg.
I gave the man a welcoming smile and held out my hand .
‘Mr Jacobs? I’m Dan Armstrong, how can I help?’ As Lina had told me he spoke English, I addressed him in my own language.
He shook my hand and shot a wary glance across at Lina before answering.
Nodding towards the open door to my office, he lowered his voice.
‘Maybe I should explain it to you in your office.’ He spoke very fluent English with what sounded like a Dutch accent, not dissimilar to Casper Berg.
My curiosity was immediately aroused. If he did turn out to be Dutch, this would be quite a coincidence, and in my line of business coincidences aren’t always what they seem.
‘Of course.’ I ushered him inside and made a show of shutting the door firmly behind me before taking a seat at my desk with him on the chair opposite me.
Oscar looked up from his basket, saw that my guest wasn’t female and relapsed into slumber once more.
‘Now, Mr Jacobs, why don’t you tell me all about it? ’
He leant towards me, still keeping his voice low. ‘I would like you to look into a suspicious death.’
‘I see. How long ago did this suspicious death take place?’ This wasn’t the first time I’d been contacted to investigate events that had happened in the past, in some cases way back in the past, but his answer came as a surprise – though maybe not such a major surprise as all that.
‘Friday night.’
‘Three days ago? Surely, that’s a matter for the police.’ This was definitely sounding familiar and I had a feeling I knew what his answer to my next question was going to be, but I knew I had to ask it anyway. ‘Can you give me the name of the victim?’
‘Berg, David Berg. He’s… he was a jeweller on the Ponte Vecchio.’
For now, I didn’t repeat my comment about this being a matter for the police. I was far too interested to see if this unexpected visitor might be able to shed fresh light on Friday night’s events on the Ponte Vecchio. ‘Can I ask what your connection with the victim was?’
‘Business. We did business together.’
‘So are you in the jewellery trade?’ He nodded and I went on. ‘Did you know him personally? Had you met before?’
It seemed to me that he hesitated just a fraction too long before shaking his head. ‘No, we’d just been doing business over the Internet.’
‘When did you find out that he’d been killed?’
Again, just a hint of hesitation. ‘This morning. I saw it on local TV.’
‘You speak Italian?’
‘Only a few words, but I recognised his photo and understood enough to gather that he’d hung himself.’
‘If it was suicide, what makes you think it was suspicious?’
‘He wasn’t the sort of man to take his own life.’
‘I’m sorry, but how can you say that if you’ve never met him?’
A nervous tic appeared at the side of his mouth and we both realised that he’d been caught out.
After a longish pause, he looked up and nodded a couple of times.
‘All right, I knew him, quite well in fact. We worked together for three years a long time ago, but the reason I told you I didn’t know him was because I didn’t want to get involved. ’
‘I can understand that, Mr Jacobs. But, by coming to me, surely you are getting involved, aren’t you? Why not just let the police deal with it?’
‘It’s complicated. Listen, it’s like this: I had an appointment with him on Friday evening.
We arranged to meet at a restaurant called il Fiume at eight-thirty, but he didn’t show.
I called him several times but there was no reply, so I waited almost an hour, had a steak, and went back to my hotel. ’
I asked him for his full name – Axel Jacobs – his phone number, and the name of his hotel, which I recognised as a pricey four-star hotel bang in the centre.
The restaurant where he had been supposed to meet Berg was also in the higher price bracket.
This wasn’t budget tourism. Then I asked him the obvious question.
‘Why come to me, not the police? I imagine they’d be very pleased to hear from you.’
A more cautious expression appeared on his face and, after a long pause, he owned up.
‘The fact is that Berg had something of mine and that’s not the police’s business. I paid him for it on Thursday and he was hanging onto the goods for me until Friday evening but, like I said, when I went to the restaurant on Friday night, there was no sign of him or of my property.’
‘Can I ask what this property consisted of?’
His face hardened. ‘No, you can’t. All I’m prepared to tell you is that it’s very valuable and, seeing as Berg and I are both in the jewellery trade, I’ll let you work it out for yourself.’
‘Can you at least tell me what it looks like?’
‘It’s inside a wooden cigar box – Cuban Montecristo No. 4. That’s all I’m prepared to tell you at this stage.’